The cold water feels like a sledgehammer, instantly biting into my skin and pressing the air out of my lungs. Pain engulfs me as I gasp for air and swallow even more water while every bit of heat leaves my body, freezing my blood, my skin, my bones. An icy fist grasps my body and slowly closes around me, the dark water presses against every ich of my body and tenderly crushes me. My lungs have turned into a tight knot and refuse to take in any air while I sink into the bottomless sea. The weight of my opponent mercilessly pushes me deeper and deeper into the endless darkness, the sun's faint rays glistening on the surface above me growing weaker and weaker the further I sink. How strange it all looks from below, the light dancing with the water, stretching out its warm hand towards me yet I can't take it with the weight on me holding me down. Curtains of light in the water, as if someone cut the sun into ribbons and dropped them into the sea. I'm so terribly cold my limbs grow heavy and numb and my lungs scream for air that I can't give. I struggle against the heavy body on top of me, try to push it away and leave the pirate to his fate while I return to the living but he doesn't let me leave, ignores my silent plea and fear-stricken efforts to get him off of me. Someone has painted the water around me crimson, clouds of dark substance swirling in it until they dissolve. They remind me of the English tea Haytham used to drink every morning, the way the dark red paint swirls in the water is like someone pouring cold milk into a hot cup of black tea. At first, it resists the liquid, tries to isolate in clouds swirling round and round until it finally gives in and unifies with the water and becomes one. If I die, will I also become a part of the sea? Will my body dissolve and become food for other creatures down here? The world is red and full of pain. I struggle with all my might, push against the man's body, try to wriggle out from underneath him, clutch the handle of my sword but it's stuck and I can't seem to get it loose and there's more crimson now and I can barely see from all the paint. My mind is growing weary, it knows there is no way out and that I should just let go and sink until I reach the bottom of the sea and sleep there until time has no meaning. The water is gentle, it feels like floating on clouds, as steady as a mother's grasp on her child. But my instincts yell at me not to give up, to keep fighting and tearing and kicking and not to allow temptation to let me gasp for air. How my lungs scream for air, how they crave the satisfaction of that last, long inhale I keep denying myself. My limbs are weary from fighting the water, awfully exhausted by its strength. Blood rushes into my core in a desperate attempt to preserve some of the heat I once had in me. In the corner of my eye, the darkness is moving: quick, controlled motions. It grows and starts to take shape but I can't get myself to look at it any more, heart beating so fast it will jump out of my chest and leave me to die if I don't act soon. Eyelids heavy as lead, the salt burns and itches them, dries out my throat and scratches at my skin. Anger fighting numbness, what a stupid little girl I am. I should have stayed where I was, so desperate to prove myself that my life has any meaning. And now I shall pay the price and die in this cold grave, my body forever lost to the world. No funeral for Julie, no eternal rest on a hill among the other dead, no marble tombstone. The unknown Martin's identity I stole will be returned without no one ever knowing I took it in the first place. My ears are ringing so loudly now, shapes dancing around me. This can't be it, I don't want to die in such a dark and lonely place and dear God what is that?
I draw my knees to my chest and push myself away from the body and downward when the shadowy figure rams straight into it. The sun is suddenly blocked out by a massive streamlined body armoured with a set of triangular fins and a wide head, unforgiving jaws snapping shut and the water turns into blood and it pushes forward and takes the pirate with it while the water around it yields to its powerful fins and spins me around and I'm hurled against something solid, a striking pain in my back but my fingers grasp metal links of an enormous chain and they tug at it and push me upward, always a hand securely holding the metal while my vision threatens to fade to black and I stretch out my hand one last time and dig my fingers into the metal and pull myself to the glistening surface.
I gasp and spit at the same time, the salt burning in my throat but I rarely feel it. Drinking the air in big gulps feels like drinking cool water after spending days in the desert, I cough and retch and breathe and feel so painfully alive that I would laugh if it wasn't so difficult. The waves lift me up and down and I climb a bit higher so that I won't get pulled underwater again, the mere thought of it making my body shake with fear. Whatever might be up there in the sky, if at all, bluntly refused to let me die. I grasp the chain so tightly that my fingers are white as chalk, the ship's dark wooden hull rising in the water before me. The sun makes the water around me glisten like a thousand diamonds, a breath-taking sight I don't dare to look away from out of fear to discover it's not real. My heartbeat slowly steadies, the coughing less and less harsh and the air just as cool and delicious. Voices from above me, shouting and the tapping of feet on the deck but there's less screaming.
