There were alarms going off all over town. People were getting up, scrambling about, being entirely too awake, the whole lot.

The advantages of living on an 18th century Spanish galleon were suddenly many, as Edward slept through that cacophony of alarm without a care in the world. For at least half an hour. Then Grim, bloody Grim, jumped onto the upper deck with too much vigor; the resulting shock sent a bottle tumbling off a shelf in Edward's quarters.

It shattered on the floor.

He jerked awake. "What on--"

Oh.

"Jaysus," Edward muttered, and turned over, and promptly fell back asleep.


[[ can be open if anyone wants to go wake up a bunch of pirates, I suppose. ]]

With Kidd's help, they explored the secrets of the island and charted their way 'round it. Edward was certain by now that he wanted to keep it: the cove, the island. Perhaps even run a fleet of his own from here one day, if he managed to capture enough ships.

( Now this has the makings of a mystery. )

They set their course. And yet, as they continued onwards, the sea turned greyer, and so did the skies. A few hours, and the open ocean had closed on one side with recognizable geography.

As the island appeared before them, Edward heaved a sigh.

"Suppose we'll have to break the new boys in about my alma mater," he said, and squeezed Adé's shoulder. Then he hurried down the deck to help guide the Jackdaw into its waiting slot, right beside that large metal ship and its smaller twin.

[[ can be open! everything under the cut adapted from Assassin's Creed: Black Flag cinematics. ]]

They set course south-east or thereabouts. Thatch said he’d seen this particular galleon lurking around the lower reaches of the Bahamas. They took the Jackdaw, and as they sailed they found themselves talking to James Kidd and quizzing him on his parentage.

( 'The bastard son of the late William Kidd, eh? Is that a true yarn you like spinning?' )

[[ taken from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. some gore under the cut. ]]

"Shouldn't we be makin' haste leaving this place?"

Edward draped himself back in his seat on the deck of the Jackdaw with a rakish grin. "We could," he said, "Or we could enjoy ourselves a few days of respite before getting back to the muck and the salt, aye? We've plenty of supplies in the hold."

Adé sighed and shook his head.

"Besides," Edward said, picking his mug of ale off the table, "We've earned some making merry, haven't we, boys?"

That got a hearty 'aye'. Thusly enabled, Edward took a large swig of his drink, grinned, and hopped up onto that table with the keen sense of grace he'd picked up from years of climbing around the rigging. "Then let's make something of it!"

The men - bar Adé, who was returning to the hold to shake his head, no doubt - cheered loudly.

Edward scraped his throat. "Now you're ready to sail for the Horn! Weigh hey--"" He waved his arms, and the men joined him for a loud "Roll and go!" before he continued alone, "Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn to be rollicking Randy Dandy-O!"

Hope you liked rowdy pirates singing shanties, island, because you could hear them from a mile away.

[[ open! ]]

Edward went straight to Governor Torres’s residence, a vast mansion set behind steep walls and metal gates well away from Havana’s hubbub. There he told the sentries, “Good morning. Mr. Duncan Walpole of England to see the governor. I believe he is expecting me.”

“Yes, Mr. Walpole, please enter.” That was easy.

The gates squeaked, a hot summer’s day sound, and Edward stepped through to be awarded with his first glance of how the other half lived. Everywhere were palm trees and short statues on plinths, and from somewhere the sound of running water. It was a marked contrast to the fortress, opulent where that had been grimy, gaudy where that had been forbidding.

As they walked, the two sentries stayed a respectful but watchful distance behind, and Edward's limited Spanish picked up fragments of their gossip: apparently Ed was a couple of days late; apparently he was an “asesino,” an assassin, and there was something about the way they said the word assassin that was odd. The way they stressed it.

They came into a courtyard. There were two men already there. Both were well-dressed, men of class and distinction. More difficult to fool. Close by them was a rack of weapons. One of them stood aiming a pistol at a target while the other cleaned a pistol.

( You're Duncan Walpole, Edward told himself. )

[[ taken from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]

[continues from here]

"Follow me, and I'll kill you!" the man yelled as he stumbled through the jungle at the greatest speed he was capable of.

It was a hollow threat. As far as Edward could tell, the man was so injured that his killing days were undoubtedly over - even if Ed didn't shove him off the ledge in the end.

The chase did not last long. When Edward stepped out into a clearing near the far end of the island, he found the man standing there, clutching his stomach wound. At the sound of Edward's approach, the man spun around, or tried to; it was the slow turn of an old man crippled with belly-ache.

A small, gleaming blade slid out of the man's sleeve, the desire to fight twisting his features. Useful, Edward thought: such a slide, such a gleam, would surely inspire dread in one's foes. If one were not a lethally injured man lost on a deserted island, at any rate.

It would have been better on him not to draw the blade. Now, or earlier, when they'd faced one another on the ship. If you try to kill someone, you'd better finish the job, right?

Bare minutes later, Edward laid his body to rest on the cold ground-- and immediately began to ( rifle through his pockets. )

[[ taken and adapted from both Assassin's Creed: Black Flag and its novelization. ]]

The Port of Nassau on New Providence Island was a kind of heaven.

No one felt Nassau, that little piece of the Bahamas, was theirs, so to speak. The people who roamed these seas, people who Edward saw increasingly as his own - they didn't think that way.

Nassau featured steep cliffs on one side flanking its long, sloping beach that swept down to a shallow sea—too shallow for Her Majesty’s men-of-war to get close enough for a bombardment. Its fortress on the hill overlooked a motley collection of shanty homes, huts and crumbling wooden terraces, the quayside where pirates and privateers discharged their booty and supplies.

