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Chapter Text

"Whatever it is you're seeking
won't come in the form you're expecting.”
- Haruki Marukami -

How far we have come

1894

Abberline considers himself a modern man; open minded.
He has known London in its worst moments; he has survived Crawford, the Frye twins, gang wars and even a psychopath with an obsession with cleaning up the city and dismembering women.
He doesn't care who is in front of him; the important thing is that he knows how to do his job and that he doesn't hinder his work - man, woman, child or bear, he doesn't give a damn.
“…so we expect some resistance?”
Abberline doesn't answer, continuing to stare at her - a little quadrupedal playing with the tip of Jacob's blade.
Evie raises an eyebrow, staring at him.
"Frederick? Are you listening to me?"
The quadruped - sorry, the little girl - pouty her lips when Jacob sheathes the blade, emits a sound halfway between a scream and a snort.
Evie follows his gaze, shaking her head.
"Jacob, no."
"But she's having fun."
"She might get hurt."
"I was careful." he replies, and to Frederick all three of them seem petulant and mischievous children.
Evie is about to reply when the little girl turns and stares at him, enchanted by the gun hanging from the abandoned holster.
Abberline snatches it from under her nose, earning Miss Frye a spitting look - haughty, irritated.
"This is no place for a little girl." he declares, finding the whole situation strange - how he hasn't figured it out yet, but undoubtedly atypical.
Jacob opens his hands in front of him, dumbfounded.
"We couldn't leave her with George; and then you said it was just an update on the Chelsea Harbor situation."
"That's before we found out that Savage is trying to smuggle guns into town."
Evie studies the documents and delivery notes, attentively.
"Everything is in order here, Abberline. I imagine you want a more discreet approach."
"Yes. Officially they are weapons for the army, but there are too many of them – I'm not convinced. I wouldn't want her to be arming the Blighters or worse; creating a new gang."
"He would be capable of it. Both the Rooks and the Blighters have suffered a serious blow after Jack and we too notice how little by little they are... disbanding, let's say."
The little girl puts her clenched fist to her mouth, keeps glaring at Abberline — and he stares back, because hell, that girl seems to be listening to them.
"Where did you say she came from?"
"She's our granddaughter." Evie replies, leafing through the last papers "Her mother died in childbirth and her father couldn't support her, nor did he want to."
Frederick resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her, the little girl continues to rock on Jacob's thigh, completely indifferent to the fact that there are knives and firebombs just centimeters away from her.
“Jacob Frye, I knew you had the heart to get into trouble, but a niece?”
"What can I say, Frederick: life plays strange tricks sometimes."
The little girl reaches out towards Jacob - pa pa - he smiles at her, closing his hands in hers.
"She hasn't learned the roles well yet." Evie interjects - misery, that woman has her eyes even in her back.
Abberline glances first at one, then at the other, then shrugs at her.
"She is an orphan; what you call yourself is completely indifferent to me. She might as well call you Queen Victoria which wouldn't change what you are doing for her."
Evie places the correspondence on the desk, lingering with her gaze.
Abberline captures the tense line of her neck, the rigid line of her jaw.
"Of course, I never expected to see the unstoppable Frye twins with a brat in tow, but life plays strange tricks sometimes." he concludes, quoting Jacob.
The little girl rolls on her stomach, she vaguely reminds him of a cat sleeping on the bank of the Thames.
Frederick looks at Evie, seeing something in her eyes - a spark that he would recognize among a thousand.
No, Frederick Abberline had never considered himself a child of his time; not since he had been willing to do anything to pursue the truth - what he believed to be justice.

He had to rely on two kids who made fun of the Shrouds and came from the countryside or dress as a woman and not give a damn about city morality.

The little girl grabs the shilling Jacob is wearing as an ornament and laughs.

Chapter Text

1.

There is a new symbol on her chest, hanging from the lapel of her jacket like a medal.
Evie notices it immediately, as soon as Bedelia comes into her line of sight.
Jacob joins her, poised on the end of the world - together, always. 
"The Black Cross." Evie murmurs, pointing her index finger at le Savage.
"I see her."
"They thought it was a legend; in the Council itself they never paid much attention to this rumor - the Boogeyman coming to get you in the night for your sins."
Jacob tilts his head to the left, studying Bedelia carefully - the coat just draped over her shoulders, pressed to the left side, empty.
"Well, apparently the Black Cross exists, and Bedelia is part of it."
Evie inhales sharply, clawing at the edge of the roof.
“This is a game-changer.”
Jacob is silent, he leans forward slightly - the London wind ruffling his hair, now longer at the nape of his neck.
"She is no longer just the Grand Master, in fact; she is something different - outside the Inner Sanctuary."
Bedelia supervises the work of unloading goods, on her right hand a white and gold glove, which Jacob remembers hides a hidden blade.
"And is this better or worse for us?"
Evie wet her lips, perplexed.
"I'm not sure yet."
Jacob glances at her sideways, doesn't reply - he listens to the city, to its sounds.
The Thames flows quietly, indifferent to their thoughts.

Chapter Text

2.

If the Rook moves forward, the Queen cuts it off.

