Sum of Memories
Chapter 9: Memories.
"I'm losing it. I think I'm really starting to lose it."
July 30, 1715.
Fog. Fog, fog, foggity-fog. Fog, rolling and pitching, and heat, burning, and burning and burning. He was burning. From time to time, he thought he saw people he knew. His strong mother, one of the stubborn Cymry through and through, worn and tired after raising him and his three older sisters and his older two brothers and watching her other three babies die, but still ready with a smile at every turn. His solemn English father, a drunkard by evening who was always heavy-handed in every aspect of his life, willing to hit those who annoyed him, but a hard worker nonetheless who did his best to keep his large family from starving. He had died on his son's seventeenth birthday, as he recalled. The first girl he had ever kissed, dark hair curling through his fingers and dark eyes twinkling. His beautiful, beloved wife, her scent, her laugh, her broad, toothy smile, the way she had felt around him as they had made love again and again and again until they were both exhausted and sated and so in love, her anger, her joy, the way she looked when her cheeks flushed with exertion and emotion as they danced at harvest-time back home. His old overseer, a hard man who had allowed him to marry his daughter but who had never approved of his wastrel son-in-law. The captain of the first ship on which he had ever served.
Dimly, he recalled that he had been 18 the first time he had gone to sea. It had been after an argument with his wife, after he had lost his last job as a cooper for punching a man who had insulted him by questioning his Welsh mother's fidelity to his father. His wife had thrown him out, calling him worthless and inconstant and irresponsible, and he had gone down to one of the waterfront pubs to drown his anger and misery in ale. It had been there, in the early hours just before dawn, that he had heard the sailors talking about the war with Spain, and heard them talking about Captain William Kidd, and the spark that he had nursed in his heart since his youngest childhood days, that desire for fortune and fame, had flared again. The need to prove his worth to his wife had blazed up with a ferocity that seared his soul. He had almost gone over and joined up with them then and there. Then he had remembered how his wife had said just that morning that her courses had not yet come, and he remembered that he needed to be there for her in case she was with child.
His mind drifted. The memory of that night floated up, foggy but crystal-clear at the same time. Some of the details were hazy: he could half-remember how the pub had smelled of smoke and piss and vomit, how bitter the ale had tasted on his tongue, how the rushes had crunched and squelched beneath his boots as he had walked through the pub on his way out the door to return to his wife. Other things were needle-sharp, like the way it had felt as one burly man had grabbed him by the left arm and another by his right, the way they had clubbed him with a baton when he had tried to pull out of their grasp, the gravel in one man's voice as he had told him to "Be proud, you're about to become a sailor in the Royal Navy." He remembered with stark clarity the way they had dragged him out into the street in the early dawn and headed towards the wharf despite his snarled threats and curses and pleas. He had seen her as they had clubbed him again, and blood had drifted into his eyes as she had shrieked a denial and had run towards him. He had murmured her name, dazedly pulling towards her, and had received another blow for his efforts; the impact had made stars explode in his vision and had made his knees go weak as his head spun. He had listened to his wife's shouts and pleas, listened to her demand his release. He had managed to wrench out of his captors' grips and lurch over to her, grabbing her, feeling it as she clung to him and sobbed into his chest. He had whispered her name over and over again, heard it as she had pleaded with him not to go, as she begged the members of the press gang not to take him, threatened to kill or castrate them all if they took him. It had been no use. Two of the men had seized him before more than a moment had passed, and when he tried to wrench away and run again, they had dealt him a staggering blow to the temple. It had sent him to his knees, limp in his captors' grasp. The blood in his mouth had been copper and iron and water, sick and sweet and bitter all at once. He had seen tears streaming down his wife's face. The ringing in his ears had been too loud to hear her words, by then, but he had been able to make out that she was screaming his name as she struggled to reach him, yelling for somebody to help them.
But nobody had come to his aid. He had been dragged away, dazed, unable to keep his feet. By the next day, they had been at sea, and he had not seen his wife for another year. The letters that he had managed to send had been infrequent at best. Like most people of his class, he was illiterate; it had been a chore to first find someone who could write, and then have them write out the words he had trouble bringing to his tongue. What could he say to her that she did not already know? How could he ever tell her how sorry he was for leaving her, for arguing with her, for being so flighty and inconstant and irresponsible that he was unable to keep a job or be a good husband to her?
