Sum of Memories
Chapter 3: Distrust.
"That's far-fetched, even for someone as unbelievable as you."
June 17, 1715.
Edward Kenway stared intently at the unconscious form on the cot in the surgeon's cabin, all but willing her to wake up. So far, the girl who had attacked him aboard the schooner earlier that day had lived through having her wound tended, but she had lost a lot of blood in the process. Connor was sitting in the chair beside the cot, arms cradling his wounded stomach, chin lowered to his chest as he dozed. The colored man was still pale, but he could at least move, by now. Frankly, Edward was amazed by how quickly the man was healing. The only person whom he had ever known to heal that fast was himself.
Either Connor was a fast healer, or he was just very good at hiding his pain. Edward did not know which. At any rate, the man had been on his feet when Edward had brought the girl down to the surgeon's cabin; Connor had been unsteady at best, but he had had a sword in hand and had been standing in the middle of the room. He had nearly attacked Edward when the paler man had entered before he had realized who he was. Then he had lowered his blade and stepped aside, allowing Edward to enter the room and lay the girl out on the surgeon's table.
It had taken Gibbs all of three seconds' examination to reveal that Edward had somehow managed to not hit any of the girl's vital organs, but that she was malnourished for her height and build.
"'e should be at least a dozen pounds 'eavier," Gibbs had commented, shaking his head with displeasure. "'S why 'e took the 'it so badly. 'e simply just don't 'ave the blood to bleed. I kin stitch 'im up, but th' rest is up to 'im."
Edward had helped hold her down as Gibbs had disinfected the wound with spirits from his stores, and then he had done the same as the surgeon stitched up the ugly wound and bound the girl's stomach tightly with a bandage. The force of the blow had apparently cracked one of her lower ribs. After all that had been finished, they had transferred her to the cot, Connor had shakily taken the chair to watch over her, and Edward had gone back on deck to retrieve the other two wounded men and to start getting things moving.
Gregson, bless him, was a good sailor and a better quartermaster. He had already begun organizing the looting of the schooner when Edward had reappeared on deck, and had begun the process of loading its cargo and their prisoners onto the Jackdaw. Edward had been pleased to hear that he had also started to take stock of everything they had retrieved; he had also been pleased when Gibbs, who was the Jackdaw's carpenter in addition to its surgeon, had pronounced the schooner's hull to still be seaworthy. That meant that they could sell her for a decent price.
The bodies of the men they had killed had been stripped of all finery, and then had been buried at sea, sewn up in their hammocks. It had been a solemn job that had taken the better part of two hours while Gibbs took the two wounded crewmembers below to stitch up their cuts. Edward had discovered that one of them, a powder monkey barely out of his teens who went by the name of Davy McKennitt, had nearly lost an eye. The other, a swarthy old mate named Thackary "Toothless" Locksley, had taken a nasty-looking gash to the underside of his forearm that had been less severe than it had appeared. By the time that Edward had gone down below two hours after the battle, everything had been efficiently taken care of, and all was ship shape and Bristol fashion; that was, ready to sail with all equipment stowed securely.
Gregson had taken the helm, and along with their navigator, LeMarque, they had set a heading for Havana. Edward had made sure they were all right with navigating for a while. Then he had gone below to finally have his own wound looked at, which brought him to the current moment.
"Captain?" Edward blinked as Gibbs's voice entered his ears again, and turned to him. Gibbs gestured to Edward's leather armor, and to the bloodsoaked clothing beneath it. "You gonna let me tend tha', now?"
Edward shook himself and nodded absently, reaching down to begin undoing the buckles on his clothing. "Yeah. Yeah, let's get this done."
It took him all of two minutes to strip out of his armor, though his wound pulled rather painfully when he tried to lift his left arm, and the blood had crusted into the fabric around the wound, as well, more or less sealing the cotton to his skin. His bandolier, belt, and leather armor clunked to the ground along with his pistols and cutlasses. He left his bracers on, and his Hidden Blades with them. Still, as he started untying his shirt with one hand, the other working on untucking it from his trousers, he realized that he was feeling a little woozy.
Maybe he had lost more blood than he had thought.
Gibbs came over with a bottle of rum and his suturing tools, eyeing the way Edward's shirt had been stained half-red all the way down to his waist.
"Looks bad, Captain," he commented. Edward sighed and rolled his shoulders, taking the bottle of rum from the surgeon and downing a few gulps of it. After he had drunk a good amount, he lowered the bottle again, blowing out a breath.