The rain has stopped.
Against all odds, I remain alive.
I'm freezing, the wind is still blowing as viciously as before and I know that however much I'd like to just stay here and hold on to this chain forever, I need to get back on deck. My fingers are already numbing. The ship is leaning towards me, the chain pulling it sideways. One of the cannonballs must have loosened the anchor. It caused me to fall and it simultaneously saved my life.
Attempting to shout for help proves fruitless, only making me cough more. My voice is gone, stolen by the salty depths. I will need to pull myself back up. Not far above me I spot the start of a ladder, built into the ship's side to make boarding from low piers easier. If the ship was fully horizontal, I'd have to climb up a few feet on the anchor chain to reach the first rung but its current position proves favourable to me. I wait for the next wave to lift me up again and, albeit hesitantly, slowly peel my cold fingers from the metal chain.
It takes three attempts, the weakness of my own hands surprises me and they slip away before I can grab the wood. I nearly let go the third time, partly out of surprise, partly because I can't seem to gain full control of my body. My fingertips feel strangely numb, as if touching the rough surface through layers of fabric when in reality there is nothing between them. I let the momentum of the next wave carry me further and fully let go of the anchor, grabbing a higher rung with my free hand while treading water with my legs. Suddenly I'm hanging in the air while the water retreats, the wind slicing into my flesh. Whimpering in pain, I try and pull myself up but my arms give out and I nearly let go again until the next wave reaches my waist and partly shields me from the merciless gusts. I quickly grab the next higher rung and draw my legs to my knees, my feet desperately looking for some kind of bump in the wood until I can reach high enough to push myself upward. Painfully slowly I climb higher and higher until the water fully yields me to the wind, its hungry fingers retreating from under my feet. I learn to estimate the time in between the wind's strongest blows and use it to my advantage, folding up as best as possible to protect the little bit of warmth still left in my core. There's the sound of feet above me, loud voices and shouting but there's less screaming and the metal clanging has stopped. Attempting to shout myself proves as useless as before, so I climb even further. God, how easy it would be to just let go now. Unclench my fingers, relax my tired limbs and just fall backwards. Even drowning is slowly losing its terror, a short discomfort and then nothingness. For some reason it's the sharks which keep me going. The thought of them circling below me, waiting for me to give in and fall and let them devour me makes me uncomfortable enough to grit my teeth and keep going. What would it feel like, being eaten piece by piece? What if they only took a foot or an arm off and I'd bleed to death? Unimaginable.
The voices are louder now, nearer. My hand reaches out again and there's the edge of the railing and I nearly laugh out loud again which proves a mistake because it only causes me to cough more, violently shaking and nearly losing my footing. Climbing a bit higher, I manage to reach over the railing even though I can't look over it now, fingers searching for something to hold on to. More coughing, I can't control it. My limbs shaking from the cold and exhaustion, the reality of it all threatening to catch up with me. I can't pull myself any higher, my last reserves beyond exhausted, all I can do is hang in the air cling onto the ship and try not to think about what's waiting below.
My throat is on fire, the salt has etched away on it and now every time I try to swallow it burns further and further. Splinters of wood digging into my hands and the wind throwing daggers at me. I won't be able to hold on much longer.
Something above me is blocking out the light, I raise my head and blink to sharpen my vision. A floating dark dot against the blue and grey of the sky. It disappears and I'm convinced it was just a figment of my imagination when it reappears again, joint by second one. A pair of heads, facing me. Muffled voices and flying hands, gestures I'm too tired to interpret. Something grabs my arm tightly and something else locks around my shoulder. They start pulling me upward, my feet slip off the wall and I scream in pain and fear and struggle against the hands but in the next instant my hip grazes the railing and I lose sight of the water because there's only sky above me, the mast with my nest slicing it in half. People left and right of me, staring down but their faces are blurry and shadowy, blended out by the midday sun. I gasp for air, the cough won't leave me be and the water I've swallowed keeps regurgitating, stomach acid and salt eating away at my throat and mouth. My hands rest on the steady wood of the deck, it's wet but I'm not willing to check if by water or blood.
Too many voices speaking at the same time, I can't pick out one to focus on so blur them all out. Someone touches my shoulder and I blink frantically in between coughs in order to see who it is. One of the crewmen, none I know by name but his face is familiar enough, even though someone seems to have slashed a blade across his brow. Blood has dripped into his eyebrows and beard, half of it dried into sticky brown clumps and some of it trickled into his left eye giving him a demonic appearance.
