Sum of Memories

Chapter 2: Liars.

"Bleedin' hornswogglers!"

June 13, 1715.

Everything hurt. That was the first thing Connor realized as awareness slowly returned to him. The second thing he realized was that he was completely parched. His tongue stuck like cotton to the roof of his mouth, his eyes were itchy, and his throat was bone-dry and completely sore. He would have swallowed to wet it, but he had no saliva with which to do so. He felt ice-cold but for his head, which felt far too warm and light to be natural. Another bolt of pain flared through his side. He wanted to do something to ease it, but it seemed too lofty a goal to achieve.

A soft groan escaped his lips, making him cough.

"Ah, I see yer awake," said a voice from his right. Connor frowned, not recognizing it. "I'll get ya a drink, an' den I'll go fetch the Captain. 'E's been wantin' ta see ye."

A hand, rough with work and age, slipped itself beneath his head, tilting it up. Connor managed to crack open his dry eyes, swallowing so that he could part his parched lips. The rim of a cup bumped against his teeth. He would have winced had he not been preoccupied by the cool, stale water that flowed into his mouth. He grimaced and swallowed, coughing for a second as the water made its way down his sore throat. Then he took another few sips, and had to stop. He closed his itchy eyes briefly.

When he opened them again, the man who had given him the water was gone. Instead, a different man was sitting in the chair by the table in the middle of the cabin, toying with a dagger absently. Connor realized that the other man looked strangely familiar, as though he had seen him before. For the life of him, however, he could not remember where from.

The stranger's ocean-blue eyes landed on Connor, and Connor blinked drowsily back at him. Thin lips curled into a smirk, and the other leaned back in his chair, putting his booted feet up on the surgeon's table. Connor glanced sluggishly around the room, taking in the array of saws and other medical tools on the walls, the bottles of sour wine for wound washing, and various other things characteristic of the cabin of a ship's surgeon. He placed a hand on his stomach, dizzily remembering what had happened.

And he was still alive, after that? How had that happened? He decided that it must be thanks to the man sitting before him.

Connor coughed slightly and looked back over to the other man.

"Thank you," Connor rasped, and then coughed again, grimacing at the taste of blood and ash in his mouth. Swallowing, he tried again. "For saving my life."

The other man snorted.

"About time you thanked me," he muttered wryly. He had a strange accent that Connor had never heard before. It was lilting, almost similar to the accents of the Irishmen in New York, but more British. "I was starting to think your bad manners were part of your personality, instead of you just being half-dead." He cracked a wry smile, turning the dagger over and over in his hands. "Welcome to the Jackdaw. I'm her captain, Edward Kenway, in case you've forgotten."

And it all came rushing back. Connor could not help but stare at the man across from him. During his lessons with Achilles, Connor had learned about many of the more prolific Assassins across the years. Among those had been Edward Kenway, captain of the Jackdaw, pirate extraordinaire, and father to Haytham Kenway. Connor was staring at his grandfather, who had died 21 years before Connor's birth.

It made his head spin. Or maybe that was just the illness. Connor closed his eyes against the dizziness, only just realizing that his stomach was aching and churning uncomfortably. It would hurt too much to throw up, however, and he had nothing in his belly to bring up, so he fought back against the nausea with an iron will.

He swallowed painfully. "I remember."

"I'm glad you do." Edward gave a snort, and Connor heard the sound of the other man's footsteps crossing the floor towards him, accompanied by the scraping of the chair legs. "Hope you're proud of yourself. You gave me quite a shiner."

Connor gulped again. The nausea was getting worse.

"Don't remember that," he gasped, grimacing as his stomach tried to clench and sent a wave of fire throughout his abdomen. He groaned and struggled to turn on his side, panting from the pain and exertion, feeling dizzy and sick and utterly miserable. When he was more or less comfortable again and felt as though he was not about to vomit, he swallowed again and glanced over at Edward. "How did you find me?"

"Pure accident, I assure you." Edward eyed Connor warily. "You about to throw up, or not?"

Connor shook his head weakly, closing his eyes again when the action made his head spin.

