Sum of Memories

Prologue: The Storm.

"I am the Morrigan. Look for me on the battlefield, in the whirlwind or the storm. I am the daughter of memory, the harbinger of fate, the bringer of death, and the mother of change."

June 9, 1777. Caribbean Sea.

The storm had picked up in the past hour or so. Connor Kenway ground his teeth as he strained against the Aquila's helm, listening to the shouts of the crew as they struggled with the rigging; some were bailing water from the bilge, others were lashing down cargo, and still more were in the process of patching what holes there were that had already opened in the hull. On the deck below, Mr. Faulkner hollered at the men to halve the sails, hold strong.

Up ahead, Connor glimpsed a flash of light in the distance: his target was in sight.

"Keep her steady, boys!" he called over the roar of the thunder and the waves. "I see her!"

Faulkner turned at the sound of his voice, a strange look on his face.

"Captain, are you certain it's her?" he asked. Connor opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden gust of wind jerked the Aquilato the side, and he was forced to heave against the wheel again, groaning with exertion as he struggled to keep her on course.

"It's her," the Captain yelled back. "It's the Morrigan. I can see the mast light."

Faulkner started to shout something in return, but a sudden flash of light lit the horizon. A second later, the thunder rolled across the ocean again; a sharp wind followed directly on its heels, making the masts groan as the ship bucked and shuddered beneath Connor's feet. Up ahead, something tilted, then fell to the side.

The Morrigan was down.

"She is down, Mister Faulkner!" Connor shouted. "Give me full sail! We have to get there before she sinks!"

As Faulkner called for full sail and the crew responded, Connor frowned and strained again against the helm. The winds were getting worse, and the Aquila was groaning more and more loudly. She would not last long, at this rate. However, Connor had faith that she would, at the very least, get them to their target safely.

"Sir, if I might ask?" Faulkner had come up beside Connor, bracing himself against the railing in front of the helm. "What's so important about the Morrigan that we'd sail right into the middle of the storm to get her?"

Connor took a second to heave against another gust of wind. Then he turned, teeth gritted, to his first mate.

"The captain stole an artifact that has the potential to be very, very dangerous," he hollered. The wind swept his words away almost as quickly as he had uttered them, but he knew that Faulkner had heard him. A wave crashed over the deck, leaving them spluttering, but they managed to stay on their feet. Connor continued, "We have to retrieve it and return it to its rightful master!"

"Right!" Faulkner glanced forward again, and then he looked back to the Captain. "So, what's your plan, sir?"

Connor smiled grimly. "We take in all sail, set anchor, and I go retrieve the artifact."

"But sir, the sea-"

"You are acting Captain until I return, Mister Faulkner." They were getting close to their destination. "If I do not return, take the Aquila to Boston and continue the fight. I will have succeeded in the most important aspect of my mission, even if I do not return it to its owner."

They braced themselves against another wave, and afterwards, Faulkner turned to Connor once more.

"Sir, what about Miss Delacroix?" the older man asked. "What should I tell her if you don't come back?"

Connor was silent a moment, thoughts drifting to his sometimes-partner. The young woman in question was half-Native and half-French, and was the same age as he was. They had met in Boston when they were 15, and he had not seen her again until they were 17, as she had been down south, adventuring in the Spanish territories. Together, they had explored the Ruins in Cerros; they had also worked together with slowly-increasing frequency as the War picked up its pace. After she had been wounded during the Battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775, he had brought her to the Davenport Homestead to convalesce. They had grown closer during that time. She had saved his life with her marksmanship when, in 1776, she had shot through the noose that had been slowly strangling him, dropping him to the ground and saving his life. At the signing of the Declaration of Independence, he had been shocked to find that she had been present. The memory of her standing there in the dress that she had been wearing still made shivers run down his spine every time he recalled it. Sometimes, it felt as though he had known her all his life, and others, it felt as though he would be unable to live without her.

Connor had wondered, more than once, what all it meant.

"Captain?"

"Tell her-" Connor cut himself off, thinking about it. After a second, during which he struggled with both his thoughts and the helm, he turned to Faulkner again. "Tell her that I am sorry. And that I will see her again, someday."

Faulkner nodded slowly. "Aye, Captain."

Connor returned his gaze to the fore, raising his voice as he called for "full stop" and "drop anchor," taking in the sight of the wrecked ship.

The Morrigan's main mast was in splinters, floating almost lazily on the surface of the heaving ocean. The hull was on its side, taking on water. All around the wreckage, men wailed and flailed, trying their best to grab onto anything that would keep them afloat. Connor spotted the Morrigan's captain clinging to a section of the mast, his hands empty.

He had left the artifact in the ship.