Benjamin Hornigold was there — of course he was, he had helped establish it with Tom Barrow. Nassau had a wonderful harbour, where vessels enjoyed shelter from the elements and from their enemies. Making an attack even more difficult was the ships graveyard, where beached galleons and men-of-war—ships grounded by shallow waters — grounded, looted, burned, in many cases, their skeletal remains a warning to the unwary.

It was a place of peace for Edward. After the year-and-change he'd had under Dolzell's command, with Blaney making his life miserable, it had seemed as if he'd made a misjudgment, longing for the sea for so long. But under Edward Thatch's command, he'd flourished.

Blackbeard liked him; he called Edward a scrapper, liked having him around. Over the past few months, he'd taught Edward no small amount of tricks in the arts of using swords and pistols. For possibly the first time since Fandom, Edward found himself liking his life - liking it very much.

He was sailing with Thatch in July 1713 when the quartermaster was killed on a trip ashore. Two weeks after that, they received a message and Edward was called to the captain’s quarters.

“Can you read, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Edward said, and he thought briefly of Rapunzel, of Cosette. Where might they be now - somewhere in their kingdoms, perhaps France, or still on that time-lost island in strange waters?

Thatch sat at one side of his navigation table rather than behind it. His legs were crossed and he wore long black boots, a red sash at his waist and four pistols in a thick leather shoulder belt. Maps and charts were laid out beside him but something told Edward it wasn’t those he needed reading.

“I need a new quartermaster,” he said.

“Oh, sir, I don’t think..."

He roared with laughter, slapped his thighs. “No, son, I don’t ‘think’ either. You’re too young, and you don’t have the experience to be a quartermaster. Isn’t that right?”

Edward looked at his boots.

“Come here,” he said, “and read this.”

Edward did as he was asked, reading aloud a short communication with news of a treaty between the English, the Spanish, Portuguese...

“Does it mean . . . ?” Edward said, when he had finished.

“Indeed it does, Edward,” he said (and it was the first time he’d ever called Edward by his name rather than “son” or “lad"). “It means your Captain Alexander Dolzell was right, and that the days of privateers filling their boots are over. I’ll be making an announcement to the crew later. Will you follow me yourself?”

Edward would have followed him to the ends of the Earth but he didn’t say so. Just nodded, as though he had a lot of options.

Thatch looked at Edward. All that black hair and beard lent his eyes an extra penetrating shine. “You will be a pirate, Edward, a wanted man. Are you sure you want that?”

Honest truth, Edward didn't want to. He had hoped to become a man of quality, not an outlaw.

But he had nowhere else to go; there was no returning to Bristol for him without a pot of gold, not after all the bridges that had burned in those last few weeks back home.

He said nothing.

“We shall set sail for Nassau,” said Thatch. “We pledged to meet Benjamin should this ever happen. I dare say we shall join forces, for we’ll both lose crew in the wake of this announcement.

“I’d like you by my side, Edward. You’ve got courage and heart and skill in battle, and I can always use a man with letters."

At least that was flattering.

After a moment, Edward nodded.

He kept his face straight until he got back to his hammock. But then he found himself squeezing his eyes shut, attempting to vanquish the onset of tears.

He'd always thought he was meant for something better. To become someone of quality, with honour, the right way. For years he'd fought against the assumption that because he was a sheep farmer's son, he was doomed to stay a sheep farmer's son: that there was no honest way a man could claw his way up, regardless of quality.

But as it turned out, the naysayers had been right.

There was no honest way.

He would never be a man of quality. The best he could hope for was to become a man of means.

He sucked in a shallow breath. No, this was the way it'd have to be.

And from that moment on, Edward Kenway was a pirate.

[[ taken and adapted from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. ]]

The ship they were after was a merchant ship run by the East India Company. There’d been many rumblings below decks regarding the wisdom of the enterprise. They knew that by attacking such a prestigious vessel they were making themselves wanted men. But the captain had said there were only three naval warships and two naval sloops patrolling the entire Caribbean Sea, and that the East India Company’s ship, the Amazon Galley, was said to be carrying treasure, and that providing they brought the Galley to a halt in open water out of sight of land, they should be able to plunder the ship at their leisure, escape and be out of it.

Wouldn’t the crew of the Galley be able to identify them, though? Edward wondered aloud. Wouldn’t they tell the navy they’d been attacked by the Emperor? Friday had just looked at him. Edward didn’t care for that look.

They found it on the third day of hunting.

( Sail ho! )

Already his fingers were fiddling with Pritchard's knots but just as the ropes came away and slithered to the cabin floor, the door burst open. Standing in the doorway was Captain Dolzell. His eyes were wild. His sword was drawn. Behind him was a great commotion on the ship. Men who moments before had been ready to board the Amazon Galley, as organized a fighting unit as we could be, were suddenly in disarray.

Captain Dolzell said one word, but it was enough.

“Privateers.”


[[ nfb, nfi! taken from the Assassin's Creed: Black Flag novelization. TW for torture under the cut. ]]

Why couldn’t Edward be happy with her? Caroline had asked. But Edward was happy with her. Why couldn’t Edward be happy with his life? she’d asked. No, Edward wasn’t happy with his life.

He tried. He begged and pleaded with her. Pointed out that he was still her husband, that he was doing this for her. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.

She was worried about Edward being hurt. Edward replied that he would be careful; that he would return with coin or send for her. He told her he needed her faith, but it helped him none.

( It was the day Edward was due to leave... )

“Poison. That’s what you are,” Father said through clenched teeth, “poison. The ruin of our lives.”

“Father . . .”

“Get out of here,” he spat. “Get out of here. I never want to see you again.”

Mother stirred as though she was about to protest, and rather than face more upset — rather than be the cause of more upset — Edward mounted his horse and left.

[[ i finally remembered to do this. taken from the Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag novelization ]]