"It's stuck in the wound," he said. "The shirt."
Gibbs shook his head, and handed Edward a rag soaked with alcohol. "'old this on it fer a few minutes, then. After that, we'll pull it off."
Edward did as he was told. The alcohol burned in the wound the instant it touched his side, but aside from a slight wince, Edward did not react. Gibbs bustled about, cleaning up the messes from the other people he had tended, and from the damage that the battle with the schooner had worked on the Jackdaw. Edward was pleased that his ship was not terribly damaged, but she had sustained a few holes in her hull that Gibbs would have to tend to, later.
Within minutes, lulled by the Jackdaw's gentle sway and the large amount of rum he had imbibed in such a short time, Edward found himself dozing slightly, though the sharp bite of the cloth over his wound kept him aware enough that he did not lose sense of what was going on around him. It was only when Gibbs shook him that Edward blinked himself awake again. He shook himself, and gingerly pulled the alcohol-soaked cloth away from the wound, finding it to be stained with his blood. His shirt, however, had mostly come unstuck.
It only took Edward a second to set aside the cloth and begin to gingerly pull the shirt out of his wound. It still caught painfully in some places, but it at least was not totally sealed to his skin, anymore. He hissed slightly as it pulled at a particularly ragged edge of skin. Then it popped free with a violent stinging sensation. Edward grunted. He let it go and took another swig from the bottle of rum before continuing.
A minute later, he finished, and squirmed out of the shirt, tossing it to the floor as he lifted the bottle to his lips again, trying not to think about the process that would soon begin under Gibbs's skilled hands.
Edward hated needles.
He was distracted enough that he barely noticed the feeling of Gibbs beginning to suture closed the gash over his ribs. He only noticed once he came up for a breath of air and found Gibbs hovering under his upraised arm, stitching quietly. Edward watched with grim fascination for a moment. Then he sighed and went back to his drinking.
By the time Gibbs had finished, Edward had gotten himself quite well on the way to being inebriated. The surgeon just shook his head as Edward allowed him to bandage his chest, and took his ruined shirt and other clothing from him when Gibbs offered it to him. The captain, for his part, just gave a soft chuckle at the sight, feeling a little more woozy than before.
"Strange time fer this t' happen, innit?" Edward asked, barely realizing that his words were beginning to slur. Strange; normally, he would be able to tolerate twice as much alcohol as he had already consumed and not begin to slur his words. He supposed it was the fault of the blood loss.
Gibbs shook his head, rounded Edward, and pulled the captain's right arm across his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. Edward gave an unsteady groan and wobbled uncertainly for a second. Then he got his balance again, for the time being, and Gibbs walked him over to the ladder that led up to the weather deck.
"A'right, up you go, Captain," Gibbs commented, helping Edward clumsily climb up the rungs. Edward, for his part, managed to keep his balance fairly well. It was strange, though, that he had become inebriated so quickly.
Once they arrived topside, Gibbs walked Edward across the deck to his cabin, ignoring the knowing glances of the crew. Within moments, they were ensconced in the shadowy interior of the room. Gibbs settled Edward on the side of his cot. Taking the bottle from him, he helped Edward lie down on his back, and then he left Edward alone. Edward sighed as soon as Gibbs was gone, carelessly tossing his gear and soiled robes and shirt away from him before he raised a hand and settled it over his eyes.
Cach, his head was spinning.
June 19, 1715.
Connor stared at Edward as the fairer man allowed Gibbs to examine his wound. For the most part, it seemed as though the captain was sober, though Connor strongly suspected that he had been drinking rather heavily since the battle two days ago. Connor had to admit, for being perpetually inebriated, the man seemed to hold his liquor well. At the moment, the only way he could tell that Edward had been drinking was the slight dilation of the man's eyes and the relaxed way he sat as Gibbs probed the sutured wound in his side.
"Well," Gibbs commented after a moment. "No infection, though I wouldn't count it out just yet, Captain. These types o' wounds can be tricky, what wit' them bein' so close to the 'eart an' all."
Edward sighed impatiently, ocean-blue gaze darting briefly in the general direction of the door. Connor watched his grandfather shy continually away from the surgeon's probing hands, watched the way he eyed the saws on the walls, and realized that Edward must have hated being in the surgeon's cabin. The Native man wondered what had happened in the past to make Edward so wary of the place.