"I was diving for treasure in a recent wreck," Edward continued. "Came across you on my way down. 'S a miracle I spotted you. If not for that knife sticking out of your gut, I wouldn't have known you were there."

Right. The dagger.

"Where is it?" Connor asked, taking a few deep breaths in an effort to fight through the discomfort in his body.

"Where's what?"

"The dagger." He swallowed. "I was sent to retrieve it from the man who stole it. I have to return it to its owner."

He heard Edward hum, a noncommittal sound at best.

"That'll depend, I think, on whether or not you survive your wound," the other man commented. "You're pretty sick. Frankly, even Gibbs is surprised you've lasted this long." Connor opened his eyes again to find that Edward was studying him. "You must have a will of iron."

Connor let loose a surprised chuckle, and then groaned. "Please, do not make me laugh. But yes, I have been told, before, that I am stubborn. Other times, less flattering adjectives."

Edward laughed. "Well, at least you're honest. What's your name, boy?"

Connor felt a momentary flash of panic. What could he tell Edward that would not endanger his own future?

"My name is Ratohnhaké:ton," he finally admitted. There was no harm in that, he thought. Edward, as far as he knew, would never make port in the northern Colonies, would never learn anything about the Kanien'kehá:ka, and would never live to make the connection between Connor as he was now, and Haytham Kenway.

Edward stared at Connor as though he had grown another head. "I'm not even going to try to pronounce that. You have a nickname? If not, the crew's gonna start calling you Ratty."

Connor's expression must have belied his distaste for the moniker.

"I go by Connor." He gulped again. "Connor Ke... Just Connor." Creator, that was a poor misdirection, and they both knew it.

"Tell me your surname." It seemed that Edward was not going to let the matter lie. Connor would have sighed, had he not thought it would be more pain than it was worth.

"I have been disowned by what family I have left that is not dead," he bit out, closing his eyes against another wave of nausea. For a second, he was quiet. Then he groaned as the feeling surged, stomach churning violently. "I am going to throw up, now."

Edward had enough sense to place a bucket under Connor's head as the darker man leaned over the side of the cot and succumbed to his nausea. Connor just tried to remain conscious as his stomach clenched powerfully, pulling his wound agonizingly; he vomited up a thin string of dark yellow bile and a little blood before coughing out a few dry-heaves. When it finally died off, he was even more miserable than he had been before, totally exhausted, and his breathing felt labored, as well.

"Maybe you'd better sleep," Edward murmured. Connor almost did not hear him. He was already fading. Before blackness took him entirely, he heard Edward sit back in his chair, his voice floating softly into the first few lines of a song.

"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan, tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal..."

June 17, 1715.

Connor had been in and out of consciousness for the past four days. Edward had waited patiently for the other man to heal, especially after Gibbs had scolded him for making Connor overexert himself upon his first real awakening. Gibbs said that Connor's condition had been worsened by the strain of talking to Edward and by the vomiting he had endured. Frankly, Edward was not surprised. The color of the fluids that Connor had brought up had been alarming, to say the least.

Containing his curiosity, however, was a difficult thing to do. Edward was an inquisitive creature by nature; it was what had made him want to learn about the Assassins in the first place, when he had first met his mentor. He was also incredibly impatient, which could be a curse, at times. It was also what had made him pursue piracy in the first place. So far, it had worked.

Still, it was getting difficult to distract himself from the burning desire for answers that still coiled hot in the pit of his stomach.

From where had Connor come? How had he come to be twenty feet below the surface of the Caribbean Sea? Who had stabbed him? How old was he? What was so important about that dagger that he had nearly died for it?

And what the bleeding hell was his last name?

Edward hated, hated, being denied a straight answer about anything, and that was what Connor had done. The fact that Gibbs had forbidden Edward from seeing Connor until the other man had healed a bit had prevented Edward from forcing the answers out of him, but as soon as the tan man was strong enough for conversation, Edward intended to extract the answers from him.

By any means necessary.

"Captain!"

Edward blinked himself out of his brooding as the sound of the quartermaster's voice reached him through the cabin door.