So he had always written inquiring about her health, about how her pregnancy was progressing, had wondered if she was making enough money to live comfortably, if she had gone to her father like she should if he were ever removed from the picture. He had asked how his mother was faring, how his brothers and sisters were doing. He had inquired after her father. He had told her that he missed her more than words could express, that he would see her when they returned. He informed her of their next destination, so that she could write back to him. He had confessed to her about the life at sea, how he was learning more than he had ever thought possible about seafaring and cooperage, how his few skills as an ex-cooper were coming in handy, how he was learning to navigate from the ship's master, with whom he had bonded rather quickly. He told her how he might be able to rise in rank sometime soon, if he kept learning as quickly as he was. He wrote about the storms they faced, how it always felt as though he would be blown straight from the rigging whenever he went up during a gale, but how it was stunningly beautiful at the same time, utterly breathtaking in its cold fury. He regaled her with stories about the crew, the songs they sang, the superstitions they held, the camaraderie that bound them tightly together. He laughed to her about how ill he had been the first few days at sea, how none of them, himself included, ever cut their hair or nails at sea for the fear that it would bring calamitous storms down upon them, how it was lucky to see a porpoise and unlucky to kill one, how black cats carried gales in their tails, and how they killed any rats they saw leaving a ship to prevent misfortune.
All these things and more, he had written about to her. Her replies had been even more infrequent than his were, but whenever he did receive a letter in a foreign port, it was always with the greatest thrill that he listened to the words that his literate shipmates read to him and committed them to memory.
She was doing well, her pregnancy was progressing perfectly, her father had gotten a tooth pulled and discovered that he had an ulcer, but he was otherwise well, and she had gone to live with him after the night at the wharf. He was as excited to be a grandfather as she was to be a mother. She told him how her belly had begun to swell and round, how the baby had kicked for the first time, how she could feel him- she knew it was a boy, somehow- toss and turn whenever she lay down to sleep. She told him that their son would be as restless of heart as his father. She informed him that his widowed Welsh mother was being courted by a well-to-do English carpenter who was sober as a priest and fair in his dealings. His eldest sister had just given birth to her third child, his eldest brother had gotten a job as a clerk, his other brother had graduated to a journeyman blacksmith, his second-oldest sister had become maidservant to a noblewoman, and his third sister had begun courting a young farrier. She confessed that she missed him, but that his lively tales and anecdotes and his thoughtful musings made it seem as though she was right there with him, living his life alongside him, and she asked him to keep doing the same.
He had been eight months at sea when he received the letter that told him that she had lost the baby.
He dimly remembered the numbness that had overtaken him, remembered the disbelief, the denial, the confusion, the anger, and then, after all of that, the crushing pain that had driven him to his knees, unable to breathe. He did not remember what the man reading to him had done, but he did recall waking in his hammock, feverish and sick and delirious with worry. He recalled how he had gone up on deck that night and stood at the gunwale, staring down into the black waters below him, wondering what it would be like to just jump off and let the ocean take him. He had wondered if it would be a quick death or if it would take a long time for him to drown. He had wondered if it would be as painful as knowing that his child was dead.
That had been how the captain, George Howe, had found him.
Dark-haired Howe had been a seafarer since his boyhood. As the younger son of a lesser nobleman, he had gone aboard his first ship at the tender age of nine as a midshipman, and had worked his way up the ranks from then on. He was a disciplined man and firm, but not unkind, and he treated all of his crew with respect. They followed orders and conducted themselves properly and with the discipline he expected. He had been fond of playing the violin. In his dealings he was fair, fairer than many men. He never handed out punishments lightly, never flogged someone for his amusement, never mistook levity for insubordination or misconduct, and his men loved him for it. It did not hurt that he was a damn good seafarer and tactician, also. They had won many engagements and remained alive in several impossible situations because of his ingenuity, resourcefulness, experience, and quick thinking.
He had learned a lot from that captain.
But it was when he was standing there, feverishly contemplating the prospect of suicide, that the captain had come to stand by him, silent but for the quiet humming of a tune that was popular back home. Howe had stood there with him for a good hour before he had really noticed Howe's presence.
"Do you need anything, sir?" he had asked, giving a wobbly salute. Howe had eyed him with some slight concern.
"No," Howe had replied at length. "I need nothing but to know your mind."
He had not made an answer for quite some time. His gaze had returned to the black waters beneath, watching the slight changes in hue as the waves shifted against the hull.
"It would be so easy to lose oneself in the waves, sir," he had whispered finally. "The ocean is a powerful mistress, and she has been good to me, to us all." He had paused. "But there was never a time such as now when I have wished more than anything that I was with my wife at home… and never wanted to return, at the same time."
The captain had nodded slowly, turning his eyes to the wet darkness.
"Do you miss her?" the captain had asked. It had taken him a moment to coax his numb lips into motion.
"She was to birth our first child next month," he had confessed dully. "In her latest letter, she informs me that she has lost the baby."
His throat had closed up. Heat had welled in his eyes to match his fever-flushed face. The captain had said nothing for nearly a half-hour, and he had not wanted to speak again. When Howe had finally turned back to him, his cheeks had been damp, and he had been unable to look at his superior for the grief and shame inside of him.
