Thanks to my betas Annaprejean, Fantomina, and Rabbi for their input, support, and love. Without you three I could never attempt to write down the things in my head. Please read the note at the bottom for the full scoop on this.
Chapter One: The Ghost and the Jester
"Hey, Guilbert-Louis, come look at this," Enide's eyes never leave the small, worn leather book in her hands as she addresses her compatriot. Somebody had sewn additional pages into the book, leaving lines of messy stitches. Enide puts the book, a diary, under the projector's lens and the chipped, yellowed, antique pages appear on a screen across the room.
Guilbert-Louis swivels his chair and, disinterested, glances up at the floor-to-ceiling projection of the artifact. "What is it? A list of Edward's fuck buddies?" Guilbert-Louis rubs his eyes.
Guilbert-Louis reaches for the nearest coffee cup from Café Union. Empty, as are the other two dozen cups littering the desks. Enide attempted to organize the artifacts from New York into three stacks: potential significance, minor significance, and insignificant. The tables were now strewn with haphazardly placed documents and keepsakes. He and Enide have been sitting in the research for hours on end pouring over material sent from the New York office. Most of it is useless antiques, bridges to nowhere, red herrings. Melanie Lemay wanted something good and so far, they have nothing to offer her.
"Why, yes, that's exactly what it is." Enide groans facetiously. "Look, Guilbert-Louis, I'm trying to find something—anything—to show Melanie tomorrow, unlike you."
"If it isn't Kenway's five-freebie than what is it?" Guilbert-Louis yawns, spinning in his chair.
"The diary of—drumroll, please—one Hilary Flint."
"How hot is this chick?"
"Hilary can be a man's name, Guilbert-Louis," Enide shakes her head in mock disappointment. She leafs through the book and stops in the center, eyes wide. "And get this, apparently he had a rather spicy affair with some native woman. Now this woman seems pretty beautiful: grey eyes, 'skin of cocoa, hair like a midnight sky—'"
"Boy, I bet she has a great rack too, eh?"
"Dude!" Enide rolls her eyes.
"Don't act like you weren't thinking it, Enide," Guilbert-Louis chuckles.
"They had sex." Enide knows precisely how to catch Guilbert-Louis's attention.
"Deets?" Guilbert-Louis stops spinning and studies the projection's eloquent cursive letters. Things were finally getting interesting; maybe he won't go home early to feed the cat.
"Mega deets." Enide grins. "It puts Game of Thrones's sex scenes to shame."
"Well, read, damn it! I haven't called 1-800-buttsex in ages—I need something." Guilbert-Louis shrugs.
Enide laughs, uncertain if he is serious or not.
"No, I mean it, Enide." Guilbert-Louis says over his shoulder. He searches ravenously through the mini fridge for anything with alcohol. Uncovering two beers, he saunters to Enide's desk, hands her one frosty bottle, and plops down on a nearby sofa.
She claws the wet sand. The tide sweeps in and submerges Opía's body, tugging her back towards the open ocean. The saltwater burns Opía's eyes and fills her gaping mouth. Spluttering and gagging, Opía digs her fingers into the mushy sand and pulls herself forward. She slowly makes her way up the bank onto dry, powdery sand. Exhausted, Opía collapses.
Excruciating pain jars Opía awake. She vaguely recalls the wooden plank whacking her overboard, crushing her chest. She gingerly touches her ribcage and screams. A hoarse, animal sound tears from her throat, clashing with the gentle sound of the tide rolling in.
"Maketaori Guayaba, take me," Opía croaks in Taíno. "Let me die!"
Opía lays down, praying the tide will wash her away. A quick death, that is all I ask, Maketaori Guayaba. The searing pain builds up until her vision fades and darkness takes her.
Opía's eyes slowly open. The sun is far too bright and hurts her eyes. Her chest feels like someone split open her flesh and splintered every bone. Leaves, I need leaves. Opía folds her legs under her and sits up, stifling a yelp of pain. She studies the soft, powdery, white sand on the bank above her and inches forward with a bizarre crab-like scuttle. At the top of the bank, Opía rests briefly and glances down the beach.
Oh no, no, no, no.
Momentarily abandoning her search for palm leaves, Opía stands and stumbles down the beach. The distance is barely more than nine rods, though it takes her fifteen minutes. After an eternity of painful steps and labored breath, Opía kneels next to the white man. Opía pulls at his arm until he rolls over on his back. She places her ear against his exposed chest and listens for a heartbeat. Faint. Opía grimaces. She remembers years ago when her chieftain's son, Yuquibo, fell out of his canoe during a race. The priestess spent hours futilely attempting to revive Yuquibo. Yuquibo and the priestess both died that day. Opía bites her tongue and opens the white man's mouth. She presses down on his chest and water bubbles out of his mouth. Opía waits a few seconds before trying again. And again. The fourth time, as Opía pulls away, the man coughs violently, scaring Opía and spewing water everywhere.