"Miss, can ye hear me?"
I squint my eyes together and try to nod in between another coughing fit, my attempt more or less successful.
He turns towards one of the other men surrounding us.
"Where's the Captain?"
I don't hear the other man's reply, he scurries off promptly, presumably to go fetch Shay. While I am relieved he's still alive I also know that he won't be happy about my behaviour today and I have quite the lecture to look forward to.
Two of the remaining crewmen heave me into a sitting positions to help control my coughing and pat my back with such strength that I violently hurl and vomit sea water on the deck for what feels like hours until I'm sure there's not a drop of liquid left in me. My throat is on fire now and so dry that even swallowing seems impossible.
All around me, men are hurrying about, carrying bodies or securing loose cargo and whatever the storm and cannons have left them. I don't dare look at the pile of bodies on the bow behind me, hoping that most of them are of the enemy. None of the pirates seem to be left on deck, they must either all be dead or retreated to their own ship, its masts out of sight.
Whatever has kept my blood warm and running so far and blended out the cold and pain is ceasing to work, I'm shaken by violent shivers and the bruises and exhaustion of the past hours are slowly but relentlessly catching up to me. The cold is unbearable, I want to plead for help but can't speak a word or even pay attention to what the men around me are saying.
Quick footsteps and the sailor returns with Shay on his heels. He's not wearing his usual coat, only a bloodstained shirt but seems to be unharmed. His dark hair is wet and messy, strands of it sticking to his face and a wild look in his eyes. Worlds away from his usual neat and composed self.
"Christ alive, were you all raised by dimwits!", he belts at the men. "Get dry blankets from below, as many as you can. The dead won't need them."
Kneeling down next to me, he eyes me with a mixture of relief, exhaustion and worry, checking for any severe wounds.
"I'm fine.", I want to say, which only results in more heaving and coughing.
He gestures at another man who takes off, the others also quickly joining the remainder of the crewmen in their haste to save who- and whatever is left of the Princess and her men.
I feel like crying but even the thought of it exhausts me so I just close my eyes for a second, breathing in and out slowly and tensing my entire body to stop shivering. Curled up with my knees to my chest, I don't register anything until I feel a heavy layer of blankets slung around my shoulders and raise my head to see the outstretched hand of the second man, offering me a cup of water.
I drink carefully, the water in my throat so deliciously soothing that I'm tempted to down it all in one big gulp but then I'd just start coughing it all up again. It washes away the salt and bitter burning taste in my throat, soothes the ache and pours liquid life back into me. The blankets shield me from the wind but I'm still shivering in my wet clothes, the shock finally wearing off and revealing my actual state. I'm chilled to the bone, with no warmth left to be reflected and multiplied by the extra layers.
Shay has given me a few minutes, turning to his men and coordinating the aftermath of the battle. All dead have been piled up in one place and the injured carried downstairs into a makeshift infirmary where the remainder of the crew is tending to them to their best abilities. I still don't know how many of our men have died but from the few people I saw on deck it's looking grim.
He's talking to one of his men, gesturing in my direction and with furrowed eyebrows.
"Miss we can't bring you to your cabin", the sailor says apologetically, hand folded before his chest. "half of the crew's quarters have been flooded or taken damage so we needed the cabin for the injured. My sincere apologies there was no-"
My first thought for some reason lies with Crusoe, worry overshadowing my common sense.
"My book! What about it?", I croak, finally regaining a bit of my voice.
Seemingly confused by my response, the man sets about to answer, but Shay in his usual impatience interrupts him.
"You need dry clothing, a hot drink, sleep and that bloody guardian angel of yours. No point sitting around here and waiting for you to freeze to death, might even avoid a fever if we act quickly."
I find it harder and harder to pay attention to what he's saying, drifting in and out of focus. My eyes are terribly sore and heavy and my entire body screams for some rest. A hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me awake again.
"Take the deck cabin for now, you'll get yours back as soon as we get the water out from the quarters and relocate the injured."
I nod, lacking the will to fight him. They help me up and practically carry me forward, my legs giving out from under me within the first step. The sky disappears when we reach the Captain's cabin, a few candles still burning in it from the night before. It's warm in there compared to outside, the floorboards welcomingly dry.
They sit me down on the bed, I notice the mattress yielding to my weight and how soft the covers feel beneath my hands but not much else, still struggling to stay awake.
