Sorry for the wait! My knowledge of amnesia is pretty shaky, I only studied psychology for about a year and a half, and amnesia wasn't on the syllabus... Luckily memory models and cognitive conditioning was, otherwise I wouldn't be able to write this! ^_^
He ran, head aching, feeling sick. His legs barely worked, and his ears rang. What had just happened?
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled. He fell heavily, and a jolt of pain lanced through his ribs. One of them was probably broken. Musket shots rang out, though he could not tell how near or far they were. He heard footsteps, lots of them. Some were heavy, some were light, all were quick, and all were hurried. There were shouts in English, but he could not concentrate enough to translate.
He picked himself up, clumsily, and staggered forward, fast as he could. He did not remember why he was running, only that he had to get away, and he barely had time to think before a hand shot out of the shadow in front of him, pulling him into the safety of a bush.
"What have we here?" a voice sneered. All he could do was groan weakly in response, suddenly feeling the chill in the air that movement had kept away.
Hands shook him roughly, and he found himself opening his eyes (when had they closed?) to see a scowling Colonist glaring down at him. His hair was greasy and his eyes cold and- to be frank- he smelt awful. His lips were pressed into an angry line.
"Who… are you…?" He managed, weakly. The other man looked taken aback, but his face was starting to blur and everything was slowly spinning into darkness.
"You don't recognise me?"
The other man's words echoed around his head and he tumbled into a dreamless abyss.
…
He woke up to dim dawn light filtering through a half-shuttered window. He was warm and comfortable, his headache barely noticeable.
His clothes had been changed- instead of torn robes, he was clad simply in loose breeches and smalls. There were several bandages and dressings bound to his body, and he pressed a few of them experimentally. They hurt. So he had been injured somehow and taken to a doctor. This must be a safe place, with friends and allies, then. Who else would have him patched up?
He sat up, slowly, trying to think. What exactly had happened before he had fallen unconscious?
Try as he might, he could not remember anything except noise and pain and… well that was it. He sat up, slightly worried by this. Perhaps he had brain damage.
He cast his mind further back, and still there was nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly. There were some images, some phrases, some snippets of memory. He remembered very vividly a woman, beautiful, leaning over him to kiss him goodnight when he was very small. He could hear an old man's tired voice: "Connor". He could remember the wind whispering and chilling him to the bone as he climbed a tree during a blizzard.
The door creaked open, and he found he recognised the man entering.
Father.
Try as he might, he could not recall a name, simply that this man was (probably) his father, and that he was English.
"Hello," he said, hesitantly. He was sure he could speak English, though he could not remember actually being taught it. It was time to see if his muddled memories were correct. The man's expression shifted, from faint worry to a hopeful smile.
"Connor."
"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," he said, automatically, and he realised that yes, that was correct. Connor was a nickname, though who gave it to him he was not sure.
The man- no, his father- sighed impatiently.
"You know I can't pronounce that."
"No, I do not. Who are you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, pointedly.
"I'm your father," he said, looking somewhat horrified. "Don't you remember?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes. Was this man stupid or something?
"Would I be asking if I did?"
His father looked stricken.
"You've lost your memory," he murmured.
"It appears so."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure why he was being so curt towards his father. Habit, perhaps? He could not remember any previous conversations with this man, maybe they were usually on bad terms. He ought to fix that.
"Oh, my son…" his father murmured, pity in his eyes. "Do you remember anything?"
"Bits and pieces," he replied, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.
His father raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting him to elaborate.
"I remember being very young, living in a remote Mohawk village with my mother. Then things get… muddled. There are gaps, and they get larger and larger the closer to the present I try to remember," he said, after a moment of thought. "Does that make sense?"
His father nodded.
"Describe your most recent memory," he said.
"Aiming at a stag with a bow and arrow," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, almost instantly. "I hit it in the eye. It died almost immediately. It was spring."
"Do you remember your mother's death?" His father's eyes seemed cold and distant for a moment, and cold dread settled in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach.
"Mother is dead?"
His father looked sorrowful, in a stoic sort of way.
"You were four," he said, quietly. "It's probably better you don't remember. It was very traumatic."
"How?" His voice was barely a hoarse whisper.
"There was a fire," his father began, then stopped.
Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezed his eyes shut. She was dead and he could not remember that. He could barely remember her, full stop. What a terrible son he was.
"…No," his father said, after a long moment. "Let's not speak of such sad things. We were testing your memory, weren't we?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, silently. His father looked deep in thought for a moment.
"You know your name," he said. "What's mine?"
"I do not remember."