"The ocean is a good mistress, Kenway," Howe had said. "But her cold arms can never match the warmth of the embrace of one's wife, nor is her kiss as sweet as a wife's lips, nor her voice as kind. The ocean is more fickle and inconstant than a wife can ever be, and jealous besides." He had turned back to the sea, then. "Think of these things before you seek her embrace, for once you fall into her arms and take her abed, she will never let you go back to your wife."
The image of his wife's face had floated before his mind, then, and he had turned his face away from his captain as the tears streaked his cheeks, unable to breathe for the tightness of his throat. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead after only a moment; his fever had spiked so that he had nearly passed out. It had only been once he had opened his eyes again to find that he had folded to the deck and that Howe was holding him upright by the shoulders, that he had realized that he was on his last legs, and that if he ever wanted to see his wife again, he needed to live.
Above all things, he needed to live. For her.
The captain had personally helped him back down to his hammock and, after he was safely ensconced in the swaying fabric, Howe had laid his hand on his sweating forehead.
"You made the right choice, lad," Howe had said. "You made the right choice. Now you keep fighting, and you never let that dark sea drag you down again. Be strong, swim hard."
He had never forgotten George Howe's words. When he had finally made it back to England a full year after he had been pressed into service, he had met his wife with a desperate embrace full of relief and hurt and love and longing and regret.
The baby had been a boy after all, she had told him later that night after they had made love, and they had wept together for the son who they had never known.
They had resumed their lives, after that. He had gotten a job as a cooper, had taken to avoiding the waterfront at all costs, and had tried his best to be a dutiful husband in all respects. His wife had, at first, been thrilled with his seeming newfound responsibility and devotion. For a time, they had been content, if not entirely happy.
But then, he had lost his job. His supervisor had died, and the business had gone under due to the new owner's inability to manage things properly. He had not been able to find another job until nearly a month later, and then he had lost that one, as well, because he had been unable to keep from smarting off to his arrogant overseer. His wife's father had passed away that summer, so that recourse was gone.
He had flitted from one employment to the next, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his jobs, and soon, he and his wife had begun arguing again. Before long, he had felt that old sense of impotent worthlessness grow within him once more. It had taken up residence deep within his heart, where it festered like an open sore, the scab ripping open again and again each and every time he found himself unemployed. Now, more than ever, he wanted to be able to support his wife, prove to her and the rest of his family that he could make something of himself.
It was around that time that he had realized that he would never amount to anything if he stayed on land. At least at sea he had been able to make a living for his wife and her father, if nothing else, and he and the crew he had served with had won some measure of renown, as well.
He wanted to be somebody. Not just another face in the crowd.
So he had joined up with the Royal Navy again. The two months' bonus pay he had gotten for voluntarily signing on had gone towards paying off the debts that he and his wife had incurred over the past few months, and he had sailed with the next man-o-war to leave the harbor.
Interestingly enough, it was captained by the same man he had sailed under the last time.
Unfortunately, it had only been a matter of six months before the Treaties of Utrecht had negated all need for privateers in the West Indies, and he had found himself out of a job yet again. Captain Howe had gone to live in the Colonies with his wife. He, however, had decided not to return home in defeat this time. He had decided to win glory and riches without the King's consent. That had been a difficult letter to send to his wife.
She had informed him, in the return letter, that he had better not return to her again, and that even though she missed him, he was dead to her for her own protection. Five months later, she had informed him that she had borne him a daughter.
He had been the happiest man alive, when he had heard that news. But then the pain of realization had set in as it had dawned upon him that he would never meet the girl, his girl. Not when he could not set foot in a respectable port due to his actions and affiliations. Soon after, he had taken the Jackdaw in a mutiny, and that had been the true beginning of his pirating career.
But the fog was back again, swallowing up his memories. Edward Kenway drifted yet again.
Then there was her. That girl. He could dimly recall laughing, seafoam-green eyes and there was an impression of blue, and red and warmth and trust. For some reason, an image of her flashed before his mind's eye, standing over him while holding a gun to his head. He wondered what it meant. With it came the thought of man and darkness and family. Another image flashed through his hazy, scattered thoughts: the man kissing the girl in the shadows, silhouetted against a soft yellow light. That imagining brought with it a pang of jealousy so strong that it made his stomach roll. Without really remembering, he remembered coughing and dizziness and water and pain, pain, pain. He did not know what had happened after that.
But what did it matter? That was then, and the then had no bearing on the now. Edward let the memories go, and let himself drift yet again.
Several times, he thought he saw rich, fertile green fields of rolling grass. A stream cut through the picture, at which deer drank their fill. In the distance was a fertile orchard, the boughs of the trees heavy with fruit. Beneath his bare feet, the earth was damp and dark. The sunlight was always warm on his skin, the breeze the softest kiss of his dearest lover. He never wanted to leave.
