Chapter Text
They return the Shroud to its proper place before leaving the vault.
It’s nearing sunrise, so Edward takes his leave immediately. This is likely for the best, because Frederick Abberline finds Evie, Jacob, and Jayadeep less than five minutes later, and tells them to be back at Buckingham Palace at noon.
It would be hard to explain why Edward literally can’t do that. The three Assassins capable of acting during the day don’t mention him to Sergeant Abberline. And, after agreeing to the mysterious summons, they’re allowed to depart as well.
“...All in favor,” Evie says once he’s out of earshot, “of sleeping until then?”
Taking down Crawford Starrick once and for all was... exhausting. It would have been if it hadn’t quite literally taken all night, or if the Shroud of Eden hadn’t been inextricably involved to an even more exhausting degree. Granted, Jayadeep would certainly have died if it wasn’t for the Shroud.
(Strangely, following some realizations involving him that perhaps were a long time coming, Evie feels like she’s never understood her father better.)
As it turns out, Jayadeep takes little persuasion to be talked into joining them at the train. Which may be in part because all three of them are exhausted, and in part because...
...Well. Neither she nor Jayadeep have put a name to this new thing between them, because apart from a rather nice kiss and the comparatively much less nice emotional distress at the possibility of losing him forever, there isn’t very much to it. Yet. Evie likes it, whatever it might become, all the same.
Personally, Evie doubts that she’s the only one who would have preferred to sleep much longer after that. But some rest is better than no rest, particularly after such a night.
And so, shortly before noon—Evie doesn’t miss the longing look her brother shoots the train as they’re leaving it, and she sympathizes immensely—the three of them return to Buckingham Palace, deeply uncertain of what to expect.
What Evie certainly did not expect was for Frederick Abberline to be driving a carriage with the royal coat of arms on it. She’s even less prepared for Queen Victoria herself to be standing there, when he opens the door.
Abberline hands her down from the carriage, and Evie bows—it isn’t as if her usual clothes are designed for a curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” she says.
“Miss Frye,” she replies, and Evie is vaguely aware of her brother choking on air to her right.
“You’ve met before?” he asks in an incredulous whisper.
“Didn’t I mention?” she whispers back, smirking faintly.
They rapidly return their attention to the Queen when she begins to speak again. “Mister Abberline informs me that you three are responsible for saving my life. Is this true?”
“...It is, Your Majesty,” Jayadeep replies.
“Evie Frye, step forward.”
The way the Queen is looking at her sends shivers down Evie’s spine, just as it did last night. She complies all the same, after a brief glance at her companions.
“And you,” the Queen says to Jacob.
“My brother, ma’am,” Evie volunteers. “Jacob Frye.” Then she gestures to Jayadeep, and makes a decision. “And this is Mister Henry Green.”
There’s something grateful in Jayadeep’s expression when he meets her eyes, and he nods slightly as he steps forward.
“Mister Frye. Mister Green.” The Queen considers them for a long moment, then says, “Kneel.”
They exchange a baffled glance between the three of them, then do just that as the attendant from the Queen’s carriage brings forth a clearly-ceremonial sword. She lightly touches it to each of their shoulders, right and then left, and they share disbelieving looks.
“Arise,” Queen Victoria instructs. “I invest you all in the Order of the Sacred Garter.”
Evie manages to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth in order to reply, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“If you are as adept as Mister Abberline implies, I may call on you.”
Jacob says, “Sergeant Abberline tends to exaggerate, Your Majesty.”
That gets the faintest smile from her. “We shall meet again,” she says. “And Miss Frye?”
Evie’s heart leaps into her throat. “Ma’am?”
“Should you want it, I saved you some cake.” She offers Evie a secretive smile, to which Evie can only chuckle.
She’s handed back into her carriage, the attendant follows, and Fredrick Abberline climbs back onto the driver’s bench. Jacob waves to him, and he briefly tips his hat before setting off.
“Father would be proud of you,” Evie says as she walks over to Jacob, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Hm.” He considers that for a moment, watching the carriage leave. Then he turns to her. “Dame Evie Frye.”
What a strange feeling that is. Evie chuckles a bit, rolls her shoulders, and says, “Sir Jacob Frye.”
Jacob laughs, and then turns to her with a challenging grin. “Race you to the train.”
“You’re on!”
They take off running, and the sound of Jayadeep’s baffled laughter follows them.