"God almighty!" The man yells. He clutches his chest and looks at Opía. "Well, hello there?"
Opía scampers back and lands on her back. She hisses in pain. The Englishman, wide eyed and panting, studies her.
"Do you speak English?"
Opía nods. The murderers forcibly taught her people Spanish and she learned English from the colonists.
"What is your name?"
"Opía," she whispers.
"Opía." He repeats her name softly. "You saved my life?" The man catches his breath and relaxes slightly.
"Yes." Opía answers flatly. "You were filled with water."
"Thank you," the man gazes out at the ocean before them. "What happened to my ship? Are there any other survivors? Where did you come from? Where am I?"
"The ship sank," says Opía. "I have not found any other person. As for where we are, your guess is as good as mine." Opía shrugs. The pain in her chest overwhelms Opía and she gasps.
"Is there any way off the island?" Disheartened, the white man's shoulders fall... He turns and notices Opía's labored breath. "Are you well, Opía?" His blue eyes, concerned, widen.
Opía ruefully shakes her head. "No."
"May I?" He extends his hand as if to touch her ribs. Opía eyes him cautiously. "I studied medicine as a young boy." Opía nods and the man gently probes her torso.
Instantaneously, Opía doubles over in excruciating pain. The sort of pain that leaves one breathless and sears white spots into one's vision. The man gazes at her and chews his lip, afraid to share the news.
"...I think your ribs are broken, Opía." He calmly states.
Opía bites her tongue and refrains from shouting "Oh really? Tell me something I do not know, white man!" Instead, Opía settles for the far more diplomatic "I need palm leaves."
"And we shall need sustenance," the man agrees. He stands and coughs raggedly. "Damn ocean," he smiles faintly. "Stay here, I shall find you those leaves and hopefully something to eat."
"You are from England?" Opía grabs his arm, halting him.
"Yes…"
"Forgive me, sir, but you will not know what we can eat and what we cannot." Opía says matter-of-factly. "I must accompany you."
"I am simply scouting," the man shakes his head. "Hopefully for some sort of prey. I promise I shall not act with you, Opía." He squats next to her, staring deeply into her eyes. "Shout for me if anything happens."
"Your name?" Opía locks eyes with the man. He does not intimidate her, not one bit. She has seen white men torn limb from limb by her kinsmen, she knows they are weak; they cravenly hide behind their firearms.
"Oh," he pauses, unaware he has yet to introduce himself. "Forgive me. Hilary Carlisle Flint at your service; you may call me Hilary."
Opía waits impatiently for Hilary's return. She stands and paces back and forth across the soft, white sand. Her ribs protest with each step she takes, but Opía refuses to submit. The sun has reached its zenith and its heat burns Opía's tangled hair. If Hilary had let her accompany him into the shady jungle, this would not have been a problem. Although soft, the sand burns the soles of Opía's naked feet. Opía wades out through the shimmering, pristine water until it reaches her hips. The silty sand squelches between her toes and cools her throbbing feet. She scoops and splashes water on her hair, running her fingers through the locks to smooth them. As content as a shipwreck survivor can be, Opía gently closes her eyelids and breathes slowly.
I am going to live, Opía realizes. I can go to Tulum and convince the Assassins to accept me. I can—
Something brushes Opía's ankle. She shrieks and flees to where the water brushes her knees. The white foam stirred by Opía's abrupt movement dissipates, allowing her to see what touched her. Opía moves quickly through the water to the man as he bobs to the surface. Opía focuses on keeping his head above water while she, letting the current do most of the work, guides his body towards shore.
Opía decides ankle deep water is safe enough and tenderly sets the man's head onto the sand. She listens for a heartbeat. It is more erratic than Hilary's was and this man's lips are rapidly turning blue. Acting instinctually, Opía compresses the man's chest. A small trickle of water slides down the crease of his lips. Opía listens once again. No beat, not even a quiet thump.
Opía repeats the compressions over and over until her arms ache. Nothing. She sits back in the surf and cradles the man's head. His dead, empty eyes disturb her and she closes them. "Aji aya bom." She bows her head in prayer. "Better dead than a slave."
"Opía!" Hilary ran down the bank to Opía's side, a large bundle of palm leaves clutched in his hand. "What happened?"
"He must have floated from the wreck." Opía feels a swelling of raw emotion creep up her throat. Why am I alive? "I could not save him."
Hilary glances over the corpse. He seems vaguely familiar, the boatswain of the White Wing perhaps? Hilary helps Opía to her feet and hands her the leaves. She avoids his gaze and starts up the bank.
"Opía," Hilary calls. "It is not your fault."
Opía does not stop to acknowledge Hilary's comforting words, she has her own injuries to tend to. Hilary frowns and debates on how to bury the unfortunate sailor. He and Opía have no tools to dig a grave, and who would it benefit anyway? No doubt the man's family, if he had any, are back in England. A morbid thought pops into Hilary's brain: the sailor's clothes. He does not need them, afterall, he is dead. Plus, the tunic would make a superior bandage for Opía. Hilary grits his teeth and removes the sailor's garments, wincing at the dead man's naked body. Hilary sighs and picks up the man's body. His skin is clammy, pale, and tinged grey. Hilary carries the sailor's corpse as far out as he can and sets him afloat, praying the ocean will not return him to the island.