Water pours out of my boots when they take them off, it spreads across the floor and reflects the candlelight and ceiling, making it look as if there was another identical room beneath our feet. I struggle out of my coat, the leather clings to my skin like a leech, muttering 'thank you' every few seconds at the two men rubbing my arms and feet with dry towels, even though I hardly feel them anymore. There's a pile of clean clothes next to the bed, men's and too big for me but I could secure them with a rope or belt if need be.
I'm still wearing my shirt and breeches, wet and uncomfortable, the material already stiffening because of the salt but the two men have left and only Shay is left in the room, awkwardly standing near the door as if planning an escape from this situation.
"Will...do you think you'll manage yourself now?"
My eyes briefly flicker to his face, surprised at this sudden display of coyness. He has seen my body before, filthy and wounded, the rags Newt had tossed over me clearly hadn't been able to hide the abhorrent state of it then. So why hesitate now? Is it really virtuousness that stays his hand and lowers his gaze, or is it more the fear of finding me in a similar condition as he did in the dungeon, can he not bear the thought of scars and bones and disfigurement all over again?
"I'll be fine, thank you."
He seems relieved, assuring me food and more water would be brought up as soon as possible and that I should get some rest on his way out.
I resist the temptation of just falling backwards onto the covers and peel myself out of the shirt and breeches, swaying dangerously as soon as I stand up from the bed. For one moment I consider crawling under the covers naked, nothing in between the soft material and my skin, but in the end I manage to at least put on the fresh shirt before laying down on the bed. Someone has placed a bedpan in there not long ago, the sheets so hot they nearly burn my cold skin. I comb my wet hair away from my face and neck and fan it out across the pillow, hoping it would make it dry faster and close my eyes.
I wake up hours later to the morning sun already risen high in the sky, its warm glow painting patches of orange and yellow onto the walls of the cabin. There's a plate of bread, cheese and cold meat on the bedside table next to me which I devour with the famished appetite of one of New York's skeletal street cats, a decision I come to regret shortly after when my stomach starts aching terribly. Holding my belly with both hands, I lean back again and close my eyes contently, listening to the calming sound of the waves outside. I must have fallen back asleep, the next thing I know is a knock on the door jolting me awake again after I have seemingly sunken into an unnatural position giving me a stiff neck and numb left arm.
"Come in.", I call, voice still drowsy but otherwise pleasantly present.
The door opens and I'm blinded by sunlight.
"Alright, lass?"
It's Shay again, bringing me another cup of water. He looks terrible, his usually tanned skin grey with exhaustion and dark rims under his eyes. He's still wearing the same clothes and evidently only slept for a few hours if at all.
"I'm good.", I reply, gratefully accepting the outstretched cup. "Much better in fact."
He nods and takes a set on the desk chair and starts kneading his hands, ignoring me for a while.
"I'll be out of here in two ticks, if my cabin is ready yet.", I say to break the silence and make clear that I'm not planning to stay lodged in his cabin sleeping the day away while he seems to be mere moments away from collapsing.
Another nod, maybe it isn't just exhaustion. I get the feeling that the lecture I feared is upon me and he's just gathering the right words for it.
We sit there in silence for a few more moments, his deep frown suggesting that his thoughts are elsewhere. Not able to contain my nervous curiosity anymore, I sigh deeply, toss a quick glance towards the ceiling as if it might hold some answers and then open my mouth.
"Spit out whatever is bothering you already, or all your frowning will leave you with lasting wrinkles."
His head jerks upwards and now it's his turn to heave a long sigh. It takes a while until he speaks, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger as if to soothe a headache.
"You defied my direct orders yesterday."
Before I can even open my mouth, he raises a hand to stop me, indicating that there is more to say.
"You disobeyed me twice, but – and it doesn't matter how much this might vex me – by climbing up that mast you might very well have saved us from a lot of trouble, and many of my men – possibly myself included – from finding an untimely demise."
The formality in his speech evidently speaks for how much self-control it takes to admit that.
I swallow hard and then look him straight in the eye. He has all the right in the world to scold me for my actions, in the end I am still his responsibility and seemingly do absolutely anything to make this as difficult as possible for him. I pick my answer carefully, trying to restore the little trust he might have had in me.
"I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you, my intention was never to defy you or mistrust your judgement. I know Haytham has entrusted you with my safety and I'm also aware that I am not exactly easy to handle in that aspect- "
"You're either incredibly brave or foolish."
"Or maybe I'm just a brave fool?"
