Sum of Memories
Chapter 8: Traitors.
"You should've learned, by now, not to fuck with me."
July 2, 1715.
As Rhian Yates was escorted across the gap between the Jackdaw and the H.M.S. Sophie alongside Estevan and the rest of the Spaniards, she kept her features carefully neutral. She refused to feel regret for what she had done, which was exactly what she had needed to do to survive. Beside her, Estevan and Juan laughed and joked about how Edward had collapsed in front of the entire crew and the boarding party. Rhian added her input when necessary. However, her overall mood was solemn, if not positively sour. If nothing else, she was more than unhappy to be back on a naval vessel.
She was in extreme danger.
If any of the crew decided to look too closely at her, they would likely recognize her for a woman. While she knew naval crews to be more disciplined than pirate crews, she had no doubts that at least one man would decide to risk a flogging in favor of taking a little pleasure. She needed to find an ally, and quickly.
The solution presented itself surprisingly soon afterward. As Rhian set foot on the weather deck of the H.M.S. Sophie, a pair of strong arms wrapped her in a tight hug, pulling her into a muscular chest, the owner of which smelled of fresh air and pine and tar and salt and a masculine musk that was vaguely familiar. She took a second to place it.
"Cadell!" she exclaimed, lowering the register of her voice. She pulled back slightly to look into his face as she made the shift to Welsh. "I'd all but forgotten that you were here, brother."
Cadell grinned and swept Rhian's tricorne off her head to ruffle her auburn hair. His own hair, nut-brown like his skin, curled from the humidity and framed his face in such a way that the easy features were made to look younger than they were. Cadell was three years Rhian's senior, and alongside Derwydd, the stable-hand, had taught her everything good she had learned about life while growing up.
"It's good to see you, little one," he replied cheerfully, and stepped back to view her in her entirety. "You've lost weight."
Rhian shrugged indifferently. "It's been a rough month. I'm still recovering from a stab wound to the stomach."
Cadell's features immediately darkened, becoming hard. He was silent a moment. Rhian could see the storm brewing inside him, and knew what his next sentence was going to be before he could say it.
"It was the captain," she offered, and glanced back toward the Jackdaw in time to see Connor and a limping Gregson begin to haul Edward's sorry carcass down below. "The one who was wounded. Seems he got his due."
Cadell snorted with disdain. "Indeed. If he survives his wound, he's to be executed along with the rest of the crew for desertion and piracy, among other things."
"Desertion?" Rhian watched as Cadell nodded.
"Oh, aye," he said. "He was a privateer in the King's service before the Treaty of Utrecht."
"As were many of them." Rhian nodded to the bound Jackdaws who were still on the pirate vessel's weather deck. "Many of them were pressed into service and found themselves unemployed after the Treaty. More of them were merchants before their vessels were taken, and were forced to sign the Shipboard Articles of Conduct, much like Estevan and myself." A thought hit her. "Oy, my violin's still on that ship."
Cadell stared at her for a moment. Then he barked a surprised laugh.
"Your violin?" he repeated as he began to steer her toward where the commander was standing. "You still have that old thing?"
Rhian nodded. "Aye, and it's in perfect working condition, despite all your efforts to the contrary. At least, it was until you lot decided to blow holes in that ship. Who knows how many pieces it's in, now?"
"Well, I'm sure there's another nice violin somewhere on board that you can fiddle around with until we can get you a new 'un of your own," Cadell retorted with a roll of his eyes. Then he turned to the commander. "Lieutenant Maynard, may I properly present my brother, Drystan Yates? He is one of the ones who helped us take the pirates' ship."
The Lieutenant turned to face them, and Rhian saw that he had dark hair and cool blue eyes. She had not noticed, before, as occupied as she had been with subduing the Jackdaws. He might have been handsome if not for the severity of his expression.
"Drystan Yates, sir," Rhian said, saluting. "Able Seaman and violinist formerly of the H.M.S. Rose. We were captured out of Tortuga just over three years ago by Spanish privateers, and our Captain and first mate killed. These pirates killed most of the Spanish crew 20 days and more ago."
The Lieutenant observed her for a moment. Rhian did not like the way that his eyes lingered upon her body.
"I am First Lieutenant Robert Maynard," the man said eventually. "I take it that you were coerced into signing the Shipboard Articles of Conduct?"
"Aye, sir."
"That's what your Spaniards said, too," Maynard replied evenly. He studied her a moment longer, and then turned away. "Be thankful that they acted to draw our attention, else we might not have found you as we did." He waved Cadell away. "Dismissed, Master Yates. Find your brother something decent to wear. He's not a pirate any longer."
"Aye, sir." Cadell and Rhian saluted in unison, and then turned to go below. Once they were out of earshot, Rhian shivered forcefully.