But every time he thought he might be able to stay, he would hear voices, and darkness would close over him once more. Darkness, broken by sporadic bursts of fire and ice. It hurt so much that he wished he was dead. But after those frigid infernos came long stretches of that warm, comfortable darkness again. Gradually, he became aware that the bouts of fire and ice were becoming rarer. He did not know how he knew this; there was no way to mark the time in the black gulf that surrounded him. But as he drifted, he simply knew that there were fewer times that he felt as though he was burning, and longer stretches when he thought that it had all ended.
Maybe it had all ended.
Maybe he was dead.
A bolt of fire shot through his body. Maybe not.
And then, suddenly, there was light. Light, and pain, and he felt like he was burning. Edward gasped for air around the aches and shivered through the heat, sweat running in rivers down his face. He could not see clearly. Everything was blurry. Within him, his stomach churned uncomfortably. It felt like he could not breathe.
His lungs seized; he choked, and white-hot pain swarmed him until he could not tell up from down or left from right. All there was was the horrible, burning agony, consuming him wholly.
For an eternity, it was his entire world.
Then there came a soothing, cooling feeling, and he gasped in both shock and relief before the choking returned. He tasted metal. Something moved on his lower back, something blessedly cold and tender. Eventually, he was able to make out the sound of what sounded like music. The touch on his back gradually resolved into the sensation of someone's palm, gently rubbing circles there, and he felt someone stroking his hair, also. The low, murmuring cadence of a voice met his ears. It was rhythmic, and much slower than his heaving lungs would allow him to follow. He latched onto that soothing sound and touch. Focusing on them was easier than trying not to panic at the way he could not stop coughing.
There was blood in his mouth.
The voice took on a slightly sharp edge for a moment, and he felt his heart leap as fear spiked through him. Then it became calm again, and he calmed in response. As the low, rhythmic murmur continued, he focused on it more and more, unconsciously matching his breathing to its pattern. Soon, he had stopped choking altogether. He slumped, exhausted, against the soft surface beneath him, breathing wet but steadied. Wearily, he cracked open his blurry eyes to try to find the source of the sound and touch that had calmed him.
But everything was too indistinct and he could see almost nothing. There was a blur in front of his face, but past that was a haze of darkness and brown. Blinking slowly, he dully wondered where he was, and what the blur was.
Then it moved, and he saw red. The red stirred a memory inside of him. It was a memory of trust and hurt and camaraderie and betrayal and hope and friendship.
"Dr'ssn," he mumbled hoarsely, willing his unresponsive lips to move. They would not cooperate, however, and neither would his limbs when he tried to lift a hand to his companion. The soothing voice from earlier met his ears, shushing him gently.
"Hush," she said. That was not Drystan. The voice was too high and smooth. It was supposed to be lower, rougher, and manlier.
It took him a moment to realize that she was speaking in her natural register.
"Don't try to talk," she told him quietly, and he felt someone stroke his hair again. Dimly, he realized that Drystan was the one who was doing it. "You've been unconscious for ten days. We were beginning to fear that you weren't going to wake." Her touch vanished for a moment. When she put her hands on him again, he felt something cool trail across his hot skin.
He blinked slowly in her direction, brain sluggishly going through what he had just learned. So, he was still alive, after all. It seemed as though he was back in the company of friends, or at least allies.
Thass righ'. Th'attack. B'tray'l.
Drystan.
"You… b'tray'd…" He could not form the words properly, and the small effort that he had made left him exhausted. She shushed him again.
"Don't talk," she reminded him. "I'll explain everything once you're stronger. Until then, I'll tell you this: we escaped from Lieutenant Maynard, scuttled one of his ships, and crippled the other. Connor is currently acting as Captain, as Gregson is very ill at the moment and Gibbs has his hands full with the sick and wounded. We're en route to Nassau as we speak." She touched his forehead, and he moaned deliriously, leaning into her cool palm with delight. "You're a very sick man, Kenway."
He gave a timid little cough, wary of how it very well might trigger a fit to rival the earlier one that had woken him.
"Gr'sson," he mumbled.
"Broken leg," Drystan replied, removing her palm from his forehead. A second later, she put it back to his skin, holding something cool and wet there. A damp cloth, he surmised. "Gibbs says he might have to take it if it turns gangrene."
"Cach," Edward muttered, and Drystan gave a strained laugh.
"Glad to hear you can still swear, Kenway," she chuckled, and he was startled to realize that he heard a profound relief in her voice. "Do you think you can stay awake a little longer? Connor wanted to see you."
He murmured a half-coherent acquiescence, and Drystan vanished from his side. Edward closed his eyes, bone-weary. Another cough escaped him. Thankfully, it did not turn into a fit, but it was still painful. He grimaced. A moment later, Drystan returned, and with her came the cool cloth for his head. He grunted and leaned drowsily into her touch. They were silent for a long time. Then Edward gave a little sigh and cracked his eyes open, looking hazily over at her. His vision was clearer, this time, and he could see her more easily. Her auburn hair was hanging limply around her ears, damp as though freshly washed. Her skin, though still tan, was paler than he remembered; there were dark circles beneath her tired, seafoam-green eyes.