Evie studies her in silence, tilting her face ever so slightly towards hers.
"An ambitious name."
Bedelia sits on the edge of the ledge, staring at her.
"The Blighters were Starrick's, not mine."
"But they made you comfortable."
"Who gives up a pack of monkeys trained to march under the Templar cross? Nobody, but that doesn't mean that your pupil has altered many things."
Evie lifts her chin, pressing her lips together.
"And they've changed sides too many times for me to care anymore; Blighters, Rooks. Same old shit."
Bedelia looks up, cracking a smile that doesn't want to laugh.
"I need soldiers, not street whores; and if you were smart you would change your methods too."
Evie doesn't reply, she finds herself, despite all, silently agreeing.
"London is no longer the same."
"I'm not blind."
Bedelia clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, giving her a sardonic look.
"In a few years we will enter the new century."
The clatter of the horses is interrupted by the metallic noise of one of the first cars - a world that evolves, becomes steel and metal.
Bedelia looks up at the sky - opaque, veiled by the white smoke of the factories.
"The choices will get tough, Evie Frye. Templars, Assassins. So far it's been easy to choose a side, but what next?"
Evie would like to ask her what do you want? Why did you let yourself be found - why we're talking, but nothing comes out of her except a tired sigh.
"You sound nostalgic, le Savage."
"I am." she replies quickly "But I'm also curious. And worried."
Evie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, restless.
Bedelia turns to her, looking straight into her eyes.
“Jack was just the beginning: the Bishop on c2 started something terrible.”
"He has been eliminated."
"Not the idea of him: the story of him."
Evie frowns, perplexed - then points to the black cross pinned to the lapel of her jacket.
"Many think it's just a myth."
Bedelia touches it with her fingertips, calmly.
"It's not."
Evie crosses her arms on her chest, reassured by the weight of her hidden blade against her breast.
"Assassins and Templars are destined to fight each other forever, le Savages: I believe that much of the balance of this society derives precisely from our clash."
Bedelia twists her hand upwards, exposing her palm.
"I believe that too."

But.

Evie looks at her, Bedelia draws her blade with a sharp flick of her wrist - she stares at her in silence.

Yes, but.

"She looks like you."
"Not so much."
"She's your spitting image, Evie Frye."
"Twins play these pranks sometimes."
Bedelia giggles, shaking her head.
"Children are a weak point."
"I'd kill you first." Evie chews, touching the handle of the kukri.
"Oh, I bet." Bedelia tells her, neutrally "But I'm not the danger, Frye. My Order has very specific rules, believe it or not."
She turns away, something akin to sadness in her eyes – or maybe it's just the dark lights of London that make them so unhappy.
"Not everyone is like Charles Lee." Bedelia murmurs, summoning a story that she knows Evie knows too.
Someone shouts from across the street - laughs, and it's the voices of two men and three women.
And for a moment - a breath - Evie understands what Bedelia is telling her.

"Eight Queens; did you really decide to call a gang that?"

“And not everyone is like Achilles Davenport.” she replies calmly.

“And you actually called Lydia that brat?”

Around them the story continues, undisturbed.

Chapter Text

3.

"Dad."
George stops mid-way through slicing the bread, turning away.
"Dad." the little girl repeats, tilting her head in a questioning, doubtful gesture.
George looks around, undecided.
"No, Lydia: I'm not your father."
The little girl frowns at him, glaring as if he'd just said some colossal bullshit.
She then points to the door with her index finger, drawing a question mark in the air.

Oh.

“Do you want to know where Jacob is?”
Lydia nods, looking at him.
"On a mission; with your aunt. And he's not your father, Lydia."
The little girl shrugs at him, giggling as if he's just said yet another stupid thing of the day.
"Lydia."he takes her back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Gorge." she slurs, and George could swear that expression was spat at Jacob when he taunted him as a young man.
“No cookies if you keep this up.”
Lydia gives him a sly smile and every time it's like (re)seeing them - going back.
George shakes the knife at her - an instinctive gesture, natural for someone who grew up as an assassin and will die as one.
"I am not joking."
The little girl does not pout, nor does she cry; she limits herself to looking at him from below her barely sixty centimetres.
George sighs, shaking his head.
"You're as stubborn as your grandfather."
"Dad." Lydia repeats, bringing her thumb and forefinger together — pointing out, to her, the obvious.
George lifts her bodily, sitting her next to him as he finishes slicing the bread — and don't move, no, Lydia, no. You don't steal it, Lydia.
Her laughter fills Crawley's silence.

Chapter Text

4.

The girl they find in front of them has the same eyes as Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Evie studies her carefully and in her she can glimpse Haytham Kenway's straight nose, Edward's crooked smile.
"You've come a long way." she tells them, chewing the words in a dirtier  — almost slurred — version of their native tongue.
Jacob watches her silently, both hands resting on the knob of his cane.
The girl lifts her chin, curving one corner of her lips.
"You are wary; I understand that. There hasn't been much communication with the Brotherhood of England on our part."
"Not after that bad tea thing." Jacob replies, sardonic.
The girl winks at him, giggling.
"Let's say that in our country the English are fine dead."
Evie moves in front of Jacob, staring at her.
“Onekwvhsa:ke?”
The girl looks at Evie, nodding.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton's great-granddaughter."
"You mispronounced the last syllables, but yes, it's me."
"An interesting name."
"You know what that means?"
"In the blood." Evie replies calmly.
Onekwvhsa: ke sketches a smile, holding out her hand.
"A point in your favor, Evie Frye. And you can call me Rowanne."
Evie squeezes it, Jacob does the same - between them years of history written at the tip of a blade and in the desperation of a fratricidal war.
"In your letter you were quite cryptic about the reason for your visit."
Jacob looks around, indicating the space around him - the port and all the people who pass through it loading and unloading goods.
"A quieter place?" he suggests, taking off his top hat.
Rowanne extends her right arm, moving away.
"I know one that's just right for us; as long as you don't disturb a little dirt under your feet."
Jacob passes her, followed by Evie - the cacophony of ships sailing behind them.
In Rowanne's eyes there is all the ruthless intelligence of men born to fight and conquer.

Chapter Text

5.

Tap tap. Tap tap.

