[Edward had known a little bit about the modern-day popular conception of pirates. He works for Zulius, he’s heard the fellow talk a bit about Hollywood pirates. Still, he hadn’t run into any depiction of them himself, so out of curiosity he digs up a few fictional titles about pirates, just to see what the fuss is all about.]
Blackbeard’s what now.
[He’s having a bad time so far. There’s a whole stack of novels on his table that vary from “classic” (Treasure Island, On Stranger Tides) to “good” (Daughter of the Pirate King, Pirate Latitudes) to…well. This.]
Who wrote this? Blackbeard’s Bride—this isn’t right. I knew Thatch, he wasn’t the sort of man who would whisk some woman away just like that. And—during Charles-Towne, at that! I was at Charles-Towne, all he wanted were some fucking medicines—he didn’t even kill anyone there, I did.
[He slams the offending book shut and pushes it off to the side away from him, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose with a clear disdain. And…grief. He’s grieving the man, like he knew him personally and actually liked him a lot.]
That’s how people see Thatch today? Bloody hell.
[two: the nonfiction wing]
[Well, if he hated that, now he’s got a copy of Johnson’s A General History of Pyrates and is leafing through the pages with a look of deep and utter annoyance. Then:]
He didn’t even bother to get some of the names right. If this is what passes for a history of pirates, no wonder the books on us are so unbelievably wrong. [Flip, flip, flip.] Where am I in all of this, anyway? I knew all these people he writes about. This has Vane, this has Rackham of all people—oh, he even wrote about Mary.
[He sounds noticeably sadder when he mentions Mary, and he stays on her entry for a little while longer before giving a tired laugh.]
Whoever wrote this didn’t know her very well. [Hadn’t known her fire, or her dedication to her cause.] Or Anne neither. [He pushes the book back into its slot, his heart sore from the reminder of those he’s lost, his mind a little troubled by his own lack of mention.
Might as well hit the records wing, he thinks.]
[three: the records wing || closed to Jinwoo]
[There are a lot of records on various pirates. Blackbeard’s here, along with Vane and Rackham and Bonny and Read and even Stede fuckin’ Bonnet of all people. None of it he has access to, though, so he spends a couple of hours poking around and looking up records belonging to his parents—farmers who’d lived a hard life, then died in Bristol. Well, his father died, but his mother still lives, and he knows after reading she won’t be happy to see him again.
Then, on a whim, he picks out a record for a Caroline Scott Kenway.
Reads it through, end to end. It’s when he comes to a certain page that his pencil drops.]
No. She— [His voice cracks on the pronoun, and his breath hitches in his throat.
They have a daughter. They have a daughter. Oh god, he’s a father, to a young girl who lives in England that he’s never even met.]
Jennifer. [He says her name, whisper-soft, tries to imagine her. Does she have his hair? Does she have Caroline’s eyes? Did she get the Kenway nose? He must apologize to her if she did, that’s his fault. Oh, he has a little girl, a daughter, he has—
He has to know what happens next. He starts reading, further and further, and the hitch in his throat turns into a full-blown lump when he realizes that Caroline caught a disease, and her lout of a father, that bastard, let her—
He let her—]
No. No, no, no. [She’s dead. She’s dead. She died and he never even knew. She’d been trying to send him letters and he never got one. He buries his face into his hands and just stays there at the table for a long while, surrounded by the records of the dead, grieving them all, grieving a wife he had loved and left behind. God, he’d only ever wanted to make her happy. Oh, god, she’s gone.
Save for this record of her—her name, her life, her death. Their daughter, god, they have a child. His head spins to think of it: a little girl, who probably has his eyes. Or hers. Caroline, he thinks, and makes a choice.
The library said not to take anything out but—but surely. Surely they won’t begrudge him this. Surely they won’t mind if Caroline’s grieving husband takes her record with him. Surely.
He takes her record, and slides it into his bag. Then he gets up, and turns, and starts to walk away.
He doesn’t get far.]
[four: wildcard]
[have an idea that’s not in here? this option is for you! outside the library, Edward will be working at the Vogue Theater and also running around Kaisou’s rooftops at night, if not hitting up the stable gates to see what’s going on there, so you can easily find him anywhere. hmu at mollymauktealeaf or at foggytealeafs on Discord if you want to hash something out!]