"So?" Edward questioned, fidgeting.
"So, take it easy with that arm 'til it 'eals up," Gibbs replied pointedly. "Means no climbin', Captain, an' no more fightin' than you 'ave to do."
Edward grumbled something under his breath, but nodded and pulled his shirt back on after Gibbs bandaged the wound again. When the captain looked over at Connor, Connor met his gaze unflinchingly. His wound may have taken much of his strength from him, but Connor would not be intimidated by a man who was probably a year or so his junior.
"What is it?" he asked, and Edward frowned in return.
"I've been meaning to have a word with you," he stated. "About what you told me, and didn't tell me, the last time we spoke."
Connor blinked. He had almost no recollection of that conversation; the most he remembered was pain and throwing up and telling Edward his true name. "What did I not tell you?"
"Your last name, for one thing," Edward replied, frowning sternly. When Connor simply blinked, still having no recollection of that half of the conversation, Edward's frown increased slightly. "What? You don't remember?"
"No," Connor answered, honestly bewildered. "I have no recollection of anything past telling you my name, though since you have been calling me Connor, I must have said other things."
Edward stared at him a second longer before his lips quirked in a smile and he let loose a chuckle.
"Shall we take this conversation elsewhere?" he asked, gesturing to the door as he pulled his shirt back on. "You've been here for the past week. Must be rather boring."
Connor frowned slightly, but he could not deny the statement.
"It has been somewhat..." He cast around for the proper English word to use. It took him a second. "Dull."
Edward gave another chuckle. Then he led the way out of the cabin and up onto the deck, calling greetings to the rest of the crew as he went. Connor observed the interactions, marveling at the level of camaraderie Edward displayed with the men. It was a deeper level of friendliness than he shared with his own crew, though there was still a clear deference to Edward that denoted his rank amongst them. As Edward led Connor towards the bow of the ship, Connor took a deep breath, savoring the freshness of the sea air. He had been cooped up belowdecks for too long; he had missed the feeling of the wind on his skin. To taste the breeze again was to taste life itself.
"So?" Edward asked as soon as they had arrived at the forward gunwale. Connor sighed contentedly, leaning against the railing, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. The sun was warm on his face.
"So, what?" Connor countered lightly. "I do not know what you are thinking, so I cannot answer your question, since I do not know what you are asking of me."
He heard Edward sigh.
"So, what's your story?" he asked. "How'd you end up in the sea with a dagger sticking out of your belly? And while you're at it, what the hell is your last name?"
Connor did not reply for a long moment. He was enjoying the sunlight and feeling of freedom too much. When he finally turned to Edward, he scanned the other man's features ponderously for a long moment, debating inwardly.
Could he trust his grandfather? Could he trust him with the secret of how he had come to be in this time? Could he trust him with the secrets of his own life?
"Can I trust you?"
Edward blinked at the frank question. "What kind of question is that?"
Connor's direct stare did not waver. "Can I trust you?"
Edward's expression grew solemn for a long moment, and Connor knew that the other man was waging his own inner battles. He wondered what it was, aside from the life of a pirate, that had made Edward as reluctant to trust others as Connor was. When Edward's ocean-blue gaze finally met Connor's tawny one again a moment later, Connor could see the resignation there.
"No." Edward looked away, out over the bowsprit to the rolling waves beyond. "No, you can't. Can't trust a pirate, after all. We'll fuck each other over in a heartbeat, let alone a lad as uptight as you seem to be."
Connor studied Edward for a second longer.
"What about another Assassin?" he finally questioned, and watched the way Edward's features tightened. "Can I trust one of my Brothers to aid me in my time of need?"
"I already have, you cur!" Edward snapped, turning to glare at Connor. Connor could tell that the other man's patience had reached an end. "An' I don't bloody well need to expend time and effort in helping someone I don't even know!"
"But you already have," Connor reminded the captain calmly. "You did not have to retrieve me as you did. You did not have to bring me to your surgeon for treatment. You did not have to save my life. Yet you did."
"And I'm beginnin' to wonder if that wasn't a mistake!" Edward snarled. "I should've left you to the Locker."
"And miss out on your answers?" Connor watched as Edward pulled a face at the accurate remark against his character. "You are a man who likes to have answers. If you had killed me, you would not have gotten those answers. Therefore, I am no use to you dead."
Edward snorted, shaking his head as he faced forward again.