"Enter!" he called back. The door opened, and Gregson stuck his head in.

"Captain, you're wanted on deck," he stated. "Ship's been sighted off the starboard bow. Spanish privateers, looks like." He gave an eager grin. "Flyin' the royal colors, they are. Looks like we've got a fight on our 'ands."

Edward found his lips stretching into a feral grin.

"Excellent," he growled. This was just what he needed to take his mind off of the answers he did not have. "Have the men prepare for battle. Chain-shot, Gregson, we want her as intact as possible."

"Aye, Captain!" Gregson was gone in a flash, calling all hands to stations and shouting for loaded guns. Edward himself got to his feet and hurried around his cabin, stowing a pair of pistols in the bandolier on his chest, another pair in the holsters at the back of his belt, and arming himself further with a pair of cutlasses as well as his Hidden Blades and a few rope darts. Then he left his cabin and made his way up to the helm. Gregson glanced over at Edward as he came up to him, fishing his spyglass out of his belt pouch as he went. Extending it and holding it up to his right eye, he cast about for a second until he could see the Spanish ship in the distance. It was a two-mast schooner, angular sails white against the blue sky.

Edward allowed himself a small smirk when he saw that the schooner was only lightly armed, at best; in addition to two swivel guns mounted at her bow, she had three cannons on the side that was visible to Edward; she probably had about six cannons all together, and was likely crewed by about 75 men, compared to his own crew of 105.

Easy pickings. Perfect.

"Run up the flag," Edward said, stowing his spyglass again and coming to take the helm from Gregson. Gregson grinned with all the giddiness of a child on Christmas Day, and went to do as he was told. A second later, the Jackdaw's Jolly Roger was flying high, stark white against black against bright blue and truly terrifying to all those who knew what it signified. Edward himself took one hand off the wheel to pull his hood up over his head. Then he swung the wheel wide, heading straight towards the schooner. In addition to firepower, the Jackdaw, averaging about 16 knots on a good day, had the advantage of speed on the schooner, which could only reach about 12 and a half knots or so. It would be easy to overtake her.

He saw it when the schooner realized she was being pursued. The crew on the ship began to scurry about, preparing for battle. Edward had expected as much. Though the schooner was outgunned, her crew outnumbered, she was a privateer vessel; it would be remiss of her crew not to try to destroy the pirate ship.

It would have been wiser of them to surrender.

Within moments, the schooner was within range of the Jackdaw's swivel guns. Edward grinned as he steered her slightly away from their target.

"Give them a warning shot across her bow," he commanded. Gregson relayed the order, and a half-second later, the port-side swivel roared its challenge across the water. Edward saw one of the other ship's unluckier crewmembers take the round to his chest. It blew straight through him and kept going as the impact tossed his decimated corpse overboard into the water.

One would think people would have learned, by now, not to fuck with Edward Kenway and the Jackdaw.

"Prepare to fire broadside!" he commanded, seeing the schooner doing the same up ahead. "And ready boarding hooks! We'll have her and any cargo she has before the hour's out."

"Aye, captain!" Gregson replied, and rushed off to relay the orders down the weather deck and down the ladder into the gun deck.

Edward focused on his steering; they would have to tack so that they could come about and bring the cannons to bear on the schooner.

"About ship!" he shouted. A second later, he spun the wheel to the right, and the Jackdaw banked hard to starboard. That brought the port side about; less than a heartbeat later, he gave the order to "Open fire!" and a volley exploded out of theJackdaw's gunports, the chain shot whirling around and around before it impacted.

Some of the shots hit men, who promptly found themselves missing limbs, bisected, or even headless. Other shots shredded most of the schooner's sails and rigging; a pair of good shots took out the mainmast and severely damaged the mizzenmast. Screams echoed from the schooner. Edward, for his part, just grinned, the feral joy of a naval battle coursing through his veins. Then the Jackdaw was past her, and Edward called for half-sail.

"About ship!" he shouted again once they were a decent distance away from the schooner. He tacked again, drawing her about in a circle so that the Jackdaw was sailing back towards the crippled ship once more.