That raises a small smile from him, he clearly can't stay angry with me even though he tries very hard to hide it, which encourages me to finally say what I've been pondering in the past weeks, but never found the courage to openly voice. After all, if he's cross with me now he might as well be for multiple reasons.
"However, I believe that it's in both of our best interest if we work together rather than individually. I can help, Shay. But to do so you need to talk to me. I'm still fully in the dark about what exactly we're even doing in London."
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lowers his hand, as if giving up a defence which kept him from facing me directly. For a few seconds we just sit there, staring at each other, two strangers bound together by a quest into the unknown. I don't dare lower my eyes, even if resisting the urge to submit takes all my courage, knowing that in this split moment, we are equal.
He nods once, head slightly cocked to the side, and then a second, more resolute time. Perhaps he himself has given it some thought but left it to me to make the decision of facing the awkward matter.
Leaning back in defeat, he mutters "Alright.", more so to himself than to me.
I almost smile in relief as the aggregated tension between us slightly eases.
With one hand, he scratches his nose, while he used the other to make a circling gesture, inviting me to freely voice my mind.
"What d'ya want to know?"
"Everything."
That earns me a light chuckle.
"Everything's a whole lot o' stuff, afraid that might take longer than an evening to cover, lassie."
"Fine."
I shift on the bed to make myself more comfortable and compose my thoughts before I speak.
"Let's start with where Gist is and why he actually didn't accompany us."
"Already told ya he's on another mission."
My sole expression suffices in encouraging him to continue, not without an exasperated huff. "He and Weeks – d'ya know him? – have been tasked with eradicating whatever's left of the Assassins at home. Shouldn't prove too difficult if you ask me."
Something tells me that inquiring about his past with the mysterious Brotherhood would be overstepping an invisible but essential boundary and end the fragile truce between us in an instant, so I don't press on any further.
"What about the ship? Who were they? Why did they attack us?"
"I don't know yet.", he admits. "Didn't recognise any of them and the ones who survived and didn't flee are keepin' their mouths firmly shut."
He hesitates for a moment before continuing. "As to their identity, they could be anyone – pirates or bounty hunters, their attack was far too skilled and well executed to have been handled by anything than professionals – I've a long list of people who'd wish me dead and gone, which if ya care to know, is precisely why I thought it best to work by meself so far."
Something is off, he seems troubled, his brows furrowed in a deep frown, his eyes avoiding my gaze while speaking. Something has happened which he hasn't told me yet and he's clearly still considering whether to tell me at all.
I remain quiet, leaving the choice to him and keeping my eyes fixed on him. Nagging him about it won't get me any more answers than staying calm and if I want him to trust me, I need to trust him in return as well.
Shay takes a deep breath and finally looks up from his hands, determination on his face.
"There is something else, Julie. The attack caused considerable damage on its own but we're only now assessing the full extent of it. A lot of water entered the storage during the fight, and it took a while to get it out again."
He hesitates for a second, then continues "It spoiled the majority of our provisions, mostly the bottom barrels of food and fresh water. It will get whoever is left of the crew to London if we follow strict portioning, but we can't share it with anyone else."
"The prisoners.", I say, a dark suspicion about the direction of this conversation forming in my mind.
He nods. "I have no choice. My obligation to the Order would have me hand them over for questioning as soon as we arrive, but my obligation to my crew takes precedence. These men are professionals, none of them have shown any sign of cooperation so far, perhaps this is the justice they deserve."
The all too familiar iron fist closes around my lungs and slowly presses the air from them. My hands grow cold and sweaty, I know what he's implying I know exactly what he's implying but I'm not quite ready to believe it yet to accept what he is about to do.
"Shay, with all due respect. You can't kill those prisoners. You can't."
He chuckles humourlessly, a flash of something sinister on his face for a split second. Disappointment? Disdain? Or even rage?
"And why not? Why should I show mercy to men who wouldn't grant me the same courtesy? Why would I let my crew suffer for the sake of keeping their attackers alive? Besides, considering what awaits them in London a quick death here will be merciful. Being questioned by the Templars isn't a death I'd wish on anyone, you of all people should understand that best."
I don't allow the memories his words stir to engulf me, blend out the images and force myself into the here and now.
He's right, his thinking is entirely logical yet still feels wrong. Dying in battle is a more or less fair fight, but these men are unarmed and in chains, unable to defend themselves. Executing them would be cold-blooded murder. But then, won't their blood be on our hands either way, handing them over to the British Rite? They would not be granted any trial or other justice, only excruciating pain and a slow but guaranteed death. Perhaps this really is merciful after all. But it doesn't feel like it, it doesn't feel like justice for the men we lost either. Only a handful of them left, just enough to reach our destination if all work three times their usual amount, but not enough to withstand any further damage. They need the remaining provisions to survive the additional workload and the loss of even one more of them would bring catastrophe.