"Goodness, but he has a cold stare," she muttered to her brother, easily changing back to Welsh. Cadell chuckled sympathetically.
"Aye, he does." He shrugged. "He's fair, at least, even if he does seem to have a liking for the cabin boys."
Rhian shuddered. "That's what I'm worried about." She caught his eye. "Did you see the way he was eying me? Like I was a bloody fresh piece of meat straight off the butcher's block."
Cadell's features darkened. "Aye, I did. But don't worry, he won't make a move on you while I'm here. He knows that I'd sabotage the ship somehow if he did."
Rhian gave a chuckle to lighten the mood. "Good to know." She eyed him. "That big, dark man who was guarding the Captain. He's a captive like I was. He shouldn't be executed with the Captain and crew."
"He protected the Captain. Therefore, he's loyal to the pirates and not to the Crown."
"He didn't know you, else he wouldn't have resisted. I know that much about his character, and can vouch for him being the most innocent and moral person on that ship. He's a strange one. From the American colonies, he is, so he's a subject of the Crown."
Cadell pondered that for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"I'll bring it to the Lieutenant when I see him next," he promised. "But keep in mind, I've no bearing on how he conducts himself or the executions."
Rhian nodded, features neutral. "Of course. I know that you'll do your best."
Cadell glanced sharply at his sister, and then shook his head.
"Still sharp as a knife, I see," he quipped, and pulled her under his arm, ruffling her hair again. "Let's get you some proper clothes and get you ship-shape again."
At last, Rhian allowed herself a chuckle.
"Sounds wonderful," she replied. "You don't want to know how old these slops are."
"Considering I recognize them, I'd say about six years or so."
"Damn, and I thought I'd get you..."
July 15, 1715.
Everything was dark. Everything was peaceful. For the most part, everything was quiet, but for the steady drip-drip-drip of water on the deck. The soft snores of sleeping men filled the air, accompanied by the creaking and groaning of wood, the swaying of hammocks, and the soft, soft sound of a footstep and a whisper as someone crept up on deck to use the beakhead for a midnight dump. Then, from the back of the hold came a soft groan, and another soft whisper of someone else gently shushing the person who had made the sound.
Not for the first time, Connor Kenway pursed his lips and sighed as he settled his palm on his grandfather's sweating forehead, saying another silent prayer for the older man's peaceful rest.
It had been 13 days since the ill-fated confrontation with the small British fleet. While Connor and Edward had managed to take out four of the enemy ships, Connor had been captured and Edward wounded before they could destroy the fifth and sixth ships and make good on a successful escape. The crew had been captured or killed. Worse, they had discovered too late that their friend, Rhian "Drystan" Yates, had turned traitor and orchestrated the entire encounter. The gorge still rose in Connor's throat at the thought of his former friend; betrayal was not something to which Connor was accustomed, and it was a feeling which he despised. Edward, meanwhile, had only been given a basic dressing for the massive wound in his back, where a shiver from one of the destroyed ships had driven straight through the lower lobe of his left lung and grazed the top of his kidney. Gibbs, the Jackdaw's surgeon and carpenter, had only been able to remove the wood and pack the wound with saltwater-soaked bandages before binding it up. He had not been given ample lighting or the tools to properly try, clean, and suture the wound. It had begun to fester after only a day or so.
Edward, consequently, was knocking on death's door.
Even now, looking at the Welshman in the almost nonexistent light of the hold, Connor could tell that Edward's skin was wax-white. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, and his lips, where they were not blood-flecked from his every gurgling breath, were just shy of being blue. His face was hot to the touch even though he shivered constantly from his raging fever. Also, he had become gaunt; days of not being strong enough or awake long enough to eat anything had seen him lose a decent amount of weight.
It would be a miracle, Connor mused, if his grandfather ever recovered from this.
As Edward groaned and gave a wet cough, Connor looked back down to the older man in time for that single cough to dissolve into a painful fit. Connor quickly raised Edward up so that he could choke out the blood more easily. Crimson stained his chest as his lungs seized and seized again. Connor watched helplessly and clutched the older man tightly to his chest as the first splotches became clotted streams mixed with a cloudy mucous. When the fit slowly died off, Edward's head lolled limply against Connor's shoulder, the fever heat there felt easily even through the thick fabric of Connor's shirt. He had long since discarded his belts, bandoliers, coat, and waistcoat, though the shirt and his sash had remained.
Connor shook his head sadly and reached down for the stained cloth at his side. Edward simply shivered weakly even in his unconscious state as Connor took a second to wipe the blood and mucous from the older man's bare, tattooed chest. It did little good.