Those eyes were what caught his attention.
Aside from being completely bloodshot and shadowed, those orbs were red-rimmed. Even as he watched, they glistened wetly, and she gave him a strained little smile. He could tell that she was happy that he was awake. However, he could also see that she was worried sick.
"'M dyin'," he guessed weakly as he gave a slow blink and groaned as he felt the fires in his body flare again. He clenched his eyes shut and gasped for breath through the intense heat, shaking with the effort. Drystan gave a little gasp and a moment later, more coolness was spread across his back and legs. Something cold was pressed into each armpit; he heard a sloshing sound.
"You're not dying, rhocyn," she intoned firmly, and her cool hand returned to his forehead. "You can't die on us, not now. Might feel like it, for a while, but you're goin' to live."
He grunted faintly, struggling to breathe. It was becoming easier, but it was still alarming and uncomfortable to be so warm. Drystan was silent for a long moment. Edward opened his eyes again to look up at her. There was so much sadness on her face that he almost risked the pain just to try to cheer her up again. But she opened her mouth to speak, first, and he found himself transfixed by her lips.
Idly, he wondered how he had never noticed, before, how pink they were. Pink, and plump, and entirely too feminine and kissable for the face of the boy that she pretended to be. He watched them move as she talked.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. He dizzily watched the play of light across her skin, taking in the gentle curve of her neck where it sloped down to her shoulder, the curve of her cheek, the graceful arch of her auburn eyebrows. His gaze slowly traveled down from there, to the delicate shells of her ears and the red ringlets that framed them, to the column of her throat, and down from there to where, he realized, she had removed her jacket and waistcoat, for once, leaving her in a simple woolen shirt. She had left the collar untied, and he could see a slim triangle of pale flesh where it disappeared beneath the opaque fabric. At the V of the part, he could just barely make out the valley between her breasts where they had been pushed up by her bindings. Even further south, he took in the shapely suppleness of her trim waist, both accentuated and hidden by the red sash tied around her wide hips. Her thighs were indistinguishable beneath her loose breeches; past where they ended at her knees, he could see a shapely pair of strong, supple calves and two almost dainty feet. Even her arms were sleek and trim. When he had cared for her after the fiasco in Havana, he had been able to feel the steely muscle beneath the thin layer of her skin, and though she did not have the bulk that he, Connor, or any of the other men on board had, he knew that her slender form was deceptively delicate, hiding a strength that could be terrifying if used correctly.
How had he never noticed all of this before now?
"Kenway?" Her question was the barest of whispers. It took a moment for it to penetrate the haze of his musings, and he blinked slowly before returning his gaze to hers. Drystan gave him a tight little smile. "Did you hear me?"
He grunted, blinking slowly as his exhaustion began to creep up on him again.
"I said I'm sorry," she repeated, and he glanced up to her. "For everything that's happened. I'm sorry."
Edward sighed softly.
"Sh'up," he slurred, closing his eyes. "Talk you la'er."
Drystan was quiet for a moment. Then he heard her sigh.
"All right," she whispered.
Edward was drowsing again before he realized that she had spoken. As he began to drift off, he distantly heard a voice begin to sing.
"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal.
O na bawn i yno fy hunan,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal.
Dacw'r tŷ, a dacw'r 'sgubor;
Dacw ddrws y beudy'n agor.
Ffaldi radl didl dal, ffaldi radl didl dal,
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal…"
Who is that? he wondered as his thoughts hazed. It's beautiful. Everything faded, then, and his musings went unanswered.
Edward slept.
"Has he said anything?" Connor's blunt question interrupted Rhian's soft singing, and she paused, turning enough to glance at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Nothing much," she answered, shrugging pathetically. She sighed and slumped forward, one hand pressing a damp cloth to Edward's pale forehead where his face was turned towards her, and the other rubbing her temples as she leaned heavily on her knee. "He recognized me, and asked after Gregson once I told him why you're the acting captain. He remembered that I'd betrayed you all. He also asked if he's dying, so that should say something about how he's feeling."
Connor said nothing more, just crossed the room to stand over Edward for a moment, looking down at the older man. Rhian watched him with wary sadness, inwardly lamenting the cold distance with which Connor now treated her. Ever since that day when she had stood over him on the Jackdaw's deck and held a pistol to Edward's head, Connor had viewed her as the traitor she had become.
More than anything, Rhian wished that they had their easy friendship back. She knew, though, that it would never happen.
She would be lucky if they let her live, after her actions.
"What of Estevan and the others?" she asked softly. "Have you decided what to do with them?"
Connor shook his head. "It is not for me to decide their fates."
Rhian gave a little sigh.
"Edward is unable to make a decision," she commented. "And I, of course, have no place to advise you. I doubt you'd believe me anyway, even if I told you my side of things."