But it's still murder. The thought of it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and tightens the knot in my throat even further.
"Don't you want to know who's behind this attack? Hard to get information from dead men. ", I say after a long silence. It's a weak argument, one last grasp of something I have already given up on.
Shay sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. His eyes closed, he looks incredibly tired, the events of the past days having taken their toll on him even if he refuses to show it. "This isn't an easy decision for me."
"I know. "
I can't condemn him for it, he's doing what's best for his men. I only wish that there was an alternative.
The silence between us is so profound, an abyss so dark that we are both caught in our own thoughts, that his voice actually startles me after he eventually breaks it.
"I've managed to single out one of them, seems to be a leader of a sort. He didn't say anything but the others seem to rely on him for assurance. As long as we keep him, we'll find out why this attack happened. The others are pawns and probably don't even know the details and they don't need to with him there to give the orders. We only need him."
This surprises me, none of captured men I saw have uttered a word to any of us, barely acknowledging our existence apart from a few hostile glares here and there.
"How can you be certain of this?", I ask, curiosity taking over my terror for a moment.
Another chuckle, just as cynical. "I have a bit of a sixth sense for these kinds of matters."
Shay rises from the chair, a gesture clear as day: the discussion, if it ever was one, is over. His decision was made before he even entered the room.
I swiftly change the topic to prevent him from leaving. "The British Rite – ever had dealings with them?"
"Nay, never been to London either."
At least I'm not alone in that regard, he's as much a stranger there as I am. I chew on my lower lip, thinking about the million other questions I have and which one's best to prioritise. Shay, now hesitantly sat down again patiently waits, hands now folded in his lap. There must be a thousand other things he should be attending to in this instant but he grants me another moment for peace's sake.
"What exactly will our mission and purpose there be then? Haytham – Master Kenway, I mean – hasn't been very precise in his announcement. He said an ancient artefact has been stolen and we must retrieve it."
He quickly glances towards the door, as if scanning it for unwanted listeners, although it is beyond me how he intends to do it through the solid wood of it. Satisfied, his dark eyes return to mine, his brow now slightly furrowed and a solemn expression on his face.
"Aye, well. He's right there but there's more to it, as you probably assumed. What do you know about the Pieces of Eden?"
My whole body immediately tenses up, leaning towards him eagerly in response to the mere mention of the ever-present cryptic artefacts, anxious to finally get some clear answers to the questions which have been causing me countless hours of contemplation, always ending up with reaching the insurmountable walls of my own restricted knowledge.
"Not much.", I lie, hoping to get as much information from him as possible.
He leans back, unsure of where to start. "They're like – highly concentrated energy which has been locked into some sort of ancient technology from a civilisation which lived long before us. Some of them are weapons, so-called Apples, which can somehow influence the way people think – I don't really know much about them myself. Some others -", he stops for a second, swallowing hard. "Some others are like roots from a tree, holding our world together. They are incredibly fragile and if anyone comes near them…", he doesn't finish his sentence. "All of them are unimaginably dangerous and should never be touched by anyone in the first place"
His explanations, vague and secretive as they are, differ so much from the passion-gripped speeches Canterbury gave me on them that it makes me wonder what might have happened to turn Shay against them so much. He was there in the Arctic when the Temple collapsed but so was Haytham and the unknown Assassin they were chasing and neither of them seemed worried enough to cease their search. Especially Haytham. Canterbury was ready to take him down for these artefacts and he paid for it with his life.
Where Canterbury saw the Pieces of Eden as a gateway to heaven, Shay seems to be sure they will unleash hell instead.
"And yet you agreed to chase them?", I say, trying to piece the puzzle together.
He nods slowly, eyes fixed on me as if trying to read my thoughts. Even the little information he gave me was hesitant, as if the mere thought about yet another person gaining information about this gives him discomfort. "Better me than whoever else is out there looking for them."
"And the Rite?"
He shrugs. "They are old and well-established. A lot more resourceful than the Colonial branch. A means to an end for now I suppose."
"What if they oppose your stance?"