“We don't like what you're doing.”
"Oh no?"
"Correction; they don't like it."
Bedelia rests her cheek on her closed fist, smiling.
"And you? Do you like what I'm doing, Hathaway?"
Gabriel tilts his head towards his shoulder, curling one corner of his mouth upwards.
"Oh, I love it, Bedelia. I find this liaison of yours with the Fryes to be... how shall I put it, exciting."
Hathaway sits down, lacing his fingers together.
"And a clever one; a move that puts you seven steps ahead of the Inner Sanctuary." he continues, indicating with a nod of his chin the black cross pinned to her jacket.
“I don't answer to them anymore.”
"And you don't know how many balls you've burst with annoyance."
Bedelia laughs - a sincere, authentic sound.
"They remain Assassins."
"I know."
"But they can be useful: I would watch out for his sister, Evie. You and her aren't that different."
Bedelia starts drumming her fingers on the desk again, straightening up.
"The Inner Sanctuary hides something from me."
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, silent.
"They want the Shroud, sure, but there's more."
“There's always more with them.” Hathaway points out, smoothing a crease in his pants.
Bedelia stops, staring somewhere out the window.
“We have one purpose, Gabriel: to steer humanity onto the right curve.”
"They say this."
"And artifacts are just a means; a tool through which to achieve this goal."
Gabriel lifts his face, eyeing her.
"I know what the Order of the Black Cross does, Bedelia."
Le Savage turns, looking at him.
"Then you also know that I am authorized to eliminate anyone who does not comply with certain terms."
Gabriel doesn't respond, studying her in silence for a few seconds.
"You want me to find him."
Bedelia parts her lips in a predatory smile - all teeth and red.
"The traitor."
"Yes."
“It could cost me my life.”
"Or your son's." she replies, taking a bundle of documents out of a drawer.
"They are on his trail, Gabriel." she adds, fanning out a series of black and white photos - Shane training at the Sandhurst military academy, alongside him a very young Winston Churchill. Shane eating a sandwich sitting under a tree. Shane with his mother.

Shane Shane Shane.

Gabriel touches the first photo with his fingertips, a very hard, ferocious sparkle in his gaze.
"There are rules between us."
"I respected them."
Gabriel looks up, searching for her.
"You might have gotten them to convince me."
"I could."
"But?" he murmurs, touching the third and fourth photos with his index and little fingers.
"I wish I could say that you know me enough to know that I would never do that; that I'm not that kind of person."
Gabriel is silent, wetting his lips.
"Jack." she just says, pointing to her shoulder.

When I crawled to you, bloodless.
When I was dying and the list of vultures behind me was so long - all ready to take me and throw me into the Thames and replace me and...

"Shane is very dear to me, Gabriel."
"I know."
Bedelia leans toward him, her surviving hand inches from his.
"Your wife..."
"She never asked."
Bedelia nods, holding back the urge to touch him and confess that she would have liked to, but it wasn't possible and she was just a novice and...
"You are a ruthless woman, Bedelia." Gabriel whispers and, for a moment, his face is the same as it was twenty years ago.
Le Savage holds her breath, she doesn't even realize she's doing it.
Gabriel shakes his head, cracking a smile so sincere to hurt her. 
"But you were my best student and if I had met you earlier..."
Hathaway stops mid-sentence, grabbing her hand and squeezing it in his.
“You're not going to let them touch Shane, are you?”
"No." he murmurs, softly.
Gabriel kisses the back of her hand, chuckling.
"So be it: let's go and find out this shitty mole, Le Savages."

Together. 

In Shane's eyes the same brilliant sparkle that Bedelia will possess until the end.

Chapter Text

6.

Life with Lydia is a constant repeat Lydia, no.

Just like it was with Jacob.

George manages to grab her by the collar of her shirt, earning a kick straight to the face.
"Leave me." the little girl spits, irritated.
"Lydia, no."

Precisely.

“Pa-pa lets me do it.” she screams, and George finds himself pinning down both her legs and arms, making her look like a newly caught hare.
"Jacob is an idiot and you are his nephew." he replies, moving away just in time to avoid a bite.
Lydia bares her teeth and the scene would also be ridiculous if it weren't for the fact that six months have passed since Evie and Jacob left and that little devil is proving to be as smart as a weasel.
"You can't climb trees, Lydia. You can't even reach the cupboard."
She's two years old, Lydia, and she's approaching her third birthday and she's already made it very clear that she wants a strange blade, as she calls it.
George comes back into his house, releasing her into the chair with a dull thud.
"Why are you doing so?"
Lydia crosses her arms across her chest, sullenly.
George bends down to her height, staring at her.
"Lydia."
"I want da-da. And ma-ma."
George is about to tell her again that no, Evie and Jacob are not her parents and that he must stop calling them that, otherwise in the future they might make fun of her or worse and...

Her eyes.

He observes her in silence for a few minutes, recognizing in her the same look as when Ethan had introduced him to two children of just six years old - my children, George had said.
"You miss them." he tells her - and it's not a question, because the answer is so obvious, blatant.
Lydia presses her lips together, dangling her bare feet under the table.
George sighs at her, placing a hand on her head.
"They'll be back soon, Lydia. They even wrote it to you in the last telegram."
An interdicted sound, halfway between a grunt and a snort.
"One day you too will be part of the Brotherhood and you will understand."
Lydia gives him a skeptical, wary look.
George half smiles at her, the little girl rubs her cheeks, nodding.

One day you will fly, Lydia, and we will all be too old to do anything but admire you, and lay down our weary blades.

Loneliness is the burden of those who fight in the shadows to serve the light.

Chapter Text

7.

The story is a multi-act tragedy.
History pulses through people's quartered limbs - it sheds their flesh and becomes this; paper and ink and memory.
History has no name, no identity: it flows, and leaves behind only bones and memories.

Names and regrets.