Connor was still for a moment. Then he turned to her, tawny golden eyes calculating and cold. Rhian quailed inwardly and longed for the warmth that used to linger in them.
"I said that it is not for me to decide their fates," he repeated. Rhian nodded and looked away. "Therefore, I have decided to maroon them before we reach Nassau."
Rhian blinked, wondering if she had really heard the words. She turned slowly towards Connor, only to find him staring down at Edward again. The man on the cot gave a weak cough, the fever-flush bright in his pale cheeks. Not for the first time in the past half-hour, Rhian found her gaze drawn to Edward's back, covered in bandages and damp cloths alike. The gaping hole in his back where a shiver from an exploding ship had impaled him was covered with stewed tobacco leaves to make it drain properly. It had become infected shortly into his captivity after Lieutenant Robert Maynard had refused to allow Gibbs to properly treat Edward. Then there were the gouges in Edward's shoulders, souvenirs from his close encounter with the Jackdaw's keel 10 days past. Those had not become infected, as of yet, but it was still worrying. Edward had been weak with fever and sickness when they had keelhauled him. The poorly-executed death sentence had reaped a heavy toll.
"You're going to maroon them?" she asked quietly, pulling her hand away from Edward's hot forehead in favor of rewetting the cloth from the lukewarm bucket of water at her feet. She squeezed the rag out and, taking one of the cloths from his back, set the fresh one where that had been and rewet the warm one. She repeated the process until the cloths had all been replaced, from his shoulders to his naked bottom to his thighs and calves. The last one, she pressed against his forehead.
"I am," Connor replied, taking a second to pull the wadded towels from Edward's armpits and rewet those, also. "They will be left to fend for themselves. If someone comes along and decides to take them on, then they will live. If not, then they will die."
Rhian nodded slowly, not removing her eyes from Edward's prone form.
"A simple enough solution," she murmured. "You'll make a fine pirate, yet, boyo."
"A pirate, no," Connor replied firmly. He turned to leave the cabin. "We will reach Nassau in six days. If Edward is lucid by then, then he will decide what to do with you. If not, then you shall be left in the port to find your own way."
Rhian accepted the judgment with a sinking heart. She had no doubt that she could find employment on another ship, take care of herself, and possibly even barter passage to the Colonies or to England. However, doing so would remove her from the only people she had come to care for since she had been separated from Cadell at the signing-on years beforehand. She would lose her friends for good.
"I understand." She lowered her head into her free hand yet again, feeling sick. "I suppose that's fair enough."
As she heard Connor depart, however, the words surged up before she could stop them.
"I'm sorry," she said, and heard him pause. Rhian turned her gaze to her former friend, feeling the grief with her entire being. "You were the truest friend I've ever had, Connor, and I'm sorry that I failed you so badly and in so many ways."
When he did not reply or react in any way, Rhian turned her stare back to the floor between her feet. She felt like crying. The cabin door thudded closed behind Connor, and Rhian's breath hitched before she could contain the sound. She pressed her forehead harder into her palm, wishing she could hold back the tears that were welling in her eyes by sheer pressure alone.
Rhian had always hated crying. It made her feel useless, helpless and impotent. She had learned early on that crying would get her nothing in life; for years, she had buried everything deep, deep inside where it could not escape. But now, faced with the loss of everything she had come to love and cherish, Rhian found she could no longer hold back the tears.
God, but she could not bear it.
A hand landed on her shoulder. Rhian jumped and spun around, hands flying up to defend herself.
It was Connor.
As she sat there, staring dumbly up at him with dampness on her face, Connor set his hand back on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. It took a second for Rhian to realize what was happening. Then she reached up and wrapped her hand around his strong, brown palm, taking the comfort that he was offering as the tears streamed forth in earnest. Grimacing as her head started pounding for the second time that day, Rhian bowed her head and supported it with the heel of her unoccupied hand. The cloth from Edward's forehead slid, forgotten, to the cot beside his head.
Connor just stood there, silent, as her breath hitched quietly and she allowed herself to cry, just this once.
August 4, 1715.
"Would ye hold still, lad?" Gibbs glared at Edward as the younger man shifted once again. "I can' stitch it up if ye don' 'old still." He glanced over at Drystan where the boy was sitting miserably on a stool beside the cot. "Or maybe I'll get Drystan ta sit on ye. I'm bettin' 'e'd e'en like it, some."
Edward fidgeted again as the needle began to descend towards his skin. Drystan watched him shudder, watched Gibbs growl, and seemed to decide to intervene. The boy got to his feet and placed his hand on the back of Edward's head, pushing down gently. Edward, in return, growled ferociously as his face was pressed into the pillow. Then, when Drystan let up slightly, he turned his head to the side so that he could glare up at the boy in question.
"What the cach do you think you're-?"
Drystan pushed down again. Edward's question was muffled in the side of his own tattooed right arm where it had previously been propping up his head.