Another soft groan tore itself from Edward's lips. Connor glanced at his grandfather's face to see the faintest glint of fever-glazed blue eyes.
"Edward?" Connor questioned softly. Edward's only reply was his wet, labored breathing, but he blinked slowly and his eyelids fluttered. His gaze twitched briefly in Connor's direction; his heavy blond head lolled against Connor's shoulder, and then the eyes closed again. He sagged a little more firmly against Connor's side and was still. The only signs of life were his ragged breathing and weak shivering. Connor swore under his breath and hoisted the other Assassin a little more firmly against him before leaning back against the Jackdaw's hull once more.
Still, it gave him a little hope to see that Edward had opened his eyes. It meant that the older Assassin was still clinging tenaciously to life. Connor knew that, were he in Edward's place, he might have given up long ago. He had to wonder what it was that kept Edward fighting like he did. Perhaps he was holding on for his daughter, or-
A quiet footstep caught Connor's attention. His tawny golden gaze, sharp as a knife, darted up to seek the source of the sound. His second Sight told him exactly where the approaching person was, and he growled lowly as he recognized the silhouette, the familiar gait, and the inherent grace with which the person moved.
It was Rhian.
What Connor did not know was why she still registered as blue in his Sight. She was an enemy, had proven it beyond any doubt, so why was it that his heart still told him that she was a friend?
"What in Atlantow's cursed name are you doing here?" he demanded angrily when she was within earshot. He gently eased Edward down to lay against the hull; the man coughed weakly, and Connor glanced back over to him to find that his half-lidded gaze was observing them hazily. His labored breathing had become shallow with awareness, and he choked out a bit of blood even as Connor watched. Connor looked back over to Rhian as she seemed to hesitate.
There came the sound of metal striking metal, and a second later, a small flame sputtered into existence. Her fair features, illuminated by the warm light, were stressed and worn.
"Connor," she whispered evenly, and approached them, pale eyes fixed on Edward. Connor put himself between her and Edward with a growl, and she halted. "How is he?"
"Dying." Connor spat the word at her. Rhian flinched visibly. "Atlantow will take him, soon, no thanks to you and your allies."
The auburn-haired woman took a breath and glanced away. Then she looked back at Connor, and her features were hard.
"Don't judge me," she hissed to him. "I did what I had to do."
"As what?" he demanded furiously. His features grew dark. "As a faithful servant of the crown? As a mercenary? As a traitor?" He rose to his feet, looming over her, utterly terrifying in his black rage. "Be gone before I kill you with my bare hands."
Rhian stared him down for a long moment. Then, as Connor took a deep breath and took a step toward her, she stepped right up to him, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw and clenching her fists at her sides.
"You won't kill me," she hissed. "You don't have the balls to do it."
In an instant, Connor's hand had flashed up and wrapped itself solidly around her throat, clamping down and cutting off her air as his other arm braced across her shoulders, forcing her back against the hull. He stared coldly at her as her eyes grew wide and she choked, hands scrabbling at his wrist. Connor leaned in close, features a feral snarl.
"You think that I lack the resolve to kill my enemies," he stated, voice a low, sibilant hiss. "You are wrong. I know that the greatest effect comes only with the opportune moment." He released her throat and shoved her back against the hull, face still only inches from hers. "The opportune moment has not arrived, yet."
She stared up at him for several long seconds. Then she moved.
In an instant, Connor found that their positions had been reversed; he was now the one pressed to the wall, rough wood chafing his cheek as a surprisingly strong arm wrapped around his neck, the point of a dagger digging into his kidney. He froze.
"Keep in mind that you're not the only one with training and secrets," she breathed, voice a sibilant hiss. She paused, briefly. He felt her glance towards Edward. The dagger pressed a little harder. "I'd kill you now and spare you the noose if I thought that it would help anything. As it is, all it would do would be to spoil the Lieutenant's fun and get me flogged in your place."
The dagger's press lightened. Connor gasped as she spun him around abruptly, shocked at the strength with which she was able to simply throw him around. Connor knew that he was no small man, and for such a diminutive woman to be able to just toss him about like she was? He had to wonder what sort of sorcery was taking place. The dagger, however, was now pressed to his throat, sharp, steady, and ready to slice deep with the slightest provocation. He held still, tawny gaze flicking over to Edward, who was watching the exchange with hazy eyes. Connor could see the worry that pinched those ashen features, and knew that Edward was lucid enough to know what was happening. As he turned back to Rhian, he saw her turn back to him, and knew that she, too, had been watching Edward. Her seafoam-green eyes, a pale golden-yellow in the lamplight, flicked from his eyes to his mouth and back again.
"Do us all a favor and don't try me," she whispered. Connor opened his mouth to give an angry retort.