Jacob looks at the portrait of Ratonhnhaké:ton, that of Io:nhiòte.
My grandmother, Rowanne had told him, smiling.
And Evie had told him so many times; the English Templar who came from the sea and the warrior Kaniehtí:io.
And before them, a pirate who became an Assassin, a child who grew up poised between the two worlds, a bloodline that had also traced their history.
"Jacob Frye thinking? I have to mark the date on the calendar." Evie surprises him, joining him.
Jacob lifts his chin, cracking a smile.
"Every now and then it happens even to tramps like me; at least that's what Agnes used to call me."
Evie bumps his shoulder with her own, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
"Only because you got mud all over her carriage."
"Aye. And because I never came home at night."
Jacob turns to her, looking at her.
"But that's another story." he adds, quietly.
Evie searches for his eyes, intertwining her fingers with his — a gesture of comfort, of assent.
“And what have you been thinking so hard about, brother?”
Jacob shrugs, returning his gaze to the portraits.
"To how much loneliness and misunderstanding are two bulwarks of the history of Assassins and Templars. To Shay Cormac and his mentor, who sent him to bring down a city. To Edward Kenway, killed like a dog in his home, in front of the his children."
Evie tightens her grip on his hand, inhaling sharply.
"To Haytham Kenway, to his ideas, to his diary. To him, his son, to everything he achieved from it."

"I won't let Evie die."
"I know, Jacob, but it's a risk of being an Assassin."
"No."
"Jacob, loss is part of the mission. Of the Creed."
"If she dies, I will burn everything."(1)

“I died so that you would become the man – the Assassin – that you must be, Connor.”

Jacob turns to her, bringing her closer to him and kissing her forehead.
Evie wraps her arms around his waist, closing her eyes against his chest.

"I leave you the truth, Connor. Do with it what you want, son." (2)

Around them the ghosts whisper and tell their stories.

Chapter Text

8. 

The two Englishmen know about the Apple of Eden. 
The two Englishmen suspect Edison and Ford, the latter having recently joined the Edison Illuminating Company. 
"It's not the only dangerous artifact around the world." Evie tells her, staring at a representation of the relic. 
Rowanna looks up, the dark determination of heroes - or martyrs - in her eyes. 
"How many?"
"Too many." replies Evie, seraphic. 
"We have to find them."
And she is quiet, Evie, because the truth is different - much more uncomfortable. 
"It is not possible." she continues, looking at her "And we shouldn't even try."
Rowanna furrows her eyebrows, dumbfounded. 
"It is our duty..."
"No it is not." Jacob interjects, leaning with his back against the wall.
"The Templars can't take them."
Evie exchanges a knowing look with Jacob and Rowanna doesn't like being left in the dark at all. 
"I didn't welcome you into my homeland so you could make fun of me."
Jacob curls one corner of his lips, ironically. 
"We're giving you a tip on Ford and Edison; we can't do more than that."
"You don't want to, that's different."
Evie drums her fingers on her arm, studying her. 
And she's naïve, Rowanna; she is still deluded and believes in the power of the Brotherhood — that like her ancestor she fights desperately for freedom, whatever that may be. 
Jacob meets her gaze, murmurs without saying a word - were we like this when we were young too?
Before Jack, Bedelia. 
Before Lydia, by Starrick. 
Before Henry, of London. 

Before us. 

"There is a balance to be respected, Onekwvhsa:ke. Your own blood is an example of it." Evie replies dryly. 
Rowanna bares her teeth, shaking her head. 
"Are you telling me to collaborate with the Templars?"
"No; we're trying to teach you not to be just any cutthroat. To choose, and to remember that power doesn't tolerate gaps."
"That sounds very Templar to me."
Jacob cracks an unpleasant smile, the straps around his thighs creaking as he steps forward. 
"The relics touch you, Rowanna. They enter you and never let you go. They whisper, and you will wake at night thinking of unpleasant things, hidden in the recesses of your mind - suffocated until that moment, which you thought tamed."
Rowanna is silent, glaring at them sideways. 
"Your great-grandfather made the right choice, and our job is not to collect them, but to destroy them."
Evie looks at her, her face a pale, inscrutable oval. 
"We have come here to warn you: to show you the way." adds Jacob, lifting the brim of the cylinder with the tip of his index finger "From here on the choice is yours."
Rowanna gives them a skeptical look, in which Evie sees total disapproval of their words. 
Jacob inhales sharply, searching for Evie's eyes - She won't. She won't destroy them, sister, he seems to be telling her.
Years later, when Death has already taken them, the relic will march to the sound of Horst Wessel Lied.

Chapter Text

1897

"This is not your territory, Savages."
It rains on London - on them, and Bedelia looks like a furious animal, cornered.
Jacob takes one step forward, two - Evie follows him, symmetrical.
"Le Savage..."
"Shut up." she hisses, turning away. “Shut up, you fucking bastard.”
Jacob rotates his wrists, the twin blades slipping out from under his coat and glinting in the dim streetlights.
"The words, Le Savages; moderate them or I will have to deem nvalid ours..."
Bedelia jumps, Evie stands between her and her brother - she parries the first blow, the second, trying to lunge, but Bedelia is faster and offers her the stump of her arm, letting the blade sink into the fabric of the prosthesis.
"Do you have any idea what you've unleashed?" she chews on her, taking Evie's foothold and dodging Jacob's dagger.
"We don't know what you're talking about." Evie retorts, getting back to her feet with a quick twist of her torso.
Bedelia is grabbed around the neck by Jacob, she hits Jack's ruined knee, causing him to step back just enough to use the opposite wall as leverage and tip over behind him.
"Le Savage!" Jacob roars, fanning a series of blades and throwing them - hisses into the night that cut through the silence, the air.
Bedelia resumes her defensive position - right foot in front of left foot, arm raised and blade drawn.
"You killed him."
Evie shakes her head, rain and mud between her eyelashes.
"Who? Who the fuck are you talking about?" she replies, tensely.
Bedelia narrows her eyes, studying them carefully.
"You are Assassins: that's what you do."
Jacob rotates the animated staff in front of him, closing his fingers around the raven's head.
"Usually yes; but we remember well our... truce." he spits, as if he were pulling a rotten tooth.
Bedelia steps back and Evie notices the proxemics of her profile, a curve that protects the bundle of rags behind her.
"He shouldn't have been here."
"No." Jacob agrees, moving closer to Evie "Whitechapel is our territory."
Bedelia presses her lips into a thin line, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead, along her cheeks.
Evie raises her arm towards Jacob, stopping him.
"He was wearing a ring." she tells her, indicating the man's right hand with a nod of her chin. "I glimpsed the different color of the skin, the small depression that results from the continuous pressure around the phalage."
Bedelia is silent, the sound of the rain deafening - a wet, soggy clack.
"But now it's gone."
Jacob presses his thumb under the hilt of his rapier, barely pulling it from its sheath.
"He was one of you."
No reply.
"What was a Templar doing in Whitechapel?"
Jacob shifts his gaze from one to the other, starting to see a pattern in Evie's words.
"Bedelia."
"He couldn't have been one of your beggars. Or even a recruit."
"Because he was a Grand Master."
Bedelia releases an unpleasant, derisive laugh.
"No, idiots: because he was one of the Nine."
Evie turns pale, Jacob narrows his mouth in disbelief.
"It wasn't us."
"No one will believe you: it is an act of war."
“It's not what London needs.”
Bedelia gives her a sidelong, thoughtful look.
"No. Not in London." she murmurs, and there's a weight to her words — a gravity that's clear to all three of them.
Evie twists her wrist inward, causing the hidden blade to retract.
"Who was he, Le Savages?"
"I just told you."
"Not for the Order: for you."
Bedelia bends over the man's body, lifting it onto her healthy shoulder — she slips, but she quickly regains her balance, turning her back to them.
Close to her face, Gabriel's dead eyes are full of regret.

