A/N: Writing fanfiction always makes me nervous as I want to get the characters as right as I possibly can-hopefully it doesn't show. I needed more Edward in my life and, well, the idea of spinning my own yarn with him wouldn't bugger off. Here we go! I've taken liberties where I felt they were necessary, of course, and hope you enjoy the bit of a twist I've put on things. Rated as such for my own comfort as I'd rather not have to censor/edit down if it comes to it. Mostly featuring the pirate himself but other characters may be mentioned or appear briefly. Won't add 'em to the list unless they stick around some, however. I do not write slash. The usual disclaimers apply; much as I'd love to lay claim to Assassin's Creed and Edward Kenway, I cannot. Shoot. Darn. Enjoy!
Ah, yes. Catcalls and high spirits, the smell of spiced rum (and a few other smells no one wanted to think about overmuch), the sun soaring to its zenith in a sky almost too blue to be real…few places compared. Though on this particular day, the pirate Edward Kenway wasn't exactly enjoying the atmosphere. No, he was busy doing something different.
He was, quite frankly, sulking.
The day was beautiful! He and his Jackdaw ought to be out in it. Taking a prize or two, perhaps, and continuing the hunt for the Observatory. Instead, the lot of them were docked at Kingston while repairs were made to her hull and the ragged chunks missing from her sides replaced. Be grateful, he reminded himself, tossing back his drink and gesturing to the barmaid for another. She was no Anne, but she was quite pretty, and not immune to his charms despite the churlish cast on his otherwise handsome face. If they hadn't all been there… Well. Blackbeard would be drinking damnation with all the other pirates who had the misfortune of running into the King's Navy alone and severely outnumbered. It ought to have been a celebration of his retirement, and he'd even given up a tip about the Sage and the slave-ship Princess he was rumored to be aboard. Edward might've happily gotten drunk with the rest of them, if just to take the edge off the sorrow at losing the friend and mentor he'd found in Thatch, but Vane had mucked all that right up.
And a good thing, too, Edward thought, though it didn't much help his frustration at being grounded. Having also done a right fine job annoying Blackbeard (a grand farewell sendoff that was), he'd stomped off to his ship. In fact, it was more than likely one could hear him still stomping around the deck even as they set sail, leaving the broken dreams of Blackbeard somehow swooping in and saving Nassau from ruin behind. Good riddance. Or it would've been, if Vane hadn't sailed smack-dab into the middle of the ambush creeping up on the island. Cannon fire drew the pirate's attention, as it was wont to do, and all had leapt into action. Well. Perhaps the more inebriated of them rolled rather than leapt, but the end result was Blackbeard's life and his goal of retirement safe and sound for the time being. Oh yes, and the small matter of the poor Jackdaw, having taken heavy fire in the defense of his friend's weaker brigs. Even so, they were alive. All of them. Blackbeard could seek out a quieter place to settle, Vane could continue his pissing and moaning over the potential pardons and loss of Nassau, and Edward could… Keep searching for a man and a place nobody wants to believe exists, he grumbled inwardly. It was as if from day one the universe heard his desire to become a man of means, of quality, and had conspired against him ever since.
Well. When the repairs were finished, they'd head back out to open water. Taking ships and their petty prizes—for what could possibly compare to the potential of the Observatory?—did keep the crew's spirits up, as Ade had pointed out. If he was to find the bloody place, he needed a crew to help sail the Jackdaw. Few, if any, would stay if he chased the Templar's dream alone. And all were eager to strike back against the Navy now for the way they'd tried to take down the infamous Blackbeard. See, he could compromise! Dammit. A fresh tankard of rum materialized in front of him with a dull clunk and he found a smile for the woman who'd brought it, though she only frowned in response. What, had his charm worn off? Or was his brooding so obvious?