The first order of business once they all reach the train, of course, is getting more sleep. Because—unexpected adrenaline from meeting (again) with the Queen of England aside—that was altogether not enough rest for anyone, not after the night they’ve had.
It’s very nearly sunset by the time Evie feels functional enough to attempt extricating herself from Jayadeep’s arms. The attempt is... not altogether a successful one, but both of them are largely awake before Jacob. The three of them are sitting around the train, wondering what in God’s name to do with themselves now, when Edward more or less saunters in for the evening, at which point the most immediate order of business becomes filling him in on what he had missed.
Evie would be offended that hearing that they’ve been knighted makes Edward laugh so hard he almost cries if she hadn’t been just as baffled. If she wasn’t still just as baffled.
(And no one else seemed to be quite as unsettled by the Queen’s presence, Evie has rapidly realized, as she was. This could mean nothing. It likely does mean nothing. She’ll be careful, all the same.)
It takes several nights, after Starrick is defeated, for Edward Kenway to work up the courage to visit his daughter’s grave.
He had realized, to his dismay, that he could not remember what her favorite flower was, or if she’d even had one. Evie, at least, is familiar enough with the language of flowers to help him put together something appropriate: cardamine, cypress sprigs, purple hyacinths, and Michaelmas daisy. Paternal error, mourning, and apology. Farewell.
The graveyard is otherwise deserted as he kneels in front of the grave. It’s a simple thing, but well-kept. Jennifer Scott. 1713 – 1805. Edward lays the bouquet on the ground in front of it and clears his throat.
“Hello, Jenny,” he says, barely above a whisper. “It’s been some time.”
He takes a shaky breath that he doesn’t need, and continues, “I should have come as soon as... as soon as Beckett told me you were buried in London. I suppose I was too much of a coward to do it sooner. I wish I’d been there for you. I wish I’d seen Birch for what he truly was sooner. Maybe things would have been different, if I had.”
Edward closes his eyes. “I was a horrible father to you,” he says, and the words are over a hundred years too late. “I never should have prioritized Haytham over you the way I did. You were older, aye, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t need me. I was too blinded by the idea of raising my son to join the Assassins to realize that. Too blinded by society’s expectations to offer you the same choice.”
He opens his eyes again, his gaze tracing over the letters of her name. “The Assassins’ goal is freedom, but I denied you that, and by the time I realized that... you were already gone. You had lived your whole life with hardships you never should have faced because I couldn’t be there to protect you.
“It’s far too late to say it now, but I’m sorry,” Edward says. “I’m so sorry, Jenny.” His voice cracks, and he isn’t surprised to feel the bloody tears beginning to fall.
“I’m leaving London,” he tells the headstone. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, though he wouldn’t be surprised if the Frye twins and Jayadeep know of his plans all the same. “I know you and your brother were never close, and part of that was my doing. I reckon you knew he was buried in America. I doubt you visited his grave, and I can’t blame you for that. But I... I need to say goodbye to him as well. I’ll be back, sooner or later. Lord knows I can’t leave the Frye twins alone for too long.”
Edward manages a weak chuckle, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You would have liked them, I think. You were just as much of a rebellious scamp, before Haytham was born. I think they may have rekindled that love of adventure in you. I wish you could have met them. I wish they could have met you. But some things... some things aren’t meant to be.”
He lifts his gaze from the headstone, looking up at the night sky. “I don’t know if there’s an afterlife. Given what I am, it doesn’t seem impossible. But wherever you are, I hope you’re at peace, and safe from my foolish mistakes.”
Edward looks back at the stone, reaches out to lay a hand on it, fingers brushing over Jenny’s name. “I love you. Goodbye, Jenny.”
He wipes his eyes one more time, then rises, and takes his leave from the graveyard.
All three of the younger Assassins are waiting for him when Edward returns to the train. Evie’s got a folded piece of paper in hand, something that she holds out to him without hesitation or meeting his eyes.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“The location of...” Evie hesitates, which only confirms his growing fears about what she’s going to say. “...Haytham’s grave.”
“How did you find this?” he asks as he accepts the paper. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears.
“We haven’t been in much contact with the American Brotherhood historically,” Jayadeep says quietly, “but I found a copy of his son’s journal. He had written of it there.”
“Right,” Edward mutters. He braces himself for a moment before unfolding the paper.
St. Paul’s Chapel, New York City, New York.