Suddenly, there were lips pressed to his. Shocked, Connor's eyes shot open wide, and he grunted, trying to pull away. But Rhian would not let him go, mouth working his with an ease that spoke of some measure of experience. Despite his protests and despite the knife at his throat, Connor could not help but give a soft murmur of pleasure and relax into the kiss.
It was... it felt... good. Foreign, but good.
Rhian gave a little sigh, and he felt her smile faintly. Then she slowly pulled away, looking pleased with herself as she ran her tongue across her lower lip. The knife disappeared, and she stepped away, patting his cheek before she vanished into the darkness of the hold, leaving the lantern behind. Connor stared after her, dazed, for a long moment before he realized that something felt different. Frowning with confusion, he absently placed a hand over his stomach where he kept the Dagger, to reassure himself of its safety. Connor felt the color drain out of his face, and he pressed his hand more firmly to his belly before checking down his pants, to no success.
The Dagger was gone.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed softly, turning and punching the hull so hard that he split his knuckles. Rhian had stolen the Dagger right out of his pants while he was distracted by her kiss. Fury roared through him, hot and cold at the same time. That was the second time that he had fallen for her deception.
There would not be a third.
It was as he took a seat beside Edward again that he realized that there was still something down his sash. Frowning, he reached inside the red fabric and felt around until his hand brushed against a cloth-wrapped bundle. Connor's heart pounded as he drew it out and gingerly pulled the thin cloth away from the items within. When he saw what was inside, he frowned in confusion. Shaking his head, he turned to his right, where Gibbs was curled up in the corner. The old carpenter-come-surgeon had been dozing soundly when Rhian had arrived, but now he was observing Connor with curiosity.
"Whatcha got there, lad?" Gibbs asked quietly as Connor beckoned him over. In the dim light from the lamp, Connor showed Gibbs the contents of the bundle.
"Tobacco, a knife, and a small jar of turmeric," Connor explained. "And a lime. I do not understand the significance, but we should use the cloth to replace Edward's bandages."
As he made to do just that, Gibbs gave a hissed little exclamation and grabbed Connor's hands. Connor nearly recoiled from the touch before he reminded himself that Gibbs was not a stranger. Gibbs's features lit with a smile and he gave a little chuckle.
"Lad, tha' boy jus' gave us a way to 'elp th' Captain," he stated, much to Connor's confusion.
"Excuse me?" Connor questioned.
"'Elp me turn 'im on 'is stomach," Gibbs countered, and once Connor had done so, Gibbs spread the ingredients out beside Edward's arm. Glazed blue eyes gazed at the items as ragged lungs gave a quiet cough, but Edward said nothing and did nothing, most likely too exhausted and delirious to really register what was happening around him.
The entire left side of Edward's back was swollen, hard, and hot to the touch. Connor knew that it was because of the infection. Still, it was not a pretty sight when they gingerly unwrapped the wound. Tendrils of red spread out from the puncture in every direction, and yellow pus oozed from the hole with the slightest touch. Edward groaned faintly. Connor saw his grandfather wince as Gibbs pressed on the area around the wound.
"Th' turmeric an' tobacco are to 'elp drain th' wound," Gibbs explained as he took up the knife. "Th' lime's ta clean it. An' the knife's ta widen it so's we kin git all th' splinters 'n' cloth outta there. Bring me tha' lantern."
Connor did as he was told, settling the lantern nearby. The soft, golden light illuminated the wound and allowed them to see it more clearly, though it was still not nearly as good as sunlight was. The lime was used first, with Gibbs halving it and squeezing some of the juice onto the skin around the wound. He rubbed it around and wet the area. Then he took up the knife again. Connor could not watch as Gibbs set the knife to Edward's inflamed skin; all he could do was to hold his grandfather down as the older man clenched his eyes shut and groaned and shook with the pain. It took a half-hour or so for Gibbs to widen the wound and clean it out properly, making sure to get all the splinters and cloth he could see. Then he sat back, satisfied, and opened the jar of turmeric.
The pungent odor of the spice met Connor's nose. It was not the freshest turmeric he had ever seen, but it was far from being spoiled, and Gibbs proclaimed that it would work well enough. As Connor watched, Gibbs took a little water from their small ration and mixed it in the palm of his hand with about half the jar of turmeric. It formed a thick paste, which Gibbs then smeared over the seeping wound and covered with a bandage. Connor closed the jar again as Gibbs sat back, satisfied, and laid a hand on Edward's sweating forehead. Edward, himself, had made few real sounds during the procedure.
"Ye did well, laddie," Gibbs murmured to Edward as the younger man gave a soft moan. Then, to Connor, Gibbs said, "We'll change th' dressin' in an 'our 'nd an 'alf, an' then we'll get some 'ot water for th' tobacco."