"You be quiet, Captain," Drystan instructed, "and this'll go a lot faster and be much more painless."
One ocean-blue eye blazed up at her as Edward seethed silently, but he was unable to muster the strength to pull free. Drystan placed his other palm at the base of Edward's neck, and pressed down there, immobilizing him from the shoulders up. Then the young man turned to Gibbs and nodded.
"You may proceed, Mister Gibbs," he informed him. Gibbs nodded to the younger pirate and quickly set to work, washing the wounds in Edward's shoulders and stitching them up with an efficiency born of long practice. There were five in total that were deep enough that they would have to be stitched; the others were mere scratches. As Gibbs finished up almost an hour later, he chanced a glance at Drystan's solemn features.
The boy looked utterly heartsick.
Edward had finally been more or less lucid when he had awoken the day before, and had been even more lucid with each consecutive awakening. Gibbs had watched as Drystan had withdrawn into himself the more aware Edward had become. Honestly, Gibbs had no idea what had happened between the two of them, aside from the obvious. He figured that Drystan was probably just getting a little nervous about having to account for his actions.
Speaking of which, Gibbs had no idea exactly what had happened. It had seemed, at first, as though Drystan had turned traitor on all of them; he had held a gun to a wounded Edward's head and helped the British privateers take the Jackdaw and her crew captive. But then, he had come to them in the hold one evening with medical supplies for Edward, seemingly at risk to himself. Gibbs had watched from a dark corner as Drystan had first threatened Connor, and then, to Gibbs's shock, kissed the taller, darker man full on the mouth. Even more to Gibbs's shock, it had seemed as though Connor had liked it.
Funny, he had always figured Connor for a tits man.
At any rate, Drystan had then left them for another five days. The day that Gibbs and Gregson had dragged an unconscious Edward to the weather deck for execution, Gibbs had thought that it was all over. Edward would be killed, and then Gibbs, Gregson, and the rest of the crew would be hanged upon arrival at Port Royal.
Edward had just been dragged over to the gunwale to have his ankles weighted when Gibbs had seen the movement on the deck of the H.M.S. Sophie. He had looked over to the other ship just in time to see a familiar, auburn-haired figure set fire to the sails and rigging. Gibbs had turned back to Edward just in time to see the Jackdaw's captain go overboard, tied to the main yard and ankles weighted, an oiled gag in his mouth. It had been then that the cries of alarm rang out across the Jackdaw's deck, and the British sailors had gazed with disbelief and alarm over at the Sophie as she had begun burning in earnest. At that time, chaos erupted on the Jackdaw's deck.
The Jackdaws had had enough. Each and every pirate there had seized weapons from the distracted sailors and merchant marines, or drawn out or picked up any flotsam that they had managed to pilfer in the past 18 days. As the Jackdaws had begun the assault on the Sophies, Gibbs had watched as Connor had appeared from the rigging, running out along the main yard until he reached where Edward's line was tied to the wooden post. He had swiftly cut the line, and then Gibbs had watched in astonishment as the dark man had taken a dive overboard, most likely to retrieve Edward's body.
The revolt had been short-lived. Lieutenant Maynard and the crew of the Sophie had abandoned ship rather quickly, all things considered. They had fled to the other surviving British ship, the H.M.S. Rose (neither the first ship nor the last of that name), and the Jackdaws had quickly set sail to wind and high-tailed it out of the area. The rudder-chain of the Rose must have been disabled, because she did not pursue them.
Drystan had come aboard again at that time, dry from having stolen a longboat from the Sophie before it went up in flames. With him was the brown-haired man who had stood behind him at the capture, as well as the six or so Spaniards that they had taken from the schooner well over a month before. The brown-haired man was holding a pair of pistols on the six Spaniards, who looked collectively displeased. And, when they hauled Connor and Edward up on deck a few minutes later, Gibbs had been astonished to find that Edward was still alive. Barely, but he was.
Even more astonishing had been Drystan's reaction to Edward's new injuries. The boy had dropped to his knees beside the captain, stroking his blond hair back from his face and murmuring to him, entreating him to start breathing again. Once they had started him breathing on his own again, they had taken Edward into his cabin and Gibbs, after retrieving his supplies, had gone in to treat the blond man.
It had been strange to see the blatant worry on Drystan's face during the treatment. After getting used to the boy's sarcasm and stoicism, Gibbs had had to wonder if the concern he saw there was real, or if it was feigned to curry favor. He even wondered if Drystan's worry had not been born of guilt for betraying them. He had left the room after the treatment and a biting criticism, but Drystan's demeanor and words had made him think. Over the 15 days that had passed since then, he had observed the boy closely, closer even than when he was looking after him those first few days after he had been stabbed in the stomach during the capture of the Spanish schooner.
What he had begun to suspect startled him, but if he was right, it would make a lot of things make sense.