Another long, skin-piercing glance. There's something dangerously calm about him now, a determination past the point of compromise. Anyone who will come in between him and his mission will be crushed without hesitation, myself included. His reply contains a warning to me as well, that if I ever even breathe a word to someone about this I will meet the same fate as everyone who might have tried before me. This man would single-handedly fight the world in order to protect it.
"Then they will become just as much of a liability to me as all the others."
The prisoners are executed a few hours later as the sun begins to set. I watch from a distance with an uneasy feeling in my stomach but the knowledge that it's either them or all of us.
Shay, in the emotionless tone of a prosecutor reading out a sentence, allows them their last prayers and words which none of them accept and then shoots each of them with a single precise bullet in the neck, killing them instantly. Many of the crewmen cheer and curse the pirates, but some stay as silent as I do, making the sign of the cross or mouthing voiceless prayers for the lost lives. Shay himself seems neither hesitant nor gleeful, keeping a stony expression the entire time and getting it all over with as soon as possible. It's the first time he openly shows his Assassin side, an efficient and cold killer who won't be held back by anyone. Haytham's bloodhound emerges for a moment, ready to strike down his enemies without mercy. The sight of it makes my skin crawl with discomfort.
They throw the bodies overboard, leaving them to the sharks and whatever else might be waiting beneath the waves. And then, as if nothing had happened, everyone returns to their duties.
I help where I can, mostly attending to the injured and assisting with the meals and maintenance of the ship. It's hard work, reminding me of my long days working as a maid on the Canterbury Estate, but it keeps my mind off other things and makes the days speed by. We catch a good western breeze which gets us more-or-less back on track. Two weeks after the attack, sat in my crow's nest, I spot an unknown shoreline shrouded in fog on the horizon.
"Hey little bird up there!", Shay calls from below, gesturing for me to climb down.
"See that shore?", he points out as soon as my feet touch the deck. "That's the western coast of Ireland, which means if the winds stay in our favour, we'll be in Gravesend in about a week."
The thought of finally getting off this floating coffin fills me with so much excitement I nearly laugh out loud. Stepping off the New York pier feels like a lifetime ago, as if I am merely calling someone else's memories and not lived them myself. Even the foul weather, icy winds with occasional snowy intervals can't spoil my mood.
"Merry Christmas, lass.", Shay says and winks at me, handing me one of the two swords he's been hiding behind his back.
"What are these for?", I ask with a worried expression, carefully taking it from him. The sword is old and heavy, nothing like the masterfully crafted blades I had been using until that point.
"Practice, of course. If you want to get involved, you need to learn how to fight."
I inspect the blade timidly, worn down as it might be it could still easily slice off an arm if wielded with enough force. "Are these blunt?"
Shay laughs, balancing his sword on his index finger with ease. "Worried I might hit ya?"
My expression seems to suffice as an answer.
"Look, if these were blunt you wouldn't put in half the effort, which means you won't learn how to fight any real opponents. And I can guarantee ya their blades will be a lot sharper than these."
I hesitantly take the sword and try to remember everything I've learned about how to position myself. "Fine."
For the first hour, Shay leaves it to me to attack, effortlessly dodging my attempts which grow more and more desperate with every time I find myself flat on my face. Where my first few efforts were naively careful, scared I might injure him, I soon discover that I stand no chance of getting even close to him and start playing dirty. Charging at him with all my might, using every little ace up my sleeve which he dismisses with a single sidestep. He makes me look like a silly child playing with sticks, disarming me even with his left hand and with minimal force.
While he might have all reason to, he refrains from being condescending, calmly explaining what I can improve and what to completely drop, showing me new tactics and ways to move my feet, where to look and what to pay attention to. As it appears, whatever I think I might have known up until that point disappears into thin air, even some of the things Haytham taught me are soon dismantled as useless.
My limbs grow heavy after the first half hour and my body aches from my numerous falls, but I refuse to give up as easily. The deck sways and makes it even harder to remain balanced, which Shay points out is an excellent training ground. For another hour, we work on my defence, with him demonstrating various patterns of attacks at a slow pace for me to keep up with, after which I nearly drop with exhaustion. In the two hours of practice, he didn't even break a sweat.
"Tomorrow again.", he says after taking my sword from my tired hands. "And the day after, and the one after. Until you manage to beat me, aye?"