Connor nodded silently, settling himself at Edward's side, and rested his hand on his grandfather's back between his shoulder blades, feeling the play of his muscles with every weak breath. Even Edward's heartbeat was weak, but it was holding steady so far. It would be a long wait. The best thing to do would be to get some sleep, if possible, and allow Gibbs to treat Edward. But Connor's mind would not allow him to rest.
Why had Rhian helped them? Why had she betrayed them? Had she betrayed them? If so, then why had she kissed him and given him medicine? Why, why, why...?
Connor had no answers.
July 20, 1715.
Edward was awake. How he knew this, he was not certain. But he was awake, and that was more than he had been able to say for a long time.
It seemed as though an eternity had passed since the last time he had been able to tell dream from reality. Lucidity had been a fleeting thing. There had even been times when Edward had been convinced that his dreams were, in fact, reality, and when reality had felt like dreams. Take, for instance, that night when he could have sworn he had seen Drystan kiss Connor. That never would have happened in real life, so therefore it must have been a dream. Then, of course, there was the fact that he was still alive. How he knew this, he could not say. But he was alive, and would have thought that that must have been a dream but for the pain that he felt throbbing through the entirety of his body. Somehow, he was moving. He swallowed, feeling ill.
Edward opened his eyes.
Immediately, he shut them again, blinded by the bright light of the mid-morning sun. It seemed as though it was no special time, but they had brought him up on deck for whatever reason, and that was confusing enough without adding in the fact that he could not find Connor anywhere. Edward cracked his eyes open again, blinking furiously in the bright light. No, Connor was not present. Instead, Edward was being supported by Gibbs on one side and by Gregson on the other. His quartermaster was limping horribly, and it was that unsteadiness of gait that had woken him. Gibbs looked pale, as well, though Edward could not tell whether that was from the lump on his forehead or from nerves of some kind.
It was then that the pain hit him full-force. Edward gasped and crumpled before he could gain mastery over his reaction. Gibbs gave a startled exclamation as the motion threw Gregson off-balance, and then they went down, toppling to the deck in unison to land painfully on their knees. A round of raucous laughter met Edward's ears as he doubled over, hands clenched into fists, fever-hot forehead pressed to the deck as tears welled in his eyes and sweat quickly beaded upon his skin to drip down the sides of his face. Edward clenched his eyes shut.
God Almighty, it hurt.
His lungs seized, and he choked and coughed until he tasted blood and spat it onto the sanded deck. He was still hacking when two pairs of hands grabbed him roughly by the arms and jerked him upright. Agony blazed through him, and he could not bite back the cry that erupted from his mouth. His head ached and rushed. He nearly blacked out. But a sharp slap to his face brought him back to full lucidity, and he gasped for air as he was made to stare at the man who they had dragged him out to see.
He was a young man, probably not much more than ten years Edward's senior, dressed in a coat of about the same grade of cloth that was affordable by a naval officer of middling rank. Underneath his navy-blue greatcoat was a long waistcoat, and beneath that, a cravat, shirt, and breeches. Stockings, boots, and a pistol completed the image. His dark hair was straight but for where it curled from the humidity, framing his cheeks in a way that would have softened his countenance but for the thick beard on his jaw and the hard press of his lips. His blue eyes stared with derision at Edward as someone grabbed his ponytail and yanked his head up.
Edward, for his part, was just trying to hold onto what little dignity he still possessed. There was an angry roiling in his stomach, which was protesting the pain that had all but consumed him. Any second, now, he feared he would vomit all over the deck. His entire body trembled with the effort of restraint.
The man gave a tight-lipped smirk.
"So the great Edward Kenway has seen fit to make my acquaintance at last," he sniped, and gave a most ridiculous bow. "I am Lieutenant Robert Maynard in His Majesty's Service."
Edward stared at the man for a moment, dazed mind having trouble comprehending his words. Then he politely spat a clot of blood and mucous in the man's face.
Maynard's eyes narrowed in disgust and disapproval as he gingerly used a handkerchief to wipe his face.
"That was rather impolitic of you, pirate," he stated evenly. Edward could do no more than glare ineffectively at the man. Maynard sighed. "Oh, well. I suppose that it doesn't matter much, seeing as we were about to execute you, anyway." He straightened and backed away, looking rather disinterested. "For the crimes of insubordination, desertion, theft, murder, bribery, smuggling, piracy, looting, pilfering, plundering, sailing under false colors, impersonating a priest of the Catholic Church, arson, kidnapping, poaching, brigandage, depravity, depredation, and general lawlessness, you're to be keelhauled three times. Fitting, I believe, for a pirate to die by one of his own punishments."