Chapter Text

9.

She's four years old, Lydia.
She is four years old and she knows when something is wrong, she senses it.
"A member of the Inner Sanctuary killed like a dog in Whitechapel."
Pa-pa moves restlessly around the apartment, now leaning over the terrace, the next walking up and down the kitchen.
"What the fuck was he doing there? Looking for whores and opium?"
Evie raises an eyebrow, indicating with a nod of her chin Lydia - the little girl is in quiet profile, sitting in the corner of the sofa.
"You didn't hear anything, did you?" he replies, showing her a smile that years later she will understand was reserved only for her and her ma-ma.
Lydia shakes her head, Evie sighs, pressing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
"He was not just a member of the Sanctuary, but more." she continues, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him towards the balcony.
Jacob runs a hand through his hair, staring at her sideways.
"Le Savage is a cold woman, Jacob; you know her. For her everything is an efficient benefit-cost calculation system. The Eight Queens are no longer just street criminals, but well-oiled mechanisms capable of thinking - acting."
Jacob turns up one corner of his mouth in a frown, irritated.
"One of the many reasons I had to upgrade the Rooks."
"She's part of the Black Cross and they're the Order's equivalent of an assassin, and yet there, in that alley, she went crazy."
Jacob wets his lips, resting his elbows on the railing.
"Everyone has secrets, Evie: that man must be hers."
"It wasn't us."
Jacob raises his face towards her, calmly.
"Do you want me to search the Rooks? The recruits? Do you really think any of them were stupid enough to…"
Evie moves her hand in front of her in a sharp, abrupt gesture.
"Just do it: I will take care of discovering his identity. If Bedelia has become an inconvenient character, an internal war could break out and will drag London and us with her."
Jacob chuckles, shaking his head.
"Helping a Templar; when we left Crawley would you have ever thought it possible?"
Evie looks at Lydia, who is busy drawing a series of ducks that are quite realistic for her age.
Jacob turns, following her eyes as she sees her.

And did you ever think of having a daughter together, brother?

The future laughs at our schemes and always plays to win.

Chapter Text

10.

There is something terrible in a furious woman, but in Bedelia le Savage it is a death sentence.
There is something that Jacob had also seen in his sister - he remembers it.

Her anger, her fear: Jack's body torn apart by fifty-seven stab wounds.

The Eight Queen march compactly through the streets of London - they rummage, curious and ferocious little animals.
One of the Rooks joins him on the roof, panting.
"Boss." he calls him, worried.
"Boss, what do we do?" he continues, leaning forward.
Jacob presses his lips into a thin line, putting on his hood and preparing himself.
"If they touch our areas, warn them first." he retorts, calling the Eagle Sight back to him.
"Then push them back: if the Queen moves forward, the Rook responds." he concludes, jumping.
Below him, Bedelia's fury becomes a red and white tide.

Chapter Text

11.

"They killed him."
"I heard."
"They left him his ring, but not his Templar cross."
"A clear attempt to shift the blame to the Brotherhood."
Bedelia tilts her face toward her host, a spark in her eyes that the fire makes even crueler.
"When I accepted your invitation, Victor, I did it because that bunch of goats who call themselves Grand Masters deserved to be punished: to lose the power they thought was rightfully theirs."
Bolden crosses his legs, lacing his fingers on his knee.
"And you're doing it very well."
Le Savage stares at him in silence for a moment, studying him.
"Gabriel Hathaway was one of the Nine of the Inner Sanctuary and now he's dead, Victor. Fertilizer for the earth."
Bolden tilts his head to his shoulder, quiet.
"He found the traitor."
"The one who threatened his son."
Bedelia doesn't show any reaction, but Bolden smiles anyway - he knows.
"It could be any of the Nine; maybe even a Grand Master," he continues, holding up his index finger.
"You're no help to me, Victor."
"I can be, if you want me to be."
Bedelia clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, skeptical.
"Uhm. Weren't you engrossed in your search for the Koh-i-Noor?"
Victor shrugs, making a resigned sound.
"You'd be surprised to learn that I have other priorities right now."
Bedelia turns, swiveling in her chair and resting her elbows on the desk.
"I imagine: children can be very demanding."
Victor blinks slightly, staring at her.
"Albert, right?"

Click.