He stares at it wordlessly, for several long moments, before he clears his throat. “I suppose I need a way to get to New York, then.”
Evie nods without a word.
“You’re... really leaving, then,” Jacob says.
Edward looks up at him, taking in the despondent look on his face. “Not forever, lad,” he says softly. “But the reason I even agreed to become Kindred in the first place was to be there to protect my children.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “It’s too late for that. This,” he waves the paper in his hand, “is... the only thing left that I can do.”
“You’re coming back? I thought—” Evie shakes her head. “I don’t... know what I thought.”
Jayadeep clears his throat and says, “The Council doesn’t know about your involvement under any name. They won’t find out about you from us.”
“We... thought that would be best,” Evie says, a little uncertainly.
“Aye, it probably is,” Edward agrees. He manages a bit of a smile. “And it isn’t as if I can leave you three unsupervised for too long, can I?” he adds. The teasing probably falls a little flat, but it’s either this or crying more bloody tears.
He’d really rather not do the latter.
“What, Greenie doesn’t count as supervision?” Jacob jokes. It falls a little flat too.
“I say this with immense affection,” Evie says, smiling at Jayadeep. “No.”
Jayadeep rolls his eyes, but it does nothing to shift the besotted look he’s giving Evie.
Edward chuckles quietly, then folds the note up and tucks it into his coat. More seriously, he says, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Evie says softly, the smile falling from her face. “I don’t know if... any of us... would still be here without you.”
“You were getting by alright without me before you two found me,” Edward replies, shrugging.
Jacob winces, hard. “Less than you think. Something was going to give, sooner or later.”
Edward looks between the three of them. “You’re all skilled Assassins,” he says. “I’m glad to have helped, but I don’t think you would have needed me.”
“Maybe not,” Jayadeep says. “But you were here, and we are all glad of it.”
Edward nods slowly. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas about how to get to New York without the sun being an issue?” he asks with a strained smile. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll be on my way back.”
Jacob speaks up first. “You remember Wynert? He’s originally from around there, I think, and he’s... good at not asking questions, when it matters.”
That’s a very valuable skill to have in a mortal, when one has to maintain the Masquerade.
“Aye, I remember,” he says. “Good idea, lad.”
Jacob ducks his head in a hasty nod. Opens his mouth without a word, then shuts it again, and—nearly fast enough that if Edward didn’t know better, he’d think that Jacob picked up some supernatural speed he shouldn’t have—he lurches forward and pulls him into a tight hug.
Edward finds himself slightly less surprised when Evie’s arms are also around him moments later—he holds them both close, and wonders how he got lucky enough to meet them.
Jayadeep hangs back a little, looking hesitant. It’s a hesitance Edward recognizes for what it is now—and to his continued surprise, before he can say a word about it, Jayadeep approaches to join.
He’s changed. They all have changed. The three of them have grown, so much, from who they were when he met them, and Edward couldn’t be more proud.
Crossing the Atlantic wasn’t the easiest of endeavors before the sun became an issue, though it’s a surprise to find that technology has advanced so much that ships can make the crossing in little over a week—back in Edward’s day, the fastest ships would be sailing for a month.
It’s a much less pleasant surprise to find that this is because, for the most part, sailing ships like the Jackdaw are a relic of a bygone era. Edward certainly feels like one himself. But passage to America on a steamship with no questions asked is the best he could hope for, and so he keeps his complaints to a minimum around Ned Wynert. The lad likely thinks Edward’s strange enough as is, considering his reaction to being informed of how long the voyage would be—but he was willing to help Edward stow away with enough information on the back-and-forth route the ship in question takes between England and New York that, assuming he’s discreet enough, returning won’t be difficult.
And, for the most part, Edward is discreet—in a worst case scenario, he could always lash himself to the underside of the ship’s hull, but that is a last resort both because it would be incredibly uncomfortable and because it would make feeding during the journey much more difficult. But he perhaps isn’t as discreet as he should be, because even if the ship is nearly as new and foreign to him as the train had been, it remains a ship.
Edward hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the ocean. How much it still calls to him, even now. How much, over a century later, it still feels like home.
While the steamship’s crew does begin to suspect that something is amiss by the final night, they aren’t suspicious enough for it to become a problem. On the next night, the steamship is docked in the harbor of New York City. Edward had never visited it in the daylight, and now...