"I'm beginning to wonder what use you are to me alive," he grumbled. They were silent a moment. Then he cast Connor a sidelong glance. "What's so important that you trust me, anyway?"
Connor shook his head. "I need to know if I can trust you, first. Can you keep a secret from all those around you?"
Edward snorted again. "Lad, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're out in the open, here. It's not the place to be divulging secrets."
"Well?"
A muscle jumped in Edward's jaw. For a moment, he would not look at Connor. However, Connor saw it when the other man's curiosity won out over his pride.
"Fine, you can trust me," Edward muttered finally. "Insofar as you realize that I may end up fucking you over, later, anyway."
Connor cracked a small smile.
"I doubt it," he murmured. Then he turned to his grandfather again. "That dagger that you pulled out of me. Do you still have it?"
Edward seemed to sense that Connor was more or less past the "trust" issue. Intrigued, he turned to regard the dark man.
"In my cabin, yes." He frowned at Connor. "Why?"
Connor drew a deep breath. Please, Creator, let his trust not be misplaced.
"It is a powerful artifact, from what I understand," he explained quietly. Edward's look of curiosity intensified, and he shuffled slightly closer to Connor, the better for them to converse without being overheard. "I do not know much about it, but from what I have gathered, it holds power over time, itself."
There was a long moment of silence. Then Edward's eyebrows shot upward, and he barked an incredulous laugh, glancing away before he looked back to Connor's impassive features.
"You're shittin' me." Edward chuckled again. "There's nothing that could control time, nothin' but God Himself, and even He doesn't fuck with that."
When Connor merely stared at him, however, Edward slowly began to sober, realizing that Connor was not joking.
"Well, how's it work, then?" the blond man asked incredulously. "You say some magic words, rub the hilt a bit, and then, poof! a genie whisks you away to a different time? When are you supposed to be from, then? The Renaissance? The Crusades? Have you met Altaïr and Ezio, yet, or are you new to the whole business?"
Connor looked away, brow furrowing slightly.
"I do not know how it works," he admitted. "I, myself, have had no experience with this artifact. The only one I have is the ring I wear. It creates a shield that deflects most metals. It is... useful, for one in a profession such as ours." He held up his right hand, and showed Edward the Shard of Eden that was wrapped around his forefinger, and then he lowered it again to rest upon the gunwale. "I was sent to retrieve the dagger after it was stolen from its master. However, there was a terrible storm that day. The ship carrying it capsized, and I had to swim down and get it before it sank beyond reach."
He paused, remembering the gales that had made the Aquila groan so horribly. "I was successful in retrieving the dagger. However, as I was swimming out of the captain's cabin, a surge of water knocked me back, and slammed the door closed. My arm, the one holding the dagger, was in the way. The wave and door forced it down into my stomach. There was a flash of gold, and then, as things began to go black, I saw dark shapes moving around me. One of them looked like a man."
Edward huffed, still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.
"That would be me," he stated. "I was diving for treasure when I came across you. Happenstance, as it were."
"Regardless of whether it was chance or fate that brought me here, I need your help in figuring out a way to get back," Connor stated, looking over at Edward again. "Preferably as soon as possible."
Edward shook his head, chuckling darkly.
"No." Still laughing, he turned away. "No. You're out of your bleeding mind."
Connor's gaze did not waver.
"Then why did you keep the dagger instead of giving it back to me as soon as I was strong enough to talk?"
He saw it when Edward paused, though it was obvious that the other man was still in denial.
"You know that what I have told you is true," Connor stated. "If you had truly felt nothing, you would have just left the dagger with my other things. Instead, you took it, and still keep it in your cabin, within your sight."
"Damn it!" Edward swore, and turned a glare on Connor. "I felt nothing, I feel nothing, and there is no way you could be from a different time, whenever the hell that time may be." He turned away and headed towards the helm. "I wouldn't believe you even if I was drunk."
Connor stoically watched him go, trying not to feel the dismay that threatened to begin gnawing at his stomach. He would have to find some way to convince Edward that he was telling the truth.
Creator help him.
June 21, 1715.
Awakening was a slow, tedious thing, and one she had hated with a passion since her first day at sea. Since the beginning of her seafaring life, mornings had always been her least favorite part of the day, mostly because her body never let her sleep past sunrise, and even more so because mornings at sea equated yet another long, equally tedious day of chores and boredom. When she had joined up in the hopes of bettering her prospects and staying with her brother, she had not expected to feel just as trapped on a ship as she had at home.