"He's about the same age as the Frye brat."
Bolden narrows his eyes, licking his lips.
"Two can play at this table, Le Savages."
"Spare me your threats. And that blade you hide under your coat that I heard being pulled out five seconds ago," Bedelia says, and now, closer, Victor can see new wrinkles on her face, creases that insomnia must have given her in the last few days.
"What do you want?"
Bedelia seems to be thinking about her question, her back hunched - crushed by an invisible weight.
"I have a promise to keep."
Victor is silent, waiting.
"Shane Hathaway."
Bedelia looks at him, pinning him to the spot - eyes cold, slightly slanted at the corners.
"He currently works for the Daily Mail."
Victor remains still, listening.
"I find the traitor." she offers, curling her fingers into fists. "You." she continues, staring at him. ""You prevent even one blond hair from being taken from that pretty little head."
"The boy was initiated a year ago; he can defend himself. He's a Templar."
"And Hathaway was my fucking Master and look where he ended up."
"Curious choice of words."
Bedelia bares her teeth and Victor holds up his hands in surrender.
"I'll keep an eye on the boy; he's a good friend of Churchill's and could be useful to us someday."
Bolden stands, brushing the brim of his top hat.
"If you find the traitor,"
"When." Bedelia chews, irritably. "Not if, Victor: when."
Bolden smiles, nodding.
"When you will do it, make sure you get all the relics, too."
Bedelia pauses, tapping her fingers against her thigh.
"And don't let the Brotherhood get them."
"I'd rather kill myself first."
Bolden laughs, and it's a genuine sound - spontaneous.
"You're a funny woman, Bedelia."
"If that's your way of teasing me, well, that's the door. Can you find your way there yourself, or should I kick your ass?"
Victor buttoned the second button of his coat, glancing at her sideways.
"It wasn't planned."
No answer.
"The child."
Whose? she wants to say, but she presses her teeth together, remaining silent.
"You know all that nice stuff they tell you about how important an heir is, and how the baton is passed? How the Order is ultimately one big family affair?"
Bedelia remains silent, staring into the flames in the fireplace.
"That's bullshit. All we do is make ourselves targets and give more soldiers to the cause. And so do those four cutthroats out there."

Mine, yours, the Assassins' - it doesn't matter.

Bedelia's nostrils flare slightly, ignoring him.
"You made the right choice."

When? Now or twenty-two years ago?

"You'll do it again."
Victor gives a slight bow, turns his back to her, and heads toward the exit.
Anger constricts and crushes her chest.

Chapter Text

12.

Sometimes he stops to look at her and wonders what if?
She still calls them Da-da and Ma-ma and despite being told several times that she shouldn't do that - that they're not her parents - Lydia continues, laughing.
And she knows the difference, but she doesn't care - it doesn't change the substance.
George had explained that they could make fun of her or worse, but Lydia had just shrugged with the same stubborn arrogance as Jacob, retorting with I do what I want.

And god, she looked just like him when she said it.

Evie wanted to add that they could accuse them of much more, but Jacob had just shaken his head, quietly.
"People talk, Evie. Sometimes they believe what you tell them, sometimes they don't even have the proof right under their noses."
Evie crosses her legs between them, rubbing her face.
"I know."
"You think they haven't noticed your rejection of Greenie? Or my perpetual celibacy?"
"You know that word?" she teases, earning a pillow in her face.
"I'm a well of culture," he snaps.
Evie lets out a small hum in her throat, amused.
"Or the story of the dead daughter and the missing father? I haven't shed a tear, Evie; and no matter how hard I try, there's always someone who'll whisper behind my back."
"Lydia could suffer the consequences."
Jacob clasps his hands behind his head, sighing.
"It's the condemnation of children, Evie; like us before her."
"But it's our duty to at least try to keep her from it, Jacob."
"She's not going to stop calling us that because we're raising her, Evie; isn't that what a parent does?"
Evie pulls her knees up to her chin, staring at her toes. Jacob leans toward her, breathing into her hair.
"What if she figures it out on her own?"
Jacob pulls away from her face a little, his thumb stroking her lips — feeling their soft, wet texture.
"Maybe she already knows."
"Don't joke."
"I'm not," he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth.
Evie laces her fingers at the nape of his neck, lifting herself up on her thighs and flipping him back.
And maybe Jacob is right; maybe the blood calls, and one day it will confess all their secrets, their desires.
Maybe their story will be erased, maybe celebrated — maybe neither, and it will become just another story.
Evie leans down to his chest, her tongue running over familiar lines — scars that mirror his, hers.
Jacob touches the curve of her hips, going up to her breasts - he squeezes them, and loses himself in a body he remembers, imprinted in his memory with the force of every time she had been his.

That had screamed his name, stifling it against his skin - wet with sweat and more.

In the buzz of London their voices become one.

Chapter Text

13.

She won't stop.
Evie sees the answer in the gestures with which she gives orders to the Eight Queens, a fire in her face that could burn down London.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other on the ledge, the rain increasing in intensity, reducing the city to a blackish and liquid lump of misery and metal.
Bedelia doesn't scream, she doesn't shout; she doesn't make any sudden movements and that's what tells her how determined she is - the total coldness with which she assigns roles and missions, spreading out the lives of her men before her like cards in a game she has no intention of losing.
"I see you, Evie," she murmurs, and the smoke of London carries her words with it.
Bedelia turns, lifting her head upwards and pointing straight in her direction - her eyes standing out an unnatural, cold blue in all that gray.
Evie checks for any remaining Eight Queen members, standing up and throwing her arms around herself — she jumps, and when she looks up again, Bedelia’s gaze is already on hers.
“You’ve been loud lately,” she calls out, mildly amused.
Evie inhales sharply, the rain hitting the street, pounding the stone like a hail of bullets.
“And you brutal,” she replies, neutrally.
Bedelia’s lips curl up at the corner, smiling mirthlessly.
“Did I touch your cesspool of whores and thieves?”
Evie ignores Bedelia’s taunt, hardening her gaze.
“London isn’t yours.”
“Not even yours.”
“We’ve done this dance before, Bedelia, and frankly, I’m getting bored with it.”
“Then go back to your brother and let me sort this out.”
“No.” Evie hisses, taking a step forward.
Bedelia stands still, her Templar cross bleeding like an open wound.
"We didn't kill him."
"I know."
Evie opens her mouth, then closes it again.
"If we can..."