Edward took a few quick gulps of air, feeling sick yet again as the ache in his head turned to a relentless pounding.
Keelhauling. What a way to go. Despite Maynard's supposition, Edward had never had anyone keelhauled; it was a gruesome thing, to stuff an oil-soaked cloth in a man's mouth to keep him from drowning, and then tie weights to his feet, tie him to the main yard, and drag him under the ship's keel so that the barnacles on the hull stripped the flesh from his body. He had only seen it done once, and that had been enough for him. Most of the punishments he meted out were limited to mastheading and making people kiss the wooden lady. The most extreme thing he had ever had to do was to tie a murderer to the corpse of the man he had killed and have them both thrown overboard. The man had drowned as a result; a fitting punishment.
Edward had only ever heard of one man surviving being keelhauled. He entertained no notions of doing the same, as sick and wounded as he was. If he had any sort of luck in the world, he would die during the first pass.
Maynard turned to face him, suddenly.
"Unless, of course, you decide to work with us," he said. Edward blinked slowly, uncomprehending. Maynard sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Very well, since you don't seem to be intelligent enough to comprehend: in exchange for information, I will reduce your punishment."
Edward was silent. The bile burned his stomach as it churned furiously, and he knew without a doubt that he was going to be ill. As Maynard stepped toward him, Edward fought to spare himself the indignity of getting sick in front of his men and Maynard's crew alike. It was no use.
His stomach heaved. A foul-smelling mix of bile, blood, water, and mucous splattered the deck and Maynard's boots alike, and Edward sagged in his captors' grips with both relief and pain. His stomach heaved again. This time, it only hit the deck. Maynard had moved back, face a mask of revulsion. As Edward gasped for breath around the inferno raging through his back and innards, tasting vomit in his mouth and smelling it in his nose, he heard Maynard sniff.
"Rig him up."
Well, at least he would not have a headache to add to the torture.
The rough hands held tight around his arms as they yanked him to his feet, sending agony blazing up his spine. As they dragged him to the mainmast, already beginning to wind rope around his wrists, Edward found he had to laugh a little at the irony of it all. Keelhauled to death on his own beloved ship.
What an epitaph.
At least Connor was not present to witness this. Edward would not wish for his friend to see his end, ignoble as it was to be. The main yard loomed above him. They had already tied a rope to it, and the pile of weights and a bucket of oil were waiting by the familiar gunwale. Within moments, they had looped the rope through his bound wrists, and then tied it around his waist for good measure. They sat him down on the gunwale, back to the sea, and secured the weights around his ankles.
"All present here bear witness," Maynard announced, coming up to stand in front of Edward. Edward, for his part, sat there, hunched over, barely able to lift his head for the weakness of his body. "In penance for crimes committed against God, the Crown, and humanity: on this day, the 20th of July in the year of our Lord 1,715, this man, Kenway, Christian name Edward, is to be keelhauled thrice or until dead. May God have mercy on his soul. In the name of God and King George, let it be done."
Edward's head was jerked up again by his ponytail, his jaw forced open, and a foul-tasting rag was stuffed into his mouth. He choked and gagged for a second, the oil sliding across his tongue and down his throat. Then a hand was on the center of his chest, pushing.
Edward was airborne for half an instant. Then the water closed over him, and he closed his eyes, praying quickly as he was dragged under by the Jackdaw's wake.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
The hull, pimpled in barnacles and glistening with weeds, loomed ever closer.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
Edward's left shoulder and then his back crushed against the hull. He screamed into the gag, eyes flying wide. The wake from the ship tugged at him, pulling him down, down. White-hot agony ripped through him as the flesh was scoured from his bones.
Andleadusnotintotemptationbutdeliverusfromevil-
He screamed again just to relieve some of the stress.
ForThineisthekingdomandthepowerandthegloryforevera ndever-
The pain grew to blinding levels. The rope around his hands went slack suddenly. He sank down into blackness even as unconsciousness snagged him and dragged him into sweet oblivion. Edward's vision went dark.
Amen.
The balmy waters of the Caribbean Sea closed over Connor's head. Above him, the sounds of the battle that had erupted on the Jackdaw's deck died away. Instead, watery quiet descended with him as he strained to see through the blue, blue waters, searching desperately for his grandfather's figure.
There.
Edward was sinking quickly, the weights around his ankles doing their job all too well. Blood streamed freely from his left shoulder and his already-injured back, clouding the blue with muddy crimson. Connor swam hard for his target. His Hidden Blade was ready at hand to cut away the weights. He had to get Edward out of the water before he drowned and before the blood attracted sharks. The gap between them closed too slowly for his liking. Still, Connor fought onward. The pressure of the water around him increased; his lungs constricted. He reached out.