Edward Kenway | Assassin’s Creed | tw grief
[Edward had known a little bit about the modern-day popular conception of pirates. He works for Zulius, he’s heard the fellow talk a bit about Hollywood pirates. Still, he hadn’t run into any depiction of them himself, so out of curiosity he digs up a few fictional titles about pirates, just to see what the fuss is all about.]
Blackbeard’s what now.
[He’s having a bad time so far. There’s a whole stack of novels on his table that vary from “classic” (Treasure Island, On Stranger Tides) to “good” (Daughter of the Pirate King, Pirate Latitudes) to…well. This.]
Who wrote this? Blackbeard’s Bride—this isn’t right. I knew Thatch, he wasn’t the sort of man who would whisk some woman away just like that. And—during Charles-Towne, at that! I was at Charles-Towne, all he wanted were some fucking medicines—he didn’t even kill anyone there, I did.
[He slams the offending book shut and pushes it off to the side away from him, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose with a clear disdain. And…grief. He’s grieving the man, like he knew him personally and actually liked him a lot.]
That’s how people see Thatch today? Bloody hell.
[two: the nonfiction wing]
[Well, if he hated that, now he’s got a copy of Johnson’s A General History of Pyrates and is leafing through the pages with a look of deep and utter annoyance. Then:]
He didn’t even bother to get some of the names right. If this is what passes for a history of pirates, no wonder the books on us are so unbelievably wrong. [Flip, flip, flip.] Where am I in all of this, anyway? I knew all these people he writes about. This has Vane, this has Rackham of all people—oh, he even wrote about Mary.
[He sounds noticeably sadder when he mentions Mary, and he stays on her entry for a little while longer before giving a tired laugh.]
Whoever wrote this didn’t know her very well. [Hadn’t known her fire, or her dedication to her cause.] Or Anne neither. [He pushes the book back into its slot, his heart sore from the reminder of those he’s lost, his mind a little troubled by his own lack of mention.
Might as well hit the records wing, he thinks.]
[three: the records wing || closed to Jinwoo]
[There are a lot of records on various pirates. Blackbeard’s here, along with Vane and Rackham and Bonny and Read and even Stede fuckin’ Bonnet of all people. None of it he has access to, though, so he spends a couple of hours poking around and looking up records belonging to his parents—farmers who’d lived a hard life, then died in Bristol. Well, his father died, but his mother still lives, and he knows after reading she won’t be happy to see him again.
Then, on a whim, he picks out a record for a Caroline Scott Kenway.
Reads it through, end to end. It’s when he comes to a certain page that his pencil drops.]
No. She— [His voice cracks on the pronoun, and his breath hitches in his throat.
They have a daughter. They have a daughter. Oh god, he’s a father, to a young girl who lives in England that he’s never even met.]
Jennifer. [He says her name, whisper-soft, tries to imagine her. Does she have his hair? Does she have Caroline’s eyes? Did she get the Kenway nose? He must apologize to her if she did, that’s his fault. Oh, he has a little girl, a daughter, he has—
He has to know what happens next. He starts reading, further and further, and the hitch in his throat turns into a full-blown lump when he realizes that Caroline caught a disease, and her lout of a father, that bastard, let her—
He let her—]
No. No, no, no. [She’s dead. She’s dead. She died and he never even knew. She’d been trying to send him letters and he never got one. He buries his face into his hands and just stays there at the table for a long while, surrounded by the records of the dead, grieving them all, grieving a wife he had loved and left behind. God, he’d only ever wanted to make her happy. Oh, god, she’s gone.
Save for this record of her—her name, her life, her death. Their daughter, god, they have a child. His head spins to think of it: a little girl, who probably has his eyes. Or hers. Caroline, he thinks, and makes a choice.
The library said not to take anything out but—but surely. Surely they won’t begrudge him this. Surely they won’t mind if Caroline’s grieving husband takes her record with him. Surely.
He takes her record, and slides it into his bag. Then he gets up, and turns, and starts to walk away.
He doesn’t get far.]
[four: wildcard]
[have an idea that’s not in here? this option is for you! outside the library, Edward will be working at the Vogue Theater and also running around Kaisou’s rooftops at night, if not hitting up the stable gates to see what’s going on there, so you can easily find him anywhere. hmu at