It might have been smarter to wait before going looking for the grave of his son. To make sure that he has somewhere safe to sleep the day away, and start his search on the following evening. But now that he’s here... the thought of waiting even one night more isn’t pleasant. So he doesn’t.
Half the night goes by before Edward finds St. Paul’s Chapel. Locating a single grave in the attached cemetery goes faster. A part of him almost wishes it wouldn’t. But he finds that, too.
Haytham E. Kenway. 4 December 1725 – 16 September 1781.
Time has been less kind to Haytham’s grave than it was to Jenny’s. But he’d passed away some twenty years before her. Someone’s visited his grave more recently than they had Jenny, and Edward has a sneaking suspicion as to where the allegiance of those who did might lie given the damnable line etched into the stone beneath his name and the years of his life.
May the Father of Understanding guide him.
It was one thing to be told that his son had become a Templar. It’s another entirely to see the proof of it set into his headstone.
“Hello, Haytham,” Edward says to the grave of a boy who’d grown up to become a Grand Master. The last he’d seen of him, moments before falling into torpor, his son had been terrified, and Edward had been for him. When Edward awoke, at long last, he’d feared that Haytham might have met with the same fate—something that he couldn’t have survived.
The news he’d received instead...
“...I wish I’d seen Birch for what he truly was sooner,” he says at last. “Much sooner. Jenny did, and I was a fool for not listening to her when I had the chance. Instead...”
Instead, he’d found out too late. He’d faltered at the worst time he possibly could have. And his family had paid the price, time and time again.
“I remember you as a boy,” he says softly. “A boy I’d hoped, one day, might stand beside me as an Assassin—and that, if you didn’t choose that life for yourself, you would still have the skills to protect yourself from the Templars. I never dreamed that you would...”
There are so many things that he could say. None of them adequate.
“History remembers you,” Edward says at last, “and not at all for what I hoped you might be for. I should have been there for you. Instead, you had only Birch. If I couldn’t see him for who he was, what hope did you have? You were only a boy.”
It’s been over a century. Edward wasn’t aware of any of that time passing, not until it was over. When he closes his eyes, he can only picture his son’s terrified face. The last he’d ever see of him.
“You grew up without me,” he murmurs. His vision is blurring with red when he opens his eyes, but those damnable words—May the Father of Understanding guide him—remain the same. “And I know too well what you grew up to become. How many of my friends and allies—how many of my brothers did you kill yourself? How many more died because of you?”
The gravestone does not answer, but Edward knows at least one for certain—Adéwalé, who must have known who his father was—and suspects many, many more. Perhaps more than he’ll ever know, even if he spends the rest of his nights searching.
“...I’m disappointed in what you became, aye,” Edward goes on, as his view of Haytham’s grave continues to redden. “The worst part of it isn’t that, though knowing you had a hand in undoing so much of what I worked for is terrible. The worst of it is knowing that... had I been just a little faster, a little smarter, you could have been spared the fate you had. Jenny, too.”
(Before he’d accepted the Embrace, he’d seen what he thought to be a vision of his own death. He’d been staked instead, dead to the world until Evie and Jayadeep stumbled across him on the trail he’d left behind. Maybe that had been what he’d seen all along, or maybe he would’ve died that night if he hadn’t.)
Edward exhales slowly, something he still doesn’t need. He wipes his eyes clean of the bloody tears filling them, at least for a little while.
And he says, “It’s much too late now for apologies, I know, but I’m sorry I wasn’t there, more than anything. I love you, son. I hope you’ve found peace.”
He reaches out, resting his hand on the top of the stone, and bows his head. He remembers, for the last time, the boy his son had been. And he lets that final image of him go.
“Goodbye, Haytham,” Edward says. He stands, and he turns away—
—and he freezes. Behind him, a pair of red eyes burn bright in the darkness. They belong to the largest wolf Edward has ever seen. His first thought is Beckett, impossibly, but his eyes don’t glow in the shape of a wolf—and Edward has seen Beckett’s wolf form before.
“I know what you are,” Edward says slowly. “Kindred.”
The wolf briefly tilts their head to one side, considering him. The light from their eyes dims, and they begin to change. The form of a wolf melts away, leaving a man standing there instead. He must have been around Edward’s age, when he was Embraced, or possibly a little older. His dark hair is tied back in a similar style to Edward’s own. His eyes are a dark brown, too, now that they aren’t glowing any longer. And his face looks familiar, strangely so, almost like...