Ashore, Opía is busy tearing the palm leaves into strips. Hilary sits beside Opía and hands her the sodden, white tunic. No words need to be said-Opía knows where it came from. She takes it gratefully, sets aside the leaves, and takes the shark's tooth out of her tangled locks.
"I saw some little furry animals scurrying in the jungle, maybe we could catch them?" Hilary desperately blurts out. The silence is unbearable. Opía is ripping a dead man's shirt with a shark's tooth and her stony visage does little to ease the blood pounding in Hilary's ears.
"Hutia?" Opía wraps a section of the shirt against her torso. It is an adequate size. The shark tooth is not particularly sharp, but at least it had not come loose from her straggly braid.
"Uh, sure." Hilary scoots behind Opía and offers to tie the rough-cut edges of the bandage. It is not the best bandage Hilary has seen, but it will suffice.
"Those rodents you saw, they are hutia." Opía hates the bandage. Images of the corpse it was stolen from cloud Opía mind. "I know how to trap them."
"Good." Hilary's fingers linger on the knotted bandage.
"We have no…" Opía searches for the word. "Equipment."
Hilary sagged. "Then what? Do you propose we starve?"
"I am going in there," Opía gestured towards the jungle. "I am finding something we can eat."
"If you see anything, a jaguar, anything, scream for me." Hilary reluctantly assists Opía into a standing position.
Opía stares ahead, clearly not present, and nods vacantly. She walks forward with slow, deliberate steps. The bandage relieves some of the agonizing pain, but she is still cautious to causing further harm. She disappears into the green fortress of vegetation with a rustle of leaves.
Hilary, unwilling to sit there until Opía returns, strolls down the beach. More wreckage has since washed ashore. Planks, clumps of knotted rope, splintered cargo barrels, a chest. A chest. Hilary falls to his knees, utterly flabbergasted.
How in bloody hell did this damned bastard not sink? Hilary scans the ground for a rock to smash the lock. Of course, the lockpicking instruments are inside. Flint, you are a genius. After a peculiar struggle involving all four of Hilary's limbs, the chest opens. The leather lining the sides kept most of the water out and the contents are barely damp. Hilary pulls out his journal, gifted to him by his sweet sister prior to his departure; a dagger, courtesy of his brother Horatio; and, Hilary's most beloved, prized possessions: a pair of expertly crafted silver flintlock pistols.
Nothing in the world could compare to Hilary's love for those pistols. Even now, shipwrecked on some Godforsaken island in the middle of the Caribbean, the pistols reminded Hilary of his mission. He checked the gunpowder—Perfect, not wet at all—and stuffed the pistols in their belt holsters. One fluid motion later and the belt rests across Hilary's waist.
Hilary glances sideways at the jungle and smiles. I am getting off this island, no matter what it takes.
"Opium? Her name is Opium?" Guilbert-Louis snorts.
"Opía, not Opium." Enide punches his arm playfully.
Guilbert-Louis smirks. "I like Opium better. Didn't you say they had sex?" He frowns, evidently let down.
"That was in the middle of the book, we started at the beginning." Enide shuts off the projector, places Hilary's journal back in its humidity-controlling case and locks it.
"Awww man, can't we skip ahead to the good stuff?" Guilbert-Louis pleads.
Enide pauses, giving Guilbert-Louis hope. Then she crushes his aspirations. "No. One, I want this fully transcribed in normal, twenty-first century writing for further analysis. Two, Melanie is going to want more than eighteenth century—"
"Alright already, alright already." Guilbert-Louis holds up his hands in defeat. "You win."
"I am not finished, Guilbert-Louis," Enide crosses her arms over her chest. "Three, I am genuinely curious as to how a fifteen year old native and a man nearly twice her age became involved to the point that, years later, they were lovers—we are in the middle of a real historical romance novel, you can't make up this kinda shit!"
"Okay, Fifty Shades of Piracy, that's what we'll call it." Guilbert-Louis grins. "Catch ya tomorrow, Opium."
"See ya, Hilary Carlisle Flint."
So, this is my new fic. I am either going to make you severely disappointed or extremely relieved when I say that I highly doubt I am going to write any explicit sex scenes. Sorry not sorry.
I am very excited about this story because Hilary Flint/Opía Apito is a completely virgin ship-I cannot find any evidence anywhere of anyone ever writing about them before. I'm a pioneer! YAY! That being said, if there are any DeviantArt people out there who read this and want to draw something, PLEASE DO! Now go forth my children and review (constructive criticism, please), follow, favorite, and enjoy!
All my love,
The Rebel (Every post I'm going to use a different Assassin's Creed multiplayer character)