Still, awakening was something that she was required to do for the sake of her profession. She was nothing if not professional.
Green eyes cracked open to peer at her surroundings.
She was in an unfamiliar place, though it was easy to see that she was in a surgeon's cabin of some type. He probably doubled as the ship's carpenter, if the large number of saws on the walls was any indication. She could see various other implements there, as well, however: needles, catgut, and spirits for washing wounds, among other things. Judging by the feeling of bandages around her middle and the tight pain of her wound, as well as the fact that she was still alive, it seemed as though the man who had captured her had some purpose for her. She wondered if he had realized that she was a woman.
The thought chilled her. Stories of the things that pirates did to women they captured were numerous and terrifying; suicide would be a blessing compared to being used by a crew that had been too long without shore leave. She would bite through her own tongue and bleed to death before she allowed them the satisfaction of using her for their own pleasure.
Grimacing, she levered herself up into a sitting position, finding that she was still fully clothed. The fabric itself was stiff with her blood; it reeked after however long it was that she had been unconscious. Slowly levering her legs over the side of the cot, she paused to overcome the spinning in her head, and then she pushed herself to her feet. Her stomach exploded in pain at the motion. Groaning, she wrapped her arm around it and pushed on, stumbling over to the bloodstained surgeon's table in the middle of the cabin. She caught herself on it for a moment, gasping. Then she pushed herself towards the one side of the cabin that did not have a wall, leading towards the hold. She determinedly ignored the stares of the few crewmembers who were down below. Her only goal was to get out in the open, see if she could not find some way to get away from thesepirates.
There was the ladder, highlighted by a pool of bright sunlight. If only she could get up there...
A dark shadow blotted out the light.
She gasped in dismay and stumbled around to the closest hiding spot, among the piles of cargo that she recognized as being from the schooner that she had just been captured from. For just a second, she spared a piteous thought for the crew of that ship. Then she brushed it away and hunkered down behind a few barrels, quieting her breathing and trying to clear her head.
"...wonder if our guest is awake, yet." The voice was masculine, and she was slightly startled to realize that he was speaking English. It had been so, so long since she had heard that language... But that did not make him any more trustworthy than a rabid cur on the street.
"He's been unconscious for a few days, already," stated a new voice. This one had a strange accent to his words, one that she did not recognize at all. The words were slow and ponderous, as well, like English was not his first language. Most likely, it was not. "Should he not be waking, soon?"
"Gibbs says that with the amount of blood he lost, it's a miracle he didn't die." The first voice had paused, probably to let his eyes adjust to the hold's darkness. A pair of soft, hollow thumps let her know that the second voice had reached the bottom of the ladder, as well. She held her breath. Footsteps. The voices faded away slowly. "Still, I have to wonder what a brat like that was doing on a privateer ship..."
She peeked around the barrel, and then snuck out, bare feet cat-quiet on the boards. It was as she reached up to pull herself up the ladder that her wound pulled painfully, and she realized that this was going to be much more difficult than she had thought. Still, she was not about to give her attention to these pirates, let alone surrender her modesty, identity, or well-being to them. She would rather die, first.
Grinding her teeth, she pulled herself up the ladder as quickly as she was able. It took some effort and quite a bit of pain before she made it to the top, but finally, she stood, blinking, in the bright Caribbean sunlight, and aside from the fire in her belly, she felt freer than she had in some time. With the sun on her face and the wind threading its fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath and relished the favorable weather for just a second. Then she blinked open her eyes again, squinting around the deck.
"Haul on the bowline, the bonny ship's a rollin'! Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul!"
The familiar sound of a shanty she had heard every day during her youth met her ears, and she nearly wept with the joy of it before she remembered where she was. All around her, pirates were going about the daily tasks of a ship, hauling in lines, sanding and swabbing the deck, navigating and steering, running up the sails and rigging, making what repairs were necessary, and, where they were not doing chores, making as merry as they could. A group of men were sitting over towards the starboard side of the ship, laughing and clapping as another of their members played a violin very poorly. She took a second look when she caught sight of the flamelike pattern on the underside of the instrument.
Damn it! That was hers!
But her violin was not worth getting found out over. It had been a miracle that her other crew had remained ignorant of her gender the entire time she had been on that ship, and in her wounded state, she had no doubt that, if one of them decided to pick a fight because she played the violin better than he did, that she would be found out or killed very quickly.