Tan fingertips felt the lightest brush of feather-soft blond hair.
Connor reached down and seized Edward around the chest. The older man was completely limp in his grasp, blood scalding in the cool water. In a heartbeat, Connor's Hidden Blade was out. He ran it easily through the ropes binding Edward's wrists, and then pulled himself down his grandfather's limp body to his ankles. Those ropes, too, were swiftly cut. Edward sprang free, already rising upwards. Connor grabbed him around the waist and rushed for air.
Was this how Edward had rescued Connor? he wondered. Edward had told Connor that he had dragged his near-dead carcass from the water, unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig. Funny how things had come full circle. As it was, Connor's air was nearly gone by the time his face broke the surface. He sucked in a desperate breath and dragged Edward up so that he was in the open air. A rope was dangling in the water at the side of the ship, the same one which they had been using to keelhaul Edward. Still, it was better than nothing, and Connor did not have the strength to tread water with Edward in hand. That was not even to mention the fact that they were about to be left behind.
He reached out and grabbed the rope.
Immediately, he felt the tug in his shoulder, but it was enough that Edward pulled clear of the water with little effort. Connor wasted no time in winding the rope securely around his arm and reaching up to tug the oil cloth from Edward's mouth. The man reflexively sputtered out a mouthful of water, but was otherwise alarmingly still.
Connor was not a Christian. Even so, he knew that it would be a true miracle if Edward survived this latest injury in addition to the first he had sustained.
"Atlantow may yet take you," he muttered to his grandfather, "but not before I have fought with all my might to keep you here a while longer."
There was a tug on the rope. He glanced up to see a pair of familiar faces working to pull them aboard. The sounds of the fight had died off. In the near distance, he could see smoke. As he was hauled over the gunwale and Edward was taken from him, Connor took a second to gaze into the face of the friend he had thought that he had lost.
"Drystan," he murmured in some amazement.
Rhian Yates gave him a strained little smile and a tiny nod, already kneeling down beside Edward's motionless form to examine the damage done. Beside her, the young man who had stood behind her upon their capture reached out a hand to help Connor stand. Connor eyed it with some hesitation.
"For the moment, I've been forced to sign the Jackdaw's shipboard Articles of Conduct," Yates informed him with a small smile that was all but identical to Rhian's. "As my brother tells me, that should safely exclude me from paying the hangman's fee when I return to Wales. Cadell Yates, Ship's Master to the H.M.S. Sophie. Unofficial pirate, now."
Connor nodded, and pushed himself to his feet under his own power, refusing Cadell's offer of help. It was taboo to touch a stranger, and Connor was not about to break that for something which he could do by himself. As he got his feet under him, he glanced around to find Rhian murmuring soft pleas to Edward. She had turned him on his belly, his head turned to the side. Even as Connor watched, she tenderly stroked a few tendrils of wet, blond hair out of the unconscious man's face.
"C'mon, rhocyn, breathe for me," she whispered, stroking his scarred right cheek, face close to his and seemingly uncaring for anyone who might be watching. "Please. Please breathe for me."
Connor knelt beside his grandfather, eying him anxiously. The bandages over the wound in Edward's mid-back had mostly shredded from his brief encounter with the Jackdaw's barnacle-crusted hull, but they had thankfully provided some measure of protection for him. His left deltoid and the pale stretch of his shoulders, however, had not fared as well. Deep scratches gouged the skin, bleeding freely. Still, overall, the damage was not as horrible as it easily could have been.
The most worrying thing was that Edward was still not breathing on his own.
"Breathe for him," Connor instructed. When Rhian looked up at him, he saw the sheen of tears in her seafoam-green eyes. "It is the best that we can do for now until he is able to do so on his own."
Rhian nodded quickly and, bending her face to his, pressed her mouth to Edward's, working his lips apart so that she could push air into his lungs. Connor watched his grandfather's back rise slightly as Rhian breathed for him. Then he watched it deflate again, and then-
Edward choked.
Rhian pulled back reflexively, hands cradling Edward's cheeks as the blond man hacked out seawater and blood across the deck and her knees. Connor reached out and turned Edward onto his side so that he could breathe easier. As the coughing died off, Rhian shifted so that Edward's head was lying in her lap, and though a severe grimace twisted Edward's features and he groaned faintly, every muscle in his body tensing, she stroked his hair gently. Even as Connor watched, he noticed Edward begin to slowly relax.
Rhian turned to Connor.
"We need to get him to his cabin and have Gibbs look at him," she informed him quietly. "Maynard's men have been repairing the Jackdaw since the battle. It should all be ship-shape and Bristol fashion."