Slick.

"No." Bedelia replies, her hidden blade peeking out from under her coat sleeve. "You can't."
Evie looks away, her gaze set on the glint of steel, her hair blown to the side by the wind, her face like a hungry, angry banshee.
"If it was one of yours..."
Bedelia almost closes the distance between them, and from this close Evie can see the wild glint in her eyes, the energy echoing back to her own in the sound of breaking glass.
"This is one of those times when Assassins need to learn to mind their own business." she shrieks, her lips tightening into a thin, white line.
Evie studies her carefully, taking the veiled hint.
"It was one of yours."
Silence.
"But if we intervene, we'll give him what he wants."
Bedelia shows her teeth in a grimace, releasing a low, unpleasant laugh.
"Go home, Evie Frye," she tells her, and she doesn't like her condescending tone one bit.
"Kiss your daughter and say goodbye to that idiot brother of yours, while you still have them," she finishes, and when she turns her back to her Evie knows that the matter is over - for now.
The balance they had brought to London had stripped the power of the one thing that could nourish it, and make it grow: chaos.

Chapter Text

14.

Abigal knows something is wrong; she looks down at Gabriel’s empty chair and feels all too clearly something tugging at her skull, as if a hook were stuck there that tugs every time she finds herself thinking that…

Yeah, what were you thinking, Abigal?

“It was the Fryes.”
She blinks a couple of times, finding herself nodding.
“Do you have proof?”
“They killed one of us, Julian. Who else could it have been, a street thief?”
“No, of course not, but…”
“Bedelia was negligent.” Alistar’s voice interrupts them — a husky, baritone tone.
Abigal turns and slides along Lowe’s profile, lingering on the scar that disfigures his neck from chin to collarbone. "Her truce could cost us London; trusting those cutthroats was reckless and brazen." he continues, dryly.
Mathias sighs, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.
"But part of the city is ours and..."
"A concession." Alistar replies, coldly. "Is that what we want?"
"We want balance." Eleanor points out, neutral. "And Bedelia gave it to us."
"For how long?" he insists, raising an eyebrow.
Abigal licks her lips, trying to say something — anything — and finds her tongue frozen inside her mouth instead.
Eleanor tilts her head to her shoulder, her expression a note of annoyance, confusion — the same one Abigal would have seen in herself a week ago, had she been able to.
"Bedelia is one of our most trusted members; she has been able to stand up to Jack, holding her ground when others have failed. Gabriel has always had full..."
"Gabriel is dead." Lowe emphasizes, seraphically "Killed by the same assassins that Bedelia protects."
"A strong word." Octavian contradicts him, resting his chin on his closed fist "It sounds like Bedelia is in charge, which should only please us."
Alister sketches a condescending smile, in his green eyes a sly, animal glint.
"Then who?" he asks, leaning back and intertwining his fingers on his abdomen "Come on, Octavian: propose a solution."
"Bedelia is investigating..."
"She could be purposely misleading the investigation." Arthur interrupts, staring at an unspecified point on the table.
Octavian turns to him, offering Abigal a view of his profile - elegant, refined: a pale oval surrounded by a mass of curly black hair.
"If we start to suspect one of us then we can all just say fuck off and challenge each other here today."
Eleanor frowns, shaking her head slightly as if a disturbing thought, or a noise, has crossed her mind.
Arthur holds up his hands in surrender, silent.
"We have two options," Lowe says, regaining control of the conversation. "Either we let Bedelia investigate and trust what she finds, or we relieve her of her position as Grand Master and intervene."
"That may not be possible."
Alistar looks at Julian, the youngest member of the Inner Sanctuary.
"The Black Cross." he points out, tapping his index finger a couple of times on the lapel of his jacket.
An uncomfortable, thoughtful silence falls around the table; the first to break it is Edmond, the eldest.
"If Savage was recruited by the Black Cross then her loyalty is not in question." he murmurs, calmly "So the question of removing her from her position does not arise."
Alistar looks at him sideways, ignoring the coughs that have begun to wrack Eleanor.
"So we have to wait, do you think?" he calls out, quietly - his vocal cords vibrating in the wrong way, giving his voice an unnatural quality.
Edmond stares straight into his eyes, unperturbed.
Abigal wants to get up and go to Eleanor to help her, but she can't - Mathias does it, patting her on the back and leaning towards her ear to say something.
"All right." Alistar then exhales, smiling "When you change your mind I'll be more than happy to explain my plan." he concludes, and Abigal catches Mathias looking at him with a strange expression, halfway between concern and suspicion.
As Eleanor leaves the room the power of the relic extends among her thoughts, covering everything with its voice

Chapter Text

15.