Some of both, maybe. Seabirds called to one another, their cries sharp and angular against the smooth rippling of the ocean as it came lapping up to Kingston's sturdy docks. Deckhands shouted back and forth, relaying orders from higher up. Therein lay part of the problem with bars that sprawled into the street. What with the doors hanging wide open, there was no quiet corner to lurk (or sulk) in, so one might as well take a table outside and enjoy the weather, at least. While he had the table part down, the enjoyment was lacking. He was of a mind to begin trying to change that when a shadow fell over his personal grumpfest. Looking up, he met the serious gray-green eyes of a woman. Grand, he thought, repressing the groan. With that expression, she surely wasn't looking for a good time. Not that he was entirely up for one. Not looking. Busy sulking. When she continued gazing at him, the silence stretching thin, he narrowed his eyes slightly. His age, thereabouts, if he was any judge, though her black hair was prematurely silvering at the temples. Either someone drove her perpetually crazy at home or she enjoyed white paint.
"What is it then, lass?" he asked, growing tired of the staring contest.
"Edward Kenway?"
"Who wants to know?" Suspicion colored his voice. Hers was husky, and appeared to be naturally so as she didn't immediately clear her throat. Her hands were closed a little too tightly over the leather strap securing a small satchel to her shoulder and behind her, a dusty brown horse tied to the flimsy rail surrounding the bar heaved what was, in his very informed opinion, an overly dramatic and weary sigh.
"Mary Read told me I'd find a good man in you, if I looked hard enough," she replied. He snorted and gave in to the sigh. Jaysus, Mary, what've you gone and gotten me into now?
"S'pose that depends on who's doing the looking," he muttered, and shifted to get a better look at her. "And what it is they're after."
"I need to get from here… to…" She reached into the bag and fumbled for a moment before coming up with a sad, sorry scrap of paper he hoped no honest person ever actually called a map. "There," she said, pointing to the carefully labeled (and circled) coordinates marking the tiny island.
"Aye, we pirates are known for our ferrying prowess and kindness toward lost folk," he said dryly. Right taxis of the sea, they were! She didn't quite smile.
"Mary said you could help," she repeated.
"Aye, could," he said, stressing the word. Though that woman did have a way of picking at his conscience, as he'd confided in Ade some time ago, and her particular talents in that area had only grown since she revealed her true gender. Among many other things. This had to do with the Assassins, didn't it? He'd known her for exactly two seconds and already the situation smelled of Creeds and hidden blades. "Best be sharing the story, then," he said bluntly, gesturing at the seat across from him. She hesitated, and he wondered if she'd turn tail and run rather than settle down.
She didn't, but neither was she entirely comfortable. The horse repeated its sighing act and she shushed it.
"I met her in London," she said as he continued to study her over his rum. Something about her, just a tiny, niggling something, reminded him of Caroline. They weren't at all alike in looks. What was it? A pang of loss echoed through his heart and he hastily yanked his mind back to the task at hand. The task of consuming another flagon of rum. Oh, yes, and perhaps doing some listening. Her voice lowered, blending with the sounds around them, men's voices calling for another round and someone, somewhere, doing a terrible job of serenading the pigeons. He leaned forward slightly, engaging the Sense to better pick up her words. "I was to marry a Templar," she said simply, and he blinked, biting his tongue before the curses could cascade into the rum and flavor it with temper. Dammit, Mary! I want no part in the games your Order plays. Ah, but you do want the Observatory, he mocked himself silently. Only in it for a bit of coin. Make that a lot of coin. Indeed. "I didn't know what he was at the time. Actually, I've only known about all this for a year or so," she went on. "Very long, and doubtless very boring story short, I assisted Mary a year ago and have been for some time since. As it stands, the Templars are missing some, ah, rather valuable documents, and I don't doubt they want them back." He read between the lines as he tossed back a mouthful of rum.
Mary was trusting him not to outright steal these so-called valuable things like the pirate he was, and help out instead. True, many a man upon hearing the tale—hell, even without it!—wouldn't be honorable with their intentions in the slightest. A woman traveling alone was target enough.
"Pirates don't much care for women on their ships," he said. "Superstitious lot, we are." Mary don't count.