"Take in all sail! Prepare to board!"

He was aware of the crew doing as he told them to; as he let the helmsman take the wheel, he vaulted over the rail to the deck below. The Jackdaw came up beside the schooner, slowing.

There was the crack of a musket firing. The shot whizzed past Edward's left ear, ripping through the side of his hood and drawing a line of blood across the side of his face and the shell of his ear. He barely even blinked at it, but his blue gaze darted to the sailor who had taken the shot. He was a little thing, scrawny and beardless, perched in what was left of the mizzenmast's rigging with his legs looped and tangled in the rope. Even as Edward watched, he began hastily reloading his musket for a second shot. Edward snorted.

He would get that little fwcar.

"Go!" he yelled, and launched himself onto a rope dangling from the Jackdaw's mizzenmast, swinging easily across the gap between the two ships. The Jackdaw's crew roared fierce battle-cries as they hurled their boarding hooks across to the schooner. The hooks caught in what was left of the rigging and the gunwale, and only a second later, the first crewmembers were making their way onto the schooner.

Edward's feet hit the schooner's sanded pine deck. He rolled to absorb the impact and came up with his sword out and swinging. One Spaniard came at him screaming what could only have been profanities; Edward simply slashed across his opponent's throat with the cutlass in his left hand and moved on, satisfied with having shut the man up. Around him, the battle picked up in earnest as the Jackdaw's crew entered the fray. Within moments, the deck was a writhing mass of sheer chaos, blood flying everywhere, corpses falling in people's paths, blades flashing, pistols firing. Edward whirled, swords scything through limbs and torsos; stabbing one man in the chest with his left cutlass, he tore out another man's throat with his other. At the same time, he pulled a pistol out of his belt and fired off a shot at a Spaniard who was running at Gregson's back with a dagger.

Within minutes, Spaniards began surrendering. The ship was theirs.

"¡Muere, cabron!"

Edward spun around, dodging to the side just in time to avoid a second musket ball, this one aimed for his chest. It was the same rat from earlier. Edward found a smirk growing on his lips as he watched the young man throw his musket aside and hastily draw a cutlass from his belt. Underneath the brim of his opponent's wide hat, Edward watched the boy's green eyes glint furiously, chapped lips parted in a snarl of determination.

This might be fun.

Edward smirked, twirling his remaining cutlass in his hand as he holstered his empty pistol again.

"Don't threaten me, boy," he warned, just shy of laughing outright at the indignant look that spread across his opponent's face. "You'll regret it."

"¡Vas al infierno y chupa un pene, cabronazo!" The boy launched himself at Edward, who simply sidestepped the wild swing and brought his cutlass around, smacking the boy in the backs of the thighs with it as he passed. The boy caught himself, and when he spun to face Edward again, he was smirking. Edward wondered why for a second. Then he frowned as he realized that his left side was stinging. Glancing down without taking his eyes off of his opponent, he found that a neat slash had torn through his leather armor, his clothing, and the skin beneath. It was not a shallow wound, having been deflected more by his ribs than anything.

Furious with himself for dropping his guard, and irrationally furious with the boy for being so sneaky, he looked back up in time to see the boy lift his arms again, the bloodied dagger in his left hand dripping onto the deck, the cutlass in his other hand flipped backwards in a defensive grip. Edward frowned.

All right, so maybe he would have to pay attention to this boy, after all.

Edward paced quickly towards the boy, using his superior size and broader stature to good effect as intimidation tools; the brief instant in which fear flashed across the boy's face told him as much. But then the boy steeled himself and put his weight on the balls of his feet before he rocked forward to meet Edward.

Edward blocked the boy's initial slash with his right cutlass, and parried the second, easily dodging the slash the boy took at his injured side with the dagger. Edward parried twice more before he took his own shot at hurting the boy, but if nothing else, he proved to be an agile opponent. He dodged Edward's swing, blurring out of Edward's line of sight to his right. Startled, Edward spun to meet his opponent, only to stagger forwards, gasping, as the boy drove the guard of his cutlass into the wound in Edward's side. Edward slashed out wildly with his own blade to put some distance between them, and the boy obligingly leaped backward, features a mask of determination.