Connor swore faintly and, making sure his pistols and other weapons were secured on his person, he turned to Faulkner.

"Take the helm, Mister Faulkner," Connor instructed. He eyed the Morrigan's progress. There would not be time to strip down out of his robes and Captain's coat. "And help those of the Morrigan's crew whom you can. If I do not return before the ship sinks, make for Boston like we discussed."

"Aye, Captain," Faulkner replied with a nod, accepting Connor's hat when the younger man handed it to him. With that, Connor turned, headed to the starboard gunwale, and dove overboard, swimming for the Morrigan's slowly sinking hull.

The current was strong, the waves tall; each time a wave crashed over his head, Connor had to fight his way back up, clawing towards the surface of the icy water with all the tenacity of a drenched mountain cat. His coat and robes weighed him down, but it was nothing that he was not used to dealing with. It took him all of seven minutes to reach the wreckage, ignoring the shouts of the men around him. Then he took a deep breath, and willingly dove down beneath the waves.

The ocean was calmer under the surface, though Connor still had to struggle not to be thrown off-course by the waves that threatened to heave him back and forth. Before him loomed the Morrigan's sanded deck, gleaming a pale green-brown through the darkness of the murky water. Connor swam for the opening to the Captain's Cabin. The interior of the room was pitch-black; Connor closed his eyes and centered himself, his Second Sight allowing him to distinguish where his target was located. As an object of incredible value, it would have been kept in the cabin, unless the man was unaware of just what it was that he had stolen.

Connor's search paid off a second later: a gleam of gold caught his attention from across the room. He opened his eyes again, swimming towards the small chest half-hidden beneath a heavy chest of drawers. He would have to be quick; his air was beginning to run out. Reaching down, he grasped the box he was aiming for, and tugged.

It did not budge. Connor forced himself to remain calm as his lungs began to burn; it would do him no good to panic and would only serve to deplete his air more quickly. Glancing at the chest of drawers, he realized that it was bolted to the floor. His pistols were useless underwater. The chest was mostly iron-bound... but for the sides and top of it.

Connor drew his tomahawk.

Gritting his teeth, he flipped the blade around so that the spike was down and then, fighting against the water's resistance, he swung it down into the wooden portion of the chest's side. The chest itself did not move, but the unprotected wood splintered easily beneath the powerful blow. The slight victory bolstered his spirits more than it probably should have; the second blow's opening of a hole in the chest bolstered him further. Connor struck it once more, and then he was able to reach his hand inside after sheathing his tomahawk once more. The items he was searching for met his grasping fingers. He was quick to pull them free: a swatch of oilcloth was wrapped around a strangely-shaped dagger of some kind. Connor did not know precisely what the dagger was for, only that it was the source of the danger he had been warned about.

But now, it was time to get out of this wreck before it sank any further.

Connor turned towards the door, intending to escape the way he had come in. As he swam upwards towards it, he could see the doors attached to the frame, swinging back and forth. He would have to be careful. Around him, the timber of the ship's hull groaned. The pressure was increasing. Connor's lungs burned. The need for air was nearly overpowering; he struck towards the door again, desperate to get out of there and get to the surface. He passed the doorframe, extending his arms outward for another sweep.

A sudden surge of water nearly forced him backwards into the cabin. Connor reached out with his free hand and grabbed the frame, grinding his teeth against the current. A dark shape moved in the corner of his eye. Connor turned instinctively towards it, thrusting his hand containing the strange dagger out to defend himself from whatever predator was there. The other door slammed into his arm, forcing the dagger back towards him.

A searing burst of pain spread through his stomach. Then coldness.

Connor gasped, releasing what little air he had left in a stream of bubbles. His lungs seized reflexively; icy saltwater rushed down his throat, threatening to gag him even as he looked down to the metal blade that was buried in his abdomen. His hands shook as he laboriously pulled himself free of the cabin, floating away from the sinking hull of the ship as blackness began to creep in on his vision. Connor gasped vainly for air, only succeeding in inhaling more water. Crimson gushed, scalding, through his fingers with every heartbeat. His hand loosened its grip as numbness took hold.

A golden flash of light filled his vision. There was sunlight, above him, though everything was beginning to grow dim.

The last thing that Connor Kenway saw before his heart stopped was a large, dark shape soaring overhead, a splash violently disturbing the water. Something rushed past him, hurtling down into the depths.

Golden, again. Connor knew no more.

Compulsory and Standard Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed in any of its forms, save for the copies I have of each game but Liberation. Assassin's Creed belongs in its entirety to Ubisoft. The only character I own is Cosette Delacroix.

Brought this over from my Tumblr and DeviantART accounts.

Please tell me what all you thought!

-Scribe