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doesnotkneelEdward woke up to the sound of screaming.
In a rush he dragged his breeches on and hopped out of the room with his shirt unbuttoned, still pulling his boots on over bare feet. He knew that scream. It was his mother. Moments later her screams had died down to a sob, replaced by his father’s cursing. The soft cursing of a man who had been proved correct.
After Edward's fight at the Auld Shillelagh he had returned inside the tavern in order to do something about his cuts and bruises. To numb the pain, so to speak. What better way of doing that than with a drink or two? Thus, when he’d eventually arrived home he’d been in a bit of a state. By which he meant “state,” as in a man who looked as though he’d been in the wars — which he had, with bruises to his face and his neck, and his clothes ragged and torn. But also “state,” as in a man who had had far too much to drink.
Either one of these two things were likely to make Edward's father angry, so they argued. It involved some choice language in front of Edward's mother. Of course, Father was furious about that, and he felt the back of his hand for it. What had really enraged him was that the brawl, as he called it (because he wouldn’t accept that Edward’d been protecting a lady’s honour, and that he would have done the same in Edward's position), had all taken place during the working day. What he saw was them, exhausted from their labours; Edward, getting drunk and into fights, sullying the good name of the Kenways, and in this particular case storing up even more trouble for the future.
“The Cobleighs.” He’d thrown up his hands in exasperation. “That lot of bad bloody eggs,” he said. “It would have to be them, wouldn’t it? They won’t let it go, you know that, don’t you?”
Sure enough, Edward rushed out to the front yard that morning, and there was Father, in his work clothes, comforting mother, who stood with her head buried into his chest, sobbing quietly, her back to what was on the ground.
Edward's hand went to his mouth, seeing what had greeted them: two slaughtered sheep, their throats cut, laid side by side in the blood-darkened dust. They’d been placed there so it'd be obvious they weren’t the victims of a fox or wild dog. So that they'd know the sheep had been killed for a reason.
A warning. Vengeance.
“The Cobleighs,” Edward spat, feeling rage bubble like fast-boiling water within himself. With it came a sharp, stinging guilt. They all knew it was Edward's actions that had caused this.
Father didn’t look at him. On his face was all the sadness and worry you’d expect. Father didn’t like the Cobleighs, of course he didn’t — who did? — but he’d never had trouble before, either with them or anyone else. This was the first time. This was new to them.
“I know what you’re thinking, Edward,” he said. He couldn’t bear to look at Edward,just stood holding Mother with his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “But you can think again.”
“What am I thinking, Father?”
“You’re thinking it’s you who has brought this upon us. You’re thinking about having it out with the Cobleighs.”
“Well? What are you thinking? Just let them get away with it?” Edward indicated the two bleeding corpses on the dirt. Livestock destroyed. Livelihood lost. “They have to pay.”
“It can’t be done,” he said simply.
“What do you mean it can’t be done?”
“Two days ago, I was approached to join an organization — a Trade Organization, it was called.”
When Edward looked at his father, he wondered if he was seeing an older version of hisself, and may God strike him down for thinking it, but he fervently hoped not. Edward's father had been a handsome man once, but his face was lined and drawn. The wide brim of his felt hat covered eyes that were always turned down and tired.
“They wanted me to join,” he continued, “but I said no. Like most of the tradesmen in the area the Cobleighs have said yes. They enjoy the protection of the Trade Organization, Edward. Why else do you think they would do something so ruthless? They’re protected.”
Edward closed his eyes. “Is there anything we can do?”
“We continue as before, Edward, and hope that this is an end to it, that the Cobleighs will feel their honour has been restored.” He turned his tired, old eyes on Edward for the first time. There was nothing in them, no anger or reproach. Only defeat. “Now, can I trust you to get this cleared up, while I see to your mother?”
“Yes, Father,” he said.
Father and Mother made their way back into the cottage.
“Father,” Edward called, as they reached the door, “why didn’t you join the Trade Organization?”
“You’ll learn one day, if you ever grow up,” Father said, without turning.
And that, for the moment, was that.