Drystan was a woman. Gibbs did not know how he had not noticed it before. He supposed that the boy- girl- had had years to learn how to successfully hide his- her- gender, and a healthy dose of paranoia had helped that along quite nicely.
Firstly, he had noticed the emotions he- she- had begun displaying. There was the tenderness upon hi- her face whenever h- she looked at Edward or Connor. Then, there was the grace with which she moved. She probably did not even notice it, but she moved with the grace of a woman even when she was trying hard to imitate a man. Oh, certainly, it was a very subtle thing; she had had years of practice to learn how to move, after all. She was so good at it that she had fooled not only all of the Jackdaws, but also the Spanish crew of the schooner for the two years before her capture by the pirates, and God only knew how long she had tricked her English crew before she had been taken as a captive by the Spanish. So, she had been practicing at being a man for at least two or three years before now, if not longer. It was no wonder that she had fooled all but the closest of observers. She even spoke like a man, lowering the register of her voice in such a way that it roughened it and made her sound like a fresh-faced young man.
Third was the blood. Gibbs had noticed it occasionally in the months since they had taken her aboard, but he had always attributed it to her still-healing wound, figuring that she had packed the cloths under her bandages to soak up the excess blood. But now that he thought about it, he realized that he had never seen any bulges over her abdomen that would have indicated that she had packed extra bandages onto her wounded stomach. That, of course, only left one other use that he could think of that she would have for them. She must have been careless the few times he had found the rags, because otherwise he had seen no signs at all that she had needed them. She had almost never been moody (except for when Edward did something to get under her skin; Connor somehow never managed to really upset her), never complained of pain or cramping, and had never asked for any time to rest or sleep like other women might have done. Certainly, she had been quiet and contemplative, and had confessed to being tired once or twice, but he had attributed that to her personality and her wound, respectively.
Honestly, Gibbs was quite impressed by how well she had hidden her situation.
Now, as he watched Drystan fuss quietly over the dressings on Edward's back, Gibbs watched the play of emotions on her face- how could he have not noticed, before, how feminine her features were?- and realized, to his amusement, that she was not acting out of guilt. Or, if she was, then the guilt was only a small portion of the emotions running through her.
She had become attached to the captain.
Gibbs could see it, now that he was looking for it. The little, lingering touches, the gentle way that she handled the dressings, the tenderness with which she calmed Edward even when he was attempting to be contrary on purpose… it all added up to one thing.
Drystan held some deep-seated affection for the Jackdaw's captain. And, unless Gibbs was mistaken, Edward had become rather fond of the girl, himself. He could not pinpoint the precise moment when it had happened; before this whole catastrophe with the British had begun, certainly, but even now Edward took her fussing in stride and even, perhaps, with a little gratitude. There was a look in the captain's eyes as he watched Drystan move that Gibbs had only ever seen before when Edward had spoken of his wife. It was a subtle thing, this look, and Edward probably did not even notice its presence, yet, himself, but it was there.
It was affection, pure and true. Not the lust that he had seen on Edward's scarred features countless times when he was in the company of a whore, and neither was it the look of aesthetic appreciation with which he had seen Drystan eye both Connor and Edward from time to time. Drystan, herself, probably did not notice it.
Edward, though he did not know it just yet, was falling in love with Drystan, and it was obvious that the girl had long since done the same, even though she probably did not know it, either. Gibbs could see it. He knew that Connor could see it. Gibbs would have to take bets with the darker man on how long it would take for the pair to notice.
Just judging by the way that Edward had calmed almost immediately beneath Drystan's touch a little while ago, Gibbs would stake his money on about three or four months, maybe sooner.
It would be interesting to see how it all turned out.
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
Cymry – The Welsh people
Rhocyn – laddie
Artwork created for Sum of Memories:
Teaser: You-?!: elvenwhitemage. deviantart dot com (backslash) art / Teaser - You - 396355309
How I've Missed You: elvenwhitemage. deviantart dot com (backslash) art / How - I - ve - Missed - You - 395417593
I tried to make Edward's situation a little more realistic, here, and add in a bit about the press gangs. After all, not everybody would join the British Navy voluntarily. I thought that having Edward pressed into service, first, and then later joining up of his own volition after discovering that the life suited him, made him seem a bit more down-to-earth. The song, Dacw Nghariad, is a traditional Welsh ballad. In my headcanon, it's Edward's favorite song.
A note on Press Gangs: In order to fill the quota of sailors in the Navy, sailors would often organize press gangs, or gangs of men who would, through trickery or force, "press" men into naval service.
A note on Edward's Illiteracy: Most people of Edward's economic and social class were unable to read.
Brought this over from my Tumblr (RevenantAvenger90) and DeviantART (ElvenWhiteMage) accounts.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed!
Things are starting to get crazy around here. Reviews will make me update faster. Please tell me what all you thought!
-Scribe