"Haytham," he said. "It's an Arabic word for 'eagle'. Our surname is 'Kenway'."
"It sounds like a good name."
"Thank you," his father gave an amused smile, and handed him a shirt and shoes.
As soon as he was dressed, Haytham led him to the parlour, explaining that they were in one of his properties (a townhouse in northern New York) and that an associate of his had found him in a terrible state and brought him here. In the parlour awaited a different associate, a doctor named Benjamin Church.
...
"It seems as though you have amnesia," Church said, after a lengthy examination. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure he liked the man. He was not cruel or rude, but he had a certain air about him, in his behaviour, that made Ratonhnhaké:ton feel as though Church cared more about his money than his patient.
"I could have told you that much," the man from the night Ratonhnhaké:ton lost his memory snapped, standing near the door. Haytham had introduced him as Charles Lee. He decided that he ought to make an effort to be nice to the man, even if he was unfriendly. He had likely saved Ratohnhnhaké:ton's life, after all.
"Luckily, your head injuries left most if not all of your mental faculties intact, only affecting personal memories extending backwards from the time of said injury. Often, lost memories will return with time and healing, although you will almost certainly still have missing memories of the time immediately prior to the memory loss."
"How long is it going to last?" Haytham interrupts, to Church's obvious annoyance.
"Anywhere from a few days to a few decades. I can't give you a proper estimate right now."
"Hm," Haytham said, looking deep in thought again. "Connor, can you remember where you live?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, slowly.
"I am afraid not."
"Then you may stay here as long as you like," Haytham said.
"I could not impose upon you for so long--" Ratohnhaké:ton started, but was cut off.
"Nonsense!" Haytham said. "You're always so busy, swanning off doing this and that and never leaving any time for yourself… I hardly get to see you. A terrible state of affairs. No, it's best that you stay with me and you indulge yourself in all your little hobbies and whatnot. It might even speed up your recovery, eh, Church?"
"Oh, yes," Church said, after a split second. "It's not really as if we can send you off home, none of us know where you live. Could do you the world of good. Best do as your father says."
That was that, really. There was no room for any argument. After all, Ratonhnhaké:ton would do no good trying to leap back into a life he could not remember, nor would he do himself any favours by irritating his wounds so early in the healing process. At the very least, they had made him agree, he was to stay with Haytham until he at least knew the basics of his own life, even if he could not actually remember them.
long-term loss (1/?)
He ran, head aching, feeling sick. His legs barely worked, and his ears rang. What had just happened?
His foot caught on something, and he stumbled. He fell heavily, and a jolt of pain lanced through his ribs. One of them was probably broken. Musket shots rang out, though he could not tell how near or far they were. He heard footsteps, lots of them. Some were heavy, some were light, all were quick, and all were hurried. There were shouts in English, but he could not concentrate enough to translate.
He picked himself up, clumsily, and staggered forward, fast as he could. He did not remember why he was running, only that he had to get away, and he barely had time to think before a hand shot out of the shadow in front of him, pulling him into the safety of a bush.
"What have we here?" a voice sneered. All he could do was groan weakly in response, suddenly feeling the chill in the air that movement had kept away.
Hands shook him roughly, and he found himself opening his eyes (when had they closed?) to see a scowling Colonist glaring down at him. His hair was greasy and his eyes cold and- to be frank- he smelt awful. His lips were pressed into an angry line.
"Who… are you…?" He managed, weakly. The other man looked taken aback, but his face was starting to blur and everything was slowly spinning into darkness.
"You don't recognise me?"
The other man's words echoed around his head and he tumbled into a dreamless abyss.
…
He woke up to dim dawn light filtering through a half-shuttered window. He was warm and comfortable, his headache barely noticeable.
His clothes had been changed- instead of torn robes, he was clad simply in loose breeches and smalls. There were several bandages and dressings bound to his body, and he pressed a few of them experimentally. They hurt. So he had been injured somehow and taken to a doctor. This must be a safe place, with friends and allies, then. Who else would have him patched up?
He sat up, slowly, trying to think. What exactly had happened before he had fallen unconscious?
Try as he might, he could not remember anything except noise and pain and… well that was it. He sat up, slightly worried by this. Perhaps he had brain damage.
He cast his mind further back, and still there was nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly. There were some images, some phrases, some snippets of memory. He remembered very vividly a woman, beautiful, leaning over him to kiss him goodnight when he was very small. He could hear an old man's tired voice: "Connor". He could remember the wind whispering and chilling him to the bone as he climbed a tree during a blizzard.