[[ nfb, nfi, taken and adapted from the novelization of Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag. mentions of animal cruelty and death under the cut. ]]
In a rush he dragged his breeches on and hopped out of the room with his shirt unbuttoned, still pulling his boots on over bare feet. He knew that scream. It was his mother. Moments later her screams had died down to a sob, replaced by his father’s cursing. The soft cursing of a man who had been proved correct.
After Edward's fight at the Auld Shillelagh he had returned inside the tavern in order to do something about his cuts and bruises. To numb the pain, so to speak. What better way of doing that than with a drink or two? Thus, when he’d eventually arrived home he’d been in a bit of a state. By which he meant “state,” as in a man who looked as though he’d been in the wars — which he had, with bruises to his face and his neck, and his clothes ragged and torn. But also “state,” as in a man who had had far too much to drink.
Either one of these two things were likely to make Edward's father angry, so they argued. It involved some choice language in front of Edward's mother. Of course, Father was furious about that, and he felt the back of his hand for it. What had really enraged him was that the brawl, as he called it (because he wouldn’t accept that Edward’d been protecting a lady’s honour, and that he would have done the same in Edward's position), had all taken place during the working day. What he saw was them, exhausted from their labours; Edward, getting drunk and into fights, sullying the good name of the Kenways, and in this particular case storing up even more trouble for the future.
“The Cobleighs.” He’d thrown up his hands in exasperation. “That lot of bad bloody eggs,” he said. “It would have to be them, wouldn’t it? They won’t let it go, you know that, don’t you?”
Sure enough, Edward rushed out to the front yard that morning, and there was Father, in his work clothes, comforting mother, who stood with her head buried into his chest, sobbing quietly, her back to what was on the ground.
Edward's hand went to his mouth, seeing what had greeted them: two slaughtered sheep, their throats cut, laid side by side in the blood-darkened dust. They’d been placed there so it'd be obvious they weren’t the victims of a fox or wild dog. So that they'd know the sheep had been killed for a reason.
A warning. Vengeance.
“The Cobleighs,” Edward spat, feeling rage bubble like fast-boiling water within himself. With it came a sharp, stinging guilt. They all knew it was Edward's actions that had caused this.
Father didn’t look at him. On his face was all the sadness and worry you’d expect. Father didn’t like the Cobleighs, of course he didn’t — who did? — but he’d never had trouble before, either with them or anyone else. This was the first time. This was new to them.
“I know what you’re thinking, Edward,” he said. He couldn’t bear to look at Edward,just stood holding Mother with his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “But you can think again.”
“What am I thinking, Father?”
“You’re thinking it’s you who has brought this upon us. You’re thinking about having it out with the Cobleighs.”
“Well? What are you thinking? Just let them get away with it?” Edward indicated the two bleeding corpses on the dirt. Livestock destroyed. Livelihood lost. “They have to pay.”
“It can’t be done,” he said simply.
“What do you mean it can’t be done?”
“Two days ago, I was approached to join an organization — a Trade Organization, it was called.”
When Edward looked at his father, he wondered if he was seeing an older version of hisself, and may God strike him down for thinking it, but he fervently hoped not. Edward's father had been a handsome man once, but his face was lined and drawn. The wide brim of his felt hat covered eyes that were always turned down and tired.
“They wanted me to join,” he continued, “but I said no. Like most of the tradesmen in the area the Cobleighs have said yes. They enjoy the protection of the Trade Organization, Edward. Why else do you think they would do something so ruthless? They’re protected.”
Edward closed his eyes. “Is there anything we can do?”
“We continue as before, Edward, and hope that this is an end to it, that the Cobleighs will feel their honour has been restored.” He turned his tired, old eyes on Edward for the first time. There was nothing in them, no anger or reproach. Only defeat. “Now, can I trust you to get this cleared up, while I see to your mother?”
“Yes, Father,” he said.
Father and Mother made their way back into the cottage.
“Father,” Edward called, as they reached the door, “why didn’t you join the Trade Organization?”
“You’ll learn one day, if you ever grow up,” Father said, without turning.
And that, for the moment, was that.
[[ nfb, nfi, taken and adapted from the novelization of Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag. mentions of animal cruelty and death under the cut. ]]