Gasping through the pain, Edward narrowed his eyes at the boy. How had he managed to get around Edward's back so quickly? He was good; not just tricky, but fast, and ruthless to boot. The boy was not yet large enough to be completely brutal, like Edward tended to be, but if he was sneaky enough to get hits in on Edward...

He would have to be cautious and end this quickly.

The boy lunged at Edward again. Edward quickly tossed his cutlass to his left hand, blocked the strike, and, ejecting the Hidden Blade on his right wrist, jabbed the knife forward.

The blade met linen, pierced through it, and slid home with a squelch in the boy's belly.

The boy froze. His green eyes went wide, expression one of shock. Then it crumpled into a grimace of pain, and he slumped forward against Edward. The boy's cutlass and dagger clattered to the deck; his fingers clawed weakly at Edward's shoulders as he gasped for air through what Edward realized must be a rather all-consuming pain. It was a little sad, really. He had managed to wound Edward three times. This boy had held the potential to be a great fighter, if he had only not crossed Edward's warpath. It was a shame that he would have to die.

The battle around them had died out; the crew and prisoners watched silently as Edward caught the wounded boy, supporting him as he retracted his Hidden Blade. A slim chest pressed against his as the boy wheezed against Edward's shoulder.

Edward froze. A chill ran through him and his eyes went wide.

He felt breasts.

"Cach!" he swore under his breath, dropping his own cutlass and catching the boy- no, girl- before she could let go and hit the deck. Kneeling, he took her in his arms and supported her as she looked up at him, true fear finally showing itself in her tear-bright green eyes. Her head fell back; her hat fell off at the motion, sending short, horse-tailed auburn hair tumbling down to the deck below her head.

This was not something he had been expecting. At all. For a woman to be on board a pirate or privateering ship was unheard of. It was unheard of for a woman to be on board a ship in the Navy. In fact, the only times Edward had heard of women on ships had been in regards to passenger ships.

Edward swallowed. Now he realized why she had fought so hard. She had known that if he and his crew found her out during capture, she might suffer a horrible fate. He was sure she had heard the tales of pirate brutality, of men who had been too long without female company and who were willing and determined to take what they could get no matter how much the women struggled. No small wonder that she had been so desperate and determined not to surrender, not to let him win.

Edward refused to let her die and confirm her fears. But damn it, he already had one wounded lubber on board! He did not need another!

The woman coughed. Edward growled something incoherent, and hoisted her into his arms. She was surprisingly light. As he turned to take in the sight of his men rounding up the rest of the schooner's crew, he spotted Gregson watching him. Edward pursed his lips.

"Gregson!" he called. "How many wounded?"

"Two, with flesh wounds," Gregson replied immediately. "One dead. 'e fell between the ships during the boarding. Cracked 'is 'ead open on the 'ull on the way down." He eyed Edward, taking in the body in his arms and the blood slowly dripping down his leather armor. "Ye should probably get that looked at, sir."

Edward blinked, and then realized what Gregson was referring to. In his shock, he had almost forgotten about his own flesh wound. Slowly, he nodded.

"Get our wounded on board. How many of theirs are left alive?"

"Merely the nine you see 'ere." Gregson came over to help Edward shift the woman to the Jackdaw. "All the others are dead save that one, an' I reckon 'e's not long for this world."

Edward gritted his teeth.

"We'll see about that."

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.

Lyrics are from "Dacw 'Nghariad," which is a traditional Welsh song.

Welsh Translations:
Fwcar - Fucker
Cach - Shit

Spanish Translations:
¡Muere, cabron! - Die, bastard!
¡Vas al infierno y chupa un pene, cabronazo! - Go to hell and suck a dick, motherfucker!

Pirate Slang:
Hornswoggler - A cheat or a liar

Brought this over from my Tumblr (RevenantAvenger90) and DeviantART (ElvenWhiteMage) accounts.

Please tell me what all you thought!

-Scribe