Still, the way that sailor was treating her favorite instrument...
A particularly shrill note was drawn in a painful screech from the fine catgut e-string. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she found herself scowling furiously. How dare he? She could not let this go on. Grinding her teeth, she stomped over to the group as much as her wound would allow her to, and tapped the unfortunate young man on the shoulder. He turned to face her, curiosity on his face. She raised an incredulous eyebrow and pointed to the violin. Then she raised her hand, palm-up, and curled her fingers into her palm in a "give me" motion.
Confused, the young man recoiled from her for an instant. She gave him a look that asked if he really wanted to try her, and then held out her left hand, pointing to the calluses on her fingertips. For a second, he was confused. Then, when she mimed playing a violin, his expression lit up in understanding, and he handed the instrument over to her with a sheepish grin, taking a seat beside his fellows.
She sighed in relief, running her hands over the deep red of the body, caressing every familiar scratch and dent and the inscription on the back, savoring the smell of rosin and the sleekness of the well-worn ebony fingerboard. Raising it to her shoulder, she took a moment to tune it. The sailors winced at the horrible sounds, but she simply scowled as she realized how out of tune it had gotten. It only took her a moment or two to put it right again. By that time, the cringes had faded into looks of realization, and she gave them a pointed glare.
Finally, she took a seat on the gunwale nearby and, tightening up the bow just a little, she set horsehair to catgut and drew out the first long note of a popular jig.
Her audience cheered and clapped as they realized that they had gained a skilled player, and soon, a pair of them had even stood up to dance. She chuckled despite herself, forgetting her wariness in the face of these men's joy, and played all the harder through the second round of the song before finishing with a flourish and a grin.
When the fiddle finally fell silent, there was a round of applause and whistling, and, to her surprise, she had to hurriedly trade the bow to her left hand as one of the men came up and jovially shook her hand.
"Thank ye!" he exclaimed. "We've been listenin' ta Joshamee's playin' all day, an' Lord knows 'e can' play ta save 'is life!"
As the rest of the crowd laughed at the jibe, she blinked at the onrush of English words, brain taking a moment to process them.
"Um..." Clearing her throat, she cast around for words, suddenly remembering where she was, and then gave the man a sheepish look, forcing her voice into a lower register as she asked, "¿Hable más despacio, por favor?"
The men all froze, staring at her as though she had grown another head. She blinked, and then realized she had spoken in Spanish. Taking a deep breath, she winced as her wound pulled, aggravated by all the excitement, and covered it with her palm as she gave the man a sheepish grin.
"Lo siento," she stated, voice still deepened. "I am... sorry."
The man blinked. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.
"There you are!" The voice drew all their attention to the ladder that led below, and she found herself squinting against the glare of the sunlight shining off of blond hair. She blinked again, and the bright blur resolved itself into the face of the man whom she had fought on the schooner. His expression was a mask of exasperation as he pulled himself up onto the deck. "You know, most people don't just get up and run off after they've been stabbed in the guts."
She frowned at him and staggered to her feet, backing cautiously away from him. He approached her, stride confident, and she kept backing up. Finally, she hit the wall beside what was, presumably, the captain's cabin. Her heart began to pound as he closed in on her, and she glanced around frantically for a second before she realized that she could not escape him, not in her current state, and not in the middle of the ocean.
He was nearly upon her.
"¡No te acerques!"
Desperate, she leveled the violin bow at his chest, holding it as she would hold a rapier, and he stopped short, the head of the bow pressing into the fabric of his loose, white shirt. The corners of his lips twitched.
"Do you speak any English?" he asked, lifting an amused brow. She studied him for a long moment, uncertain of whether he was toying with her or not. He raised his hands, palms upwards, showing her that he was unarmed. However, she was startled to see the glint of metal on the undersides of his wrists, and her eyes flicked back up to his, surprised.
"¿Tu eres un asesino?" she questioned softly, slowly lowering the bow from his chest as she frowned at him in confusion. "Pero tu eres un pirata. ¿Cómo?"
He sighed, and rolled his eyes.
"Lad, I don't speak Spanish," he stated, and she realized with a jolt that she had been speaking Spanish again. She shook herself, and closed her eyes, making a difficult mental shift from Spanish back to her second language.
She opened her eyes again, and met his ocean-blue gaze.
"You are a pirate," she stated quietly, watching as he blinked, golden eyebrows shooting upwards. "How can you serve yourself and still profess to be an Assassin?"
