Chapter Text
Four days after. The Aquila.
The first man Desmond sees when he rouses from his sleep is a hard-faced man staring through him with distant eyes and only a single arm. It is dark and the lantern strikes light from behind the man seated beside him, and he wishes that he can bring himself to fall asleep once more. Instead he stares unknowingly at the man’s stump of a left arm, wondering how he had lost it. He moves on to examining the room he finds himself in, seeing medicines and ethers lining the shelves and scrolls, maps, and tomes piled in stacks in every inch of the floor.
“You are awake,” the man beside him mutters, his sharp gaze now focusing back at Desmond. He wants to squirm, to turn away, but his body reacts and he feels pain shooting up his from his abdomen and his chest. His throat begins to burn with the tell-tale signs of upchucking. Fortunately, the other man quickly holds a wooden bucket to his mouth to do his business, quicker than Desmond thinks it is possible for a lame man to move. The man, a doctor it seemed, sneers at him in an unfamiliar accent. “Do not move around too much, sir lest you wish more the rest of your insides to leave your wracked body.”
He heaves and wipes his mouth and his sweat coated brow before falling back into the blankets and pillows which he’s risen from. In his hazed stupor, he doesn’t realise the doctor speaking to him in quiet tones as he returns the bucket under his cot.
“My brother’s life better be worth yours, Mister Miles.”
For a moment, he remembers nothing and he feels indignant but not surprised. He’s taken lives of many men, both of sea and of land, of armies and of civilians. Is this doctor’s brother so different?
But then he remembers. He remembers the high ringing his ears generated when the walls of Fort George had been blown to bits. He remembers the soldiers waving their muskets in terror, fleeing the fire and leaving him with his head tied to the noose and his hands ties behind his back. He remembers seeing Governor Vidic’s face the last time, the old man’s powdered wig skewed as his soldiers take him away to safety. He remembers turning down the deal to join them before that, earning him the target at the gallows in the first place.
And he remembers himself being rescued, his face breathing in a man’s tattered leather coat and passing out to the sound of the walls collapsing and another man screaming in agony and telling them to go and leave him before the whole place goes down. When he stares back into the doctor’s piercing eyes, it is as though the man’s read his mind. He turns away in shame, knowing that an innocent died trying to save him from his death sentence.
Kadar is the name of the doctor’s brother. He knows and it is not from asking. He remembers his rescuer yelling the man’s name before he passed out.
“I offer my sincerest apologies, Doctor-”
“Malik.” It is curt and Desmond understands his bitterness. He pushes himself out of his chair and pulls the blankets up to Desmond’s chin smoothly with his one hand before taking off. “Rest, Mister Miles. I’m off to inform the Captain of your awakening and please, try not to expel the rest of your stomach out trying to move. It would be difficult enough for me as it is to clean up any sort of mess.”
Desmond breathes in the blanket, rattled by the doctor’s very clear malcontent for him.
“How long have I been out?” he coughs.
“This is the fourth day. Again, as I’ve said, rest, Mister Miles.”
He cannot bring himself to fall back asleep and instead he pulls the blanket up to his head, wishing not to look at the dark, dustiness of the clinic any further. He wonders what has happened since the day he was meant to be sentenced, and he wonders why on Earth these men would rescue him of all people. He’s heard of the Aquila before, coined the Ghost of the North Seas, by his captain at the time, Daniel Cross, who never could follow the impossibly fast ship and take it down as it was meant to be. It was a pirate ship after all, known for looting and plaguing Crown’s troops to the point that it’s become a problem.
And now he finds himself being taken care of on it, but for what reason?
When he hears boots walking about towards him, he pulls his blanket down to see the doctor and a beast of a man, clothed in a simple yet fine blue coat with what appeared Native motifs on his sleeves, walking back into the clinic. He can only assume that this is the notorious Captain of the Aquila that’s been commanding this ship for as long as Desmond’s can remember.
“Thank you, Malik. Is it all right if I speak with him alone?”
The Captain’s voice is soft-spoken and gentle. If he wants to be honest, it is not what he expected considering the ship’s reputation. Malik waves him away and retreats when the Captain takes the chair and sits on it, leaning forward on the backrest with his arms. Odd. When he tries to sit up, the Captain nudges him back down into his cot instead.
“Please Mister Miles, it is not best for you to move around. There is only so much a roll of bindings can do to keep your ribs healing well and intact.”
“Thank you, Captain…?”
“Connor, Connor Kenway. Just Connor is all right, Mister Miles. We refer not to titles but to names on this ship.”
Odd. Not only does the name ‘Kenway’ sound familiar to him, some captains and authorities would relish and thrive on the title. He finally manages to look up at Connor’s face and is more than surprised to see not an old man wise with lines of experience on his face but a young man instead. Well, younger than he was at least. There are speckles sprayed on the Captain’s dark face and his eyes, while they bear into Desmond, are not menacing nor intimidating, merely curious and somewhat familiar to him.
“Why am I here, Mister Kenway- er, Connor?”
“Because we extricated you from an attacked we launched on Fort George at the time of your execution.”
“But why?”
“Because we were contracted into doing so by a good friend of my father’s. He had paid us a hefty sum to assist us in our further exploits.”
Desmond scowls, if he hasn’t been serving for one company, he’s forced to serve on another. It makes him sick, thinking that he’s been passed around between these brigades for the whole of his commission. He feels like a piece of meat because of it.
“It is not for the reason you think, Mister Miles. We serve no army, and we take instead to loot them and keep them at bay. You were saved because your father had asked us personally.”