Connor nodded and went to retrieve Gibbs. The elderly surgeon, while he was busy with tending the crew's wounds, did promise to come see Edward as soon as they had him squirreled away in his cabin. Rhian looked up to Connor as he returned.
"Can you carry him on your own?" she questioned. Connor nodded. "I'll get his legs."
As they worked on carrying Edward down to his cabin, Connor kept his eye on Rhian, looking for any signs of deception aside from the obvious. It said something that he could not find any.
Edward groaned as they laid him upon the cot in the captain's cabin, and the next time Connor looked at his grandfather's face, he found the ocean-blue eyes to be open. The glaze to them showed his pain and illness, however. It was likely that Edward was less than lucid. Again, Connor went for Gibbs. This time, the surgeon accompanied him back to the cabin, his proper tools and medicines in tow, and he set about treating Edward's wounds with a care that Connor had hardly ever seen from him before.
By the time it was over with, Edward had resumed his unconscious state, breathing still uneasy but slightly less ragged than before. Rhian gazed anxiously at him as Gibbs leaned back, stretching.
"Well?" she demanded, worry making her voice higher than normal.
"Well, what?" Gibbs repeated, glaring at her. "You didn't seem to care abou' 'im when you betrayed us all."
Rhian sighed painfully. "I did what I had to do. Found an ally, got Connor free, got Edward the turmeric and tobacco and such, and set fire to the Sophie's rigging to create a distraction so that the Jackdaws could mutiny."
"Yet," Gibbs observed, "wasn't 'til after the Cap'n 'ad already been thrown o'er."
"I moved as quickly as I could," Rhian maintained stolidly. "I know that you don't trust me right now, and for good reason. But this ordeal wasn't my fault. At least, not entirely." She turned back to Edward. "And the only man I have to answer to is lying right here. Now, I'll ask nicely: is he going to live, or not?"
Gibbs shrugged, rising to go.
"It's outta me 'ands," he stated. "'S a miracle 'e's survived as long as 'e 'as. Who knows what this'll do to 'im?"
And he vanished.
Rhian turned miserably back to watching over Edward, and Connor closed the door behind Gibbs before he took a second to observe his friend.
What was that look in Rhian's expression? It was concern, certainly, but it was quite a lot of concern for a friend to show. In fact, it was borderline to blatant worry. She looked positively ill with it. Connor did not know much about other cultures' ways of showing emotion, but he did know that this much worry from a woman usually only manifested when her man was in mortal danger. Did Rhian view Edward as being hers? Or was it just a strong friendship that she felt for him? If she felt anything for Edward, then why had she kissed Connor that night in the hold? Why had she held him so close and looked at him so passionately? Connor felt nothing more than friendship for her, certainly, but he was curious. Unless he was sorely mistaken...
Could Rhian possibly be in love with Edward?
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 (I don't even remember if this is in the chapter, honestly.)
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
A note on Connor's religious references: Atlantow, as far as I can tell, was the Mohawk/Algonquin god of death and evil. After Christianity was brought to the Native Americans, Atlantow became more or less synonymous with the Devil. Connor doesn't mean that he thinks Edward's soul is condemned; he's just saying that Edward might be taken, soon, by the god of death, though Connor will fight for Edward's life.
A note on Edward's religious references: During the 1700s, many people were still stoutly devout. Pirates and sailors in particular were superstitious to a fault, and highly religious. Given that Edward spent his childhood in Wales and his teenage years in England, it would make sense that he would most likely be part of the Church of England, if anything. Or possibly some other Protestant denomination. Most likely not Roman Catholic. Thus, his prayers.
A note on Lt. Robert Maynard: Robert Maynard was the Lieutenant responsible for Blackbeard's death in 1718. Here's he's presented as a capable but arrogant British Lieutenant whose tastes are a little questionable. It does not reflect upon the real-life Robert Maynard.
A note on pirate punishments: Mastheading was making a sailor climb to the top of a mast's rigging during a storm; obviously, this was terrifying and sometimes resulted in death. "Kissing the wooden lady" was when a sailor had his arms tied around a mast for a period of time. Keelhauling was one of the most extreme punishments, where the miscreant had weights tied to his ankles, had an oil-soaked rag shoved in his mouth so that he wouldn't drown, and was tied to the main yard (a yard is a beam that held a sail up) before being thrown overboard and dragged under the ship's keel three times. The barnacles on the ship's hull would strip the flesh from his bones, and this punishment was usually fatal. Also, a common punishment for murder was to tie the murderer to the victim's corpse and throw them both overboard. Since most sailors (pirates included) could not swim, this was usually fatal.
Flogging was not a common pirate punishment, since most pirates hated almost any resemblance to the Navy, where flogging was a common punishment.
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