He frowned at the question, eyes flashing. His voice was a low growl when next he spoke. "That is not something you should go shouting to the rooftops. I have kept your secret, and I would appreciate it if my own privacy were mine to keep."
She swallowed, realizing the danger she into which had just unwittingly put herself.
"Sorry," she replied. "I shall remember it."
He snorted. "As well you should."
She inhaled shakily, slowly realizing that she had not been found out. How was it possible? How had he kept her secret from the surgeon and the rest of the crew?
"Who are you?" she asked quietly, though her voice held a note of steel in it that she had perfected long ago. "I battled you on my ship, and yet you saved my life after you stabbed me. Why?"
He huffed dismissively.
"That's none of your concern," he groused. "Point is, I pulled you over here, saved your life, and haven't killed you yet. What's your name, anyway?"
She eyed him warily.
"Why?" she asked, clearing her throat when her voice cracked back to its higher, more natural register for an instant. He rolled his eyes.
"So I don't have to keep calling you 'Lad' all the time." He gave her a glare of annoyance. "Now, answer me."
She swallowed.
"Drystan."
The man blinked, recoiling slightly. "But that's a Welsh name."
"I am Welsh." She cleared her throat again. "My ship was captured by those Spaniards two years ago." Seeing his suspicious look, she shifted uncomfortably. "They spared me because I speak multiple languages. The rest of my crew were not so fortunate."
'Drystan' stared at the blond man as he frowned at her. She could all but see the gears in his head turning.
"He speaks the truth!" The familiar, accented voice startled her into lowering the bow, and her gaze darted over to her right, landing upon a welcome face.
"Estevan!" she exclaimed, grinning. "¡Estás vivo!"
"Sí, hermanito, y tu también," he replied, coming over to stand beside her. His dark eyes landed on the strange man's, and Estevan took a position slightly in front of her, between her and her aggressor, but without being threatening. "He tells the truth. We killed the captain and first mate of the Assurance, but hermanito spoke for the rest of the crew, and our captain decided to spare them because of his efforts."
The blond man stared at Estevan for a moment. Estevan, for his part, turned to 'Drystan' and gestured to the other man.
"This is el capitán of this ship, Eduardo Kenway," Estevan explained, and 'Drystan' looked back over to the captain in question. "We have been taken as part of the crew for this ship, the Jackdaw. Things are not so bad, here, hermanito."
'Drystan' turned her stare back on Estevan, incredulous, before she finally turned her stare back to the captain, Edward.
"Captain Kenway," she mused thoughtfully, scanning his face. "I think you and I need to speak privately, if you have a moment."
Edward nodded, and gestured to the cabin behind her. "We can speak in there."
She nodded gratefully, and he opened the door, leading the way. She followed, closing it behind her. As soon as they were alone, she sighed wearily, the pain in her side flooding back now that she was away from the crew. Edward gestured to a desk in the middle of the room. 'Drystan' took a seat in the chair without much grace, too exhausted to stand on decorum.
"I assume you're feeling better, seeing as you're up and moving," Edward observed, going over to a cabinet against the wall. She watched as he drew out a bottle of some kind of alcohol and, popping the cork out, poured a bit into a tin cup before taking a swig straight out of the bottle. The cup, he handed to her.
"Thanks," she said quietly, sipping the drink and sighing in relief. She would have taken it faster, but she knew that it would affect her more quickly after the blood loss, and she had no desire to put herself at this man's mercy, Assassin or not. "And no, I'm really not. But I don't want the crew to think me weak and try to take advantage of me."
"Better to rest now than get sick," he reminded her, studying her as she took a slightly larger gulp of the rum in the cup. "Drinker, are we?"
"Yes."
He studied her a moment longer, and then came over to the desk, leaning against the side of it as he took another swig from his bottle. They were silent a moment, eyeing each other warily.
"How do you know about the Assassins?" he asked at last. She sighed.
"Mum died birthing me," she replied shortly. "Da was distant at best, stepmum didn't like me. I was mostly raised by my half-brother and our stable-hand, who is an Assassin."
"And why was an Assassin working as a stable-hand?"
She gave him an incredulous look. "I respected his privacy enough not to ask after the first time he told me he didn't want to talk about it."
Edward snorted. "Well, at least tell me your real name."
"Drystan."
His light gaze sharpened into a glare.
"Don't toy with me, girl," he growled. "I am not a patient man. What's your real name?"