“W-what?” Desmond blurts. He does not expect that, he does not expect that his father of all people would want him safe. Not after leaving him when he was but a teenager in the past. Their relationship had been rocky to say the least, and he honestly has no idea what his father’s been up to but never did he think that he’d still be in his father’s good graces. That man has never kept contact with him and here Captain Kenway was, telling him that he was rescued because of that same man he ran away from.
“General William Miles has asked us to save you as he knew the date of your execution,” Connor answered him, clearly unfazed by his abrupt, one-worded questions. “He is your father, he’s bound to care about you.”
There is a strange tone in Connor’s voice that Desmond picks up, a sort of longing and regret. He doesn’t question it and instead he presses his face against his blanket, dreading the thought of facing his father again. Not after nine years.
“You seem troubled.”
“I am. I may have fought in battles for both the Navy and the Army but facing my own father is something that I dread.”
Even when Connor is quiet, Desmond knows that he understands.
“He said that he wants you safe, Desmond.”
“Of course he did,” he bites out. The Captain begins to protest when he throws the blanket off of himself, and shakily pushing himself from the bed. His toes curl when his bare feet hit the dusty wooden floor and he hisses as he clutches at his bandaged side. The air is cold on his bare shoulder. “I need to get out of here-”
“Mister Miles I don’t think I can let you do that-”
“I mean this room, Captain. I can’t breathe, I need fresh air. Please take me to the deck.”
Connor obliges hesitantly, taking off his coat and setting it on Desmond’s shoulders before supporting the limping man as they walk out of the dark room.
Three days before. Kenway Manor, Boston.
Haytham Kenway feigns detached respect concerning many things, being a gentleman after all. He does not panic when a business deal goes awry nor does he panic when one his convoys come under fire and scrutiny by the Crown or the Continentals. While he sends his best men to right a mistake and get the job done, sometimes he goes himself, to personally see to it that the mistake is not repeated. His people respect and fear him for that.
Even after he finds out that his son captains the most notorious ship that plagues the north seas, he can only smile in pride. Not that he will ever show Connor, any semblance of love from any side between them is surely a blow to their dignities. It is easier to remain antagonistic towards each other.
But when a close friend of his turns up at his estate at midnight, soaking in the rain and freezing to death, Haytham notices himself caring far too much for his own good. He dismisses his own servants to attend to his guest, who is shaking by the fireplace and staring up at him with fear only the likes of a parent can give.
Something has happened to William Miles’ son, Desmond. The same Desmond who ran away from William nine years ago, and in turn became famous of his mastery of the cannons that they utilise at the British Navy, enough to hold a reputation of taking down Abstergo’s sixth fleet in one sitting and in one bottle of rum. Needless to say, Haytham was very proud of Desmond that day, seeing as Abstergo was and still is his biggest competition when it came to arms dealing. Unfortunately, William couldn’t share his enthusiasm seeing as his son was with the British Navy, the very men his commanders were trying to drive out from this land.
Haytham has seen Desmond grow up. After all, he and William had been friends for almost thirty years now. He wishes for what William and Desmond had with his own son: time and beginnings.
“What’s happened, William?” Haytham asks as he hands the other man a blanket and a cup of tea. “Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”
“They’ve taken him, Haytham.”
“Who’s taken him?”
William shakily brings the tea to his mouth, his voice flat in defeat. “The British Navy has Desmond. I’ve heard from a couple of my people that while he’d been tending to a bar in Jersey, they came for him with a business proposition.”
“Hasn’t he finished his time with them, though? He’s done enough damage to the Colonies’ soldiers as it is. I’m guessing they needed him for more work?”
“When he turned them down he was charged with high treason against the Crown. He’s to be hung at the gallows in New York three days from now.”
Haytham’s lips curl unpleasantly at the thought. He’s moved his business to the New World because of the freedom they can give him here, free from the overbearing authorities of the Crown and he's finally able to assist people who were in need of his services. The Sons of Liberty and their fight for freedom. Freedom is something that he values over his own business and he makes sure that his workers and servants have the right to it. But now the British come trampling on William’s son, persecuting him for exercising his right to make a choice even when he’s already given them his time. It is despicable, to say the least.
He knows what William needs his help for. Only he knows where to find Connor and that famed ship of his and the exemplary services that he offers. He sets down his tea and looks out into rain outside his study window.
"If we ride now, we might be able to catch him before he departs to God knows where,” he says stiffly and William nods, rising from his seat. Haytham holds a hand up to halt him and his grey eyes bear into William. “Connor values his rewards, William. No doubt you will be asked to pay a large sum in exchange for Desmond’s rescue.”
“I don’t have a choice, Haytham. If I could, I’d send my own men to save him but that would be suicide.”
No, William’s commanders would not approve of that. Desmond is a grown man who’s made his decision and now he is suffering the consequences of it, no matter how unfair they are. To send Patriot soldiers to rescue a former British serviceman from execution would be downright ludicrous.
“Stay here, I’ll ready the horses, and I’ll get one of my attendants to get you a better coat. I can’t have you soaked to the bone on the way there.”
“You have my gratitude, Haytham.”
But as he walks away, he too is worried for Desmond’s safety. He remembers playing with Desmond and taking care of him when he was but a small child. The toddler sometimes taking his hat and hiding under his cape as they played pirates when Haytham visits William’s residence on occasion. Haytham wishes he could have had that sort of time with Connor, but then he’d been too late.
Twenty years too late.