"Are you the Captain, or aren't you?" she shot back. His eyebrows rose. That's what it was. A noble. She was a thrice-cursed noble. It figured. Her nerves ratcheted up several notches as she waited for a response. Truthfully he hadn't seemed in the best of moods when she'd approached him to begin with, and now he was looking at his rum like there may or may not be a severed finger at the bottom. Mary's loose description of the pirate fit well, although the robes and leathers gave him away long before the tousled, barely restrained blonde hair and curving scar on his cheek. Unfortunately it wasn't as if she had the time to be sitting around waiting for Captain Edward Kenway to sober up and put a smile on that handsome face of his. She'd been lurking in Kingston for coming up on two weeks now, hoping for a sign of him when Mary hadn't returned to help her finish the journey as they'd originally hoped. She was tired, and this entire ordeal had been nothing short of hellish. Showing the nerves, though, and the exhaustion, would only do her more harm than good. It'll be over soon, she told herself. Mary trusted this man enough to send her his way. All she had to do was make it through the next few days, meet the Assassin contact who ought to be waiting for her on that island, and then...safety. Well. Relatively, anyway.
"And what might your name be?" he asked, and she hoped that was a good sign.
"Elaina," she said. "Elaina Dusanae." He scrutinized her over the rim of the battered mug, blue eyes sharp as the blade hidden away in that brace of his.
Mary was nowhere in sight, and yet he could practically feel his conscience squirm under the prickling.
"This could be a right fancy tale full of shite you're spinning me," he said, but she heard the resignation in his voice.
"Only if your shit-filled tales end in gold," she said, and he gave her an odd look. Nobles and cursing. It just wasn't right. Still, the mention of gold perked him up, predictably. Elaina reached into the bag a second time, flicking the clasp aside in a practiced motion, and drew out a smooth, rounded disc with the Assassin's symbol emblazoned on the surface, and a leather bag of rather deceptive size and weight. He turned the disc over in his hand, shaking his head. A reminder of the Mayan ruins, and the discussion they'd had of the Sense. Alright, so she ain't lying. Knowing Mary's real name was proof on its own, but the woman obviously thought ahead.
"If all this is so important to the Assassins," he said, the volume of his voice matching hers as he picked up the pouch of gold. "Why ask me?"
"Mary was hopeful she'd accompany me herself," Elaina said, looking at the map still gracing the scarred tabletop between them. "But she's busy these days, if you hadn't noticed, and she told me if it didn't work out and she couldn't make it back, to find you. So, do you think it's worth it to convince your horde of drunken sailors my presence won't actually cause your ship to instantly sink?" He coughed on a laugh and expertly weighed the money in one hand.
"Aye, I reckon so," he said. "Though I wouldn't be callin' us a horde of anything, lass. Drunk, though, aye, more'n'likely. The Jackdaw's repairs ought to be finished soon. Gather your things and meet me at the docks tomorrow." A short trip to that island, he reasoned. Someone would be waiting to pick her up there, no doubt, and she'd only be his problem for a moment. No Templars were hot on her heels just yet. Mary was trusting him with this. An odd, and mildly unsettling feeling, that one. All and all, the gold was more than ample compensation. Chances were no one would ever suspect the Assassins would deliver someone carrying valuable Templar information directly into his hands. It was, he supposed, the safest alternative with Mary off doing who the hell knew what. Elaina gave him a sharp nod and rose, the skirts she wore moving about her legs in a fashion he found most interesting. Not up for a good time, eh, Kenway? Sarcasm reverberated around his skull as he picked up the map and tucked it away, finishing off the rum in the same quick motion.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, and went to her horse.
"Don't mention it," he muttered. No, really. Don't. I'm off to convince a crew that don't believe in my 'foolish fantasies' that the gold you're payin' is worth the trouble of sailing out to that island. Don't suppose the day could improve none, could it?
Turned out, the gold was worth it, but what followed next was most certainly not.