"Drystan." She returned his glare full-force. "You may be an Assassin, but you're also a pirate. Trusting you would be like spitting into the wind and expecting it not to come back and hit me in the face."
They stared each other down for a long few moments, neither willing to give in. Eventually, however, the stalemate was broken by the sound of a knock on the door, and then the entrance of a tall man dressed in blue breeches and a loose, white shirt, with a red sash tied around his waist. What struck Drystan about him, however, was the stiff way he carried himself and the dark hue of his skin, eyes, and hair. If she was not mistaken, he was probably mulatto. Or maybe Spanish.
He closed the door behind himself, glancing between the two of them with a slight frown.
"I heard what she said on the deck," he said, by way of explanation. So he was the owner of the second voice she had heard when she was down below. Turning to her, he nodded. "I am Ratohnhaké:ton. You may call me Connor, if you wish."
"Drystan," she returned, relaxing slightly. He nodded respectfully.
"Miss Drystan," he began, and then froze when both she and Edward whirled on him. Connor cleared his throat awkwardly, holding his arms loosely at his sides. "Mister Gibbs wants to check your wound."
"How do you know I'm a girl?" she growled, grip on the violin's bow tightening until the metal clip bit into her palm. Connor blinked.
"I have changed your bandages for the past two days while Mister Gibbs was repairing the Jackdaw," he explained. "I saw nothing, save the bottom edges of your bindings."
"How many others know?" Drystan demanded. "How many have you told?"
Connor frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "None. I am the only one save Captain Kenway who knows your gender."
Drystan relaxed with a sigh of relief, knowing instinctively that she could trust this man. He carried himself with a proud air, but there had been nothing but honesty in his tone and words, at least as far as she could see.
"Thank you," she murmured, and then raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can understand why I don't want that information slipped to the crew."
He inclined his head. "Of course. Now, if you will come see Mister Gibbs?"
Drystan sighed, and levered herself to her feet, joining Connor at the door to the captain's cabin. Turning back to Edward, she met his sour look with one of her own.
"Captain," she acknowledged him, and then she followed Connor out of the room to the deck, and then down below. Only once they were safely ensconced in the relative privacy of the surgeon's cabin did she turn to Connor with a curious look. "Why do you hold yourself so stiffly?"
He gave a soft chuckle, and gestured to the surgeon's table in the middle of the room.
"Sit there. Mister Gibbs will return, soon," he said. She did as told, her stare unwavering. "I am in a similar predicament to your own."
Connor lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing a swath of heavy bandaging around his middle.
"The captain pulled me out of the sea a week ago," Connor told her quietly. "I had a dagger in my belly and was drowning. He saved my life." He let the fabric drop again, and tucked it back into his sash. "Now, I am as much a guest here as you are."
"A prisoner, you mean."
"You are free to leave at any time, once we make port," Connor replied with a look that made her frown slightly. "It seems, however, that we are not the only ones on this ship who have secrets. Edward has his own, and is holding something of mine until I am well enough to have it back. I thought I would try to learn as much as possible before I leave. You would be wise to do the same."
Drystan pondered that for a moment. Could she really trust these men? Sure, they had kept her gender a secret from the rest of the crew, to no benefit of their own, but for how long? How long would that secret serve them before they would sell it to the highest bidder, or the interrogator with the dullest knife? Connor, at least, seemed to be a man of honor, but there was no telling how he had come to be in the ocean as he had claimed. But still, of all the people on this ship, he seemed to be the most trustworthy.
"Rhian."
Connor blinked, turning back to her from where he had gone to fetch bandages in preparation for Mister Gibbs's use.
"Excuse me?" he asked with a confused frown. She looked up at him, pondering.
"My real name," she said. "Rhian Yates. But you can't tell anyone else."
Connor smiled slightly, and nodded.
"Connor. Connor Kenway. And you cannot tell, either."
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.
Welsh Translations:
Cach - Shit
Spanish Translations:
¿Hable másdespacio, por favor? - Speak more slowly, please?
Losiento - I'm sorry.
¡No teacerques! - Don't come any closer!
¿Tu eres unasesino? - You're an Assassin?
Pero tueresunpirata. ¿Cómo? - But you're a pirate. How?
¡Estás vivo! - You're alive!
Sí,hermanito, y tutambién. - Yes, little brother, and you also.
Hermanito - Little brother
Elcapitán - The captain
Eduardo - Edward
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-Scribe