The door creaked open, and he found he recognised the man entering.
Father.
Try as he might, he could not recall a name, simply that this man was (probably) his father, and that he was English.
"Hello," he said, hesitantly. He was sure he could speak English, though he could not remember actually being taught it. It was time to see if his muddled memories were correct. The man's expression shifted, from faint worry to a hopeful smile.
"Connor."
"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," he said, automatically, and he realised that yes, that was correct. Connor was a nickname, though who gave it to him he was not sure.
The man- no, his father- sighed impatiently.
"You know I can't pronounce that."
"No, I do not. Who are you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, pointedly.
"I'm your father," he said, looking somewhat horrified. "Don't you remember?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes. Was this man stupid or something?
"Would I be asking if I did?"
His father looked stricken.
"You've lost your memory," he murmured.
"It appears so."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure why he was being so curt towards his father. Habit, perhaps? He could not remember any previous conversations with this man, maybe they were usually on bad terms. He ought to fix that.
"Oh, my son…" his father murmured, pity in his eyes. "Do you remember anything?"
"Bits and pieces," he replied, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.
His father raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting him to elaborate.
"I remember being very young, living in a remote Mohawk village with my mother. Then things get… muddled. There are gaps, and they get larger and larger the closer to the present I try to remember," he said, after a moment of thought. "Does that make sense?"
His father nodded.
"Describe your most recent memory," he said.
"Aiming at a stag with a bow and arrow," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, almost instantly. "I hit it in the eye. It died almost immediately. It was spring."
"Do you remember your mother's death?" His father's eyes seemed cold and distant for a moment, and cold dread settled in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach.
"Mother is dead?"
His father looked sorrowful, in a stoic sort of way.
"You were four," he said, quietly. "It's probably better you don't remember. It was very traumatic."
"How?" His voice was barely a hoarse whisper.
"There was a fire," his father began, then stopped.
Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezed his eyes shut. She was dead and he could not remember that. He could barely remember her, full stop. What a terrible son he was.
"…No," his father said, after a long moment. "Let's not speak of such sad things. We were testing your memory, weren't we?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, silently. His father looked deep in thought for a moment.
"You know your name," he said. "What's mine?"
"I do not remember."
"Haytham," he said. "It's an Arabic word for 'eagle'. Our surname is 'Kenway'."
"It sounds like a good name."
"Thank you," his father gave an amused smile, and handed him a shirt and shoes.
As soon as he was dressed, Haytham led him to the parlour, explaining that they were in one of his properties (a townhouse in northern New York) and that an associate of his had found him in a terrible state and brought him here. In the parlour awaited a different associate, a doctor named Benjamin Church.
...
"It seems as though you have amnesia," Church said, after a lengthy examination. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not sure he liked the man. He was not cruel or rude, but he had a certain air about him, in his behaviour, that made Ratonhnhaké:ton feel as though Church cared more about his money than his patient.
"I could have told you that much," the man from the night Ratonhnhaké:ton lost his memory snapped, standing near the door. Haytham had introduced him as Charles Lee. He decided that he ought to make an effort to be nice to the man, even if he was unfriendly. He had likely saved Ratohnhnhaké:ton's life, after all.
"Luckily, your head injuries left most if not all of your mental faculties intact, only affecting personal memories extending backwards from the time of said injury. Often, lost memories will return with time and healing, although you will almost certainly still have missing memories of the time immediately prior to the memory loss."
"How long is it going to last?" Haytham interrupts, to Church's obvious annoyance.
"Anywhere from a few days to a few decades. I can't give you a proper estimate right now."
"Hm," Haytham said, looking deep in thought again. "Connor, can you remember where you live?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, slowly.
"I am afraid not."
"Then you may stay here as long as you like," Haytham said.
"I could not impose upon you for so long--" Ratohnhaké:ton started, but was cut off.
"Nonsense!" Haytham said. "You're always so busy, swanning off doing this and that and never leaving any time for yourself… I hardly get to see you. A terrible state of affairs. No, it's best that you stay with me and you indulge yourself in all your little hobbies and whatnot. It might even speed up your recovery, eh, Church?"
"Oh, yes," Church said, after a split second. "It's not really as if we can send you off home, none of us know where you live. Could do you the world of good. Best do as your father says."
That was that, really. There was no room for any argument. After all, Ratonhnhaké:ton would do no good trying to leap back into a life he could not remember, nor would he do himself any favours by irritating his wounds so early in the healing process. At the very least, they had made him agree, he was to stay with Haytham until he at least knew the basics of his own life, even if he could not actually remember them.