We practice daily after, in more and more dire weather conditions as we sail around the Irish coast and close in on our final destination. Christmas passes unnoticeably and so does New Year's Eve, none of the sailors particularly religious enough to pay much attention to them, spending most of their time working on or below deck, huddled up in their cots trying to warm up. I spend my remaining days on board with trying to keep the injured alive long enough to get them to a proper hospital, but soon accept that some of them will never step on dry land again. The icy winds, accompanied by intervals of relentless snow, make our training harder and harder but Shay insists on it even though the storm exacerbates his duties as Captain. He often spends days and nights at the helm with hardly another soul on deck, barely sleeps and refuses to accept any help. I find myself wondering what might have kept him alive all this time, what causes his unbreakable determination. Loyalty to his men, possibly. A Captain's silent promise to keep his crew safe. Or perhaps it's guilt and the desperation for redemption.
The morning of January 3rd, 1963 wakes me up with a pleasant ray of sunshine and air as crisp as cold water on a hot summer day. The sea is calm with only a light breeze playing with my hair, seagulls greeting me loudly as I squint my eyes at the sunlight and take a deep breath. Unfamiliar voices fill the air, sounds I haven't heard in months. Bells ringing in the distance, hundreds of different voices shouting and laughing and selling their produce. Hooves on plaster, the rhythmic clanging of a blacksmith's hammer on metal, dogs barking. I step on deck and walk up to the helm, where Shay is already standing with one arm casually prepped on the wooden steering wheel, overseeing the lowering of the smaller boats meant to transport men ashore.
I lean against the wooden railing, let the breeze brush a few loose strands of hair out of my face and can't help but smile. Surrounded by hundreds of masts of all sizes, we are anchored only a few hundred feet away from a sandy shore lined with small white houses and a few steeples, a stony pier running along them. Despite the early hour, it's already packed with people, loading or unloading smaller ships sat comfortably at what seems to be the mouth of a large river, wheeling around barrels or carrying cargo to the merchant stalls. Seagulls circle the market looking for scraps to eat and a few carpenters are already repairing a marooned smaller ship lying sideways on the beach like a stranded whale.
My stomach churns in excitement as I climb into one of the boats, not looking back at the Princess once and keeping my eyes fixed forward, taking in the foreign new air and listening to the sounds of this new, unknown country. We make our way through the labyrinth of cargo and stalls, weaving our way through the crowd of people populating the pier, the feeling of solid ground under my feet after months at sea so welcome that I struggle to keep my balance at times. Apart from a few shouts to get out of someone's way, the locals pay us little attention. Their accents sound strangely familiar, yet also different, like playing the same song on a different instrument. Harsh, rough voices and words I don't understand even though it's evidently English – a woman from one of the houses leans out of her window and screams something at someone on the street below "- ye wee bastard, I ken yer ma an' I tell ye-" – her voice soon drowned by the rest. I marvel at every little detail of the hustle and bustle around me, struggling to keep up with the rest of the crew at times. Shay is engaged in conversation with a clerk of a sort, probably arranging the transfer of the injured and takeover of the ship while the rest of the men unload what cargo hasn't been destroyed by the attack and, shouldering their kitbags, make their way down the pier undoubtedly in search of the nearest tavern. A few of them catch my eye and nod a respectful goodbye before disappearing among the crowd, acknowledging the harsh months we managed to survive together and leaving an almost bittersweet taste in my mouth.
"Ready?", says Shay who has reappeared next to me, seemingly having finished all final dealings concerning the ship. I'm eternally grateful for him in that instant, one familiar face in an ocean of strangers on this harsh new ground. At least I'm not alone.
"They're waiting for us over there, by the edge of the Thames."
I don't even wonder how he can possibly spot the people we're looking for on a pier this busy and from this far away, he would probably give me one of his cryptic smiles and insinuate that sixth sense of his – the name of the river has sparked another explosion of excitement. The River Thames, centrepiece of countless stories I had read before, stories even my father used to tell me – usually scary ones of grisly crimes and bodies being dumped into the river at midnight. The thought of walking the streets of those stories myself soon makes my flesh crawl with sensation.
'They' are a discreet two-horse carriage with a driver sat in the front and a lean, well-dressed early middle-aged man in a dark waistcoat, spectacles and tophat. Strangely enough, the first thing I notice isn't his remarkable moustache, but the shininess of his shoes, reflecting the sunlight like a freshly polished piece of silver cutlery.
He bows his head slightly, keeping his hands firmly clasped behind his back.
"We have expected your arrival, Master Cormac. My humble self am here to receive you on behalf of the Grand Master of the Templar Rite of Great Britain."
Turning to me, he tilts his head again and in the same posh manner says: "And you must be Miss Martin. Welcome to Gravesend."