...No.
Edward inhales sharply.
“Hello, Connor,” he says to his grandson. His voice comes out more level than he expected it to. “I was under the impression that you had passed some time ago.”
Connor raises an eyebrow. “I could say the same for you.”
Edward hadn’t heard him approach. He couldn’t say how much Connor had heard, other than enough.
He chuckles humorlessly. “A Templar got lucky, and I spent one hundred and thirty-three years in torpor.”
A second silent eyebrow goes up to join the first. Connor’s gaze flickers briefly to the gravestone, then back to Edward.
“My sire sought a challenge,” Connor replies after a long pause. “He did not ask if I wanted this.”
“...Ah,” Edward says. “I’ve heard that’s common with Gangrel.”
Which would explain how he was, initially, an enormous wolf, as Protean is not common outside their clan.
“It is,” Connor says. “He regretted it.”
“Good,” Edward says vehemently.
Connor’s gaze darts once again to the gravestone of the Templar who was his father, and Edward’s son.
“Did you intend to be here tonight?” he asks.
Edward looks at the grave.
He realizes what the date must be, and staggers slightly—which is likely answer enough for Connor, but he still shakes his head.
“No,” he says roughly.
“...I visit every year,” Connor says, still not looking at him.
Edward’s voice fails him, and he nods mutely.
Only then does Connor look back. And he goes on, in a quieter voice, “I have his journal. He wrote of you.”
Edward honestly thinks he would have preferred being staked again.
“I doubt they were particularly flattering things,” he says, in a tone that... does not manage to hide any of the emotional turmoil he’s feeling.
To his immense surprise, Connor shakes his head. “He respected you. He wrote near the end that you were the only person who had never lied to him. That he hoped to preserve that tradition with me.”
Connor pauses before he adds, “He did not.”
“...I wish I could say that surprised me,” Edward says quietly.
There’s silence between them, for a time. Connor breaks it first.
“I only know of you from what others have said,” he says. “Who are you?”
How does he even begin to answer that?
“I’m an Assassin, I suppose,” he says after giving it some thought. “Certainly not a pirate anymore.”
Connor slowly nods. “I... suppose I am too.”
“It’s... strange, knowing I’m not the last Kenway left,” Edward says after a long moment. “Though I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting the name for yourself.”
Connor shakes his head with a huff that could be amused. “I rarely even call myself Connor, these nights.”
“What do you call yourself, then?”
He goes very still for a moment. And then he says, very slowly, “Ratonhnhaké:ton.”
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Edward repeats.
He immediately knows he didn’t get it quite right, and winces slightly.
Ratonhnhaké:ton is... much more patient with repeating his own name until Edward does get it right than he would have been, in his shoes.
“Good,” he says at last. And then he glances over his shoulder, frowns, and goes on, “Dawn approaches. I’m... glad to have met you, Edward.”
“Aye, and I’m glad to have met you, lad.” Edward glances at the slowly-lightening sky, hesitates a moment, then asks, somewhat impulsively, “Would you like to visit London with me?”
Ratonhnhaké:ton openly stares, before he says, “Why do you ask?”
“Well...” Edward says slowly. “I... would like the chance to know you better,” he admits. “But, also,” he continues, grinning, “the look on Evie’s face would be hilarious.”
He considers this. “I could be convinced. Who is Evie?”
“One of the Assassins who, ah, freed me from torpor,” Edward explains. “She and Jayadeep found me in the basement of my old home. I... still don’t know how I wound up there.”
There isn’t much time left until daybreak. But there’s time enough to give Ratonhnhaké:ton a brief account of the three young Assassins who freed London from Templar tyranny, and while Edward doesn’t know him very well—yet—he’s gotten the feeling that his grandson is nothing if not direct. If he wasn’t at least considering it, he would say so.
He hopes he’ll take him up on it, at least for a short while. Edward will understand if he’d rather not—the logistics of getting two Kindred back across the Atlantic Ocean might more difficult than just the one, even with the power of steamships he grudgingly acknowledges—but the look on Evie’s face would be the highlight of the night if not the month.
More than that, though—it would be nice to have everyone left that he cares about in one place, if only for a short time. That list is... much shorter than it was before his torpor. But much longer than he would have expected it to become so soon after.
Daysleep claims him, buried in the earth not far from St. Paul’s Chapel. And for the first time in a long time, Edward Kenway drifts off wearing a small smile.