"Three weeks."
Evie stifles a yawn, rummaging around the table for fried mushrooms.
"She's basically searched every inch of London."
Lydia snaps a slice of bread in half, dipping it into the egg yolk.
"And what did she find?"
Evie takes the plate of grilled sausage from her, handing her the one with the tomatoes instead - no, I told you, Lydia; you have to eat your vegetables too.
"Nothing." Jacob thunders, stopping in the middle of the room.
Lydia decides to try something new, spreading the remaining egg white between two slices of bread and adding the tomatoes - she then mashes it all together, trying to fit it into her mouth and failing miserably.
Evie takes a sip of tea, nodding absentmindedly.
"What are we going to let her do now? Inspect our underwear?" Jacob then begins, making Evie laugh and almost spill the tea out of her nose.
Jacob continues to look at her as if expecting a serious answer, Lydia dives under the table, trying to retrieve the tomatoes that have fallen - or rather, that have shot out of the improvised sandwich like bullets.
Evie puts her cup down, clearing her throat.
"Bedelia knows it wasn't us; if we had stood in her way it would have been a declaration of war."
"It makes us look weak.'' Jacob contradicts her, dumping four sausages on his plate.
Evie watches her brother in silence, seeing the first strands of gray in the hair at his temples.
"The Council never liked our own truce, for that matter; and yet it was the best thing for London."
Lydia emerges from under the table, sitting down again and hiding the tomatoes in her napkin.
Jacob sighs, scratching his cheek.
"One of the Nine doesn't die because he's caught off guard by a mugger, Evie."
"That's what she said."
"The Rooks don't know anything about it."
"They couldn't have hurt him anyway; the Inner Sanctuary members aren't cheap soldiers, as despicable as they are."
Lydia finishes her breakfast, then looks down at Jacob's sausages.
"An internal betrayal."
"Bedelia thinks so."
Evie catches Lydia's eye, moving the tray of sausages across the table and pushing the one with the mushrooms closer to her.
Jacob leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing the tangle of white scars that mark them both.
"Why does it smell like shit all the way here?"
Evie shrugs, cracking a smile at Lydia's annoyed muttering.
"My theory? The Templar who was killed was inconvenient to someone, and by eliminating him they killed two birds with one stone: they can blame us and, in the process, get rid of a problem."
"And if Bedelia doesn't find the culprit, or doesn't act, they could remove her." Jacob adds for her, sighing.
Evie snaps her middle finger and thumb together, finishing her tea in one long gulp.
"...what a fucked up situation." Jacob contemplates, patting the back of Lydia's hand when she tries to steal a sausage from him.
"We should look for the culprit ourselves." Evie suggests, stretching back in her chair.
Jacob lingers on the outline of her breasts under her blue robe, part of his mind replaying the night before.
"Bedelia won't agree: she thinks it's a personal matter."
Evie weighs his words, serious.
"If we stand still, the Council might see us as complicit; this situation was created to break the truce between us and Le Savage. I know it's personal, but if she falls, we'll be back at each other throat and vice versa. She's a practical woman, Jacob; she knows how to seize an opportunity when she sees one."
Jacob leans forward, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lydia, now on the carpet, playing with a wooden hidden blade.
"We should send her to George." he whispers, so quietly that the crackling of the fire threatens to drown out his words.
Evie follows his gaze, licking her lips.
"We should." is all she says to him, still watching Lydia play.
War has never spared anyone's children.

Chapter Text

16.

Bedelia is tired; she can feel it in her bones, in her thoughts - confused masses of words and ideas and desires that chase each other without a real shape.
She loses herself listening to the water dripping from her hanging coat, staring at a gray London, whose streets are invaded by fog as if it were a tentacled monster emerging from the mist of a swamp.
She looks away, resting her eyes on the names of the members of the Inner Sanctuary: she knows them all, one by one.

And she suspects everyone.

Bolden had told her that there is a relic to recover, or maybe even two: he had also suggested that she follow the money, and it is then that she focuses her attention on four specific members - Octavian, a rising railway industrialist; Alistar, pioneer and financier of the first prototypes of the automobile; Arthur, owner of several coal mining sites, and Eleanor, the true mind of one of the most important textile industries in England.
She slumps back in her chair, cracking her neck, feeling the tiredness give way to pain, to absence.
She refuses to look at the chair Gabriel had sat in almost a month ago, tapping her fingers along the edge of the desk.
She hadn’t been able to go to the funeral; it wasn’t her place and her presence would only have raised questions.
She’d watched his wife mourn him, Shane’s tight, rigid profile — he looks like you, you know, Gabriel had told her, and from that distance she’d realized that yes, he had her hair, her eyes: even the way he curled his lips when he was sad, as if he were trying to hold back his emotions in a grimace.
She closes her eyes, listening to the murmur of a city waking up — a pale, milky dawn on the Thames, seeming to cover everything in dust and ash.
The past had never really left her.

Chapter Text

17.

Alistar is a patient man; if he were not, he would not have survived an assassin's hidden blade when he was still a novice.
He touches the scar that nearly took his life and his vocal cords, remembering the shock - the surprise of being caught off guard, followed by shame.
He touches it with his fingertips, feeling the irregularities that extend to under his chin - there, where the tip of the blade had begun to descend, dripping blood and fear.

Click.

He breaks his silent study, looking up and meeting Octavian's gaze.
"Am I disturbing you?" he asks, indicating the seat on the bench next to him.
Alistar moves to the side, motioning for him to sit.
Octavian tugs down the cuff of his shirt, twisting one of his gold cufflinks between his thumb and forefinger.
"You expressed a rather... peculiar opinion at the table."
Alistar is silent, moving the dirt with the toe of his boot.
"You never liked Bedelia."
"I never liked her methods." he points out dryly. "I recognize her other qualities."
Octavian releases a hum in his throat, soft and vibrant.
"You want war."
"I want London returned to us." Lowe replies, staring straight ahead.
"And yet all the way to Whitechapel is ours."
"That's not enough."
Octavian is silent, watching for a few minutes as a sparrow tries to dig a worm out of the ground.
"Eleanor's been ill." he then says suddenly, resting his chin on his clenched fist and staring at it.
"I feel sorry for her."
"She vomited, saying she couldn't feel her head."
"Maybe she's pregnant."
Octavia laughs - a cheerful, but constructed sound.
"Well, I'll give her your regards." he concludes, and Alister is careful not to meet his eyes - too blue, too attentive.
Octavian stands up and Lowe knows that somehow he has taken something from him - not enough, but the son of a bitch seems not only resistant to the relic, but also capable of peeling people's skin to look inside them, vivisecting them as if they were transparent.
"I'll see you at the next meeting; Bedelia will have submitted her report by then." he says, turning his back to him - a faint aftertaste of vetiver and tobacco around him.
Alister continues to stare at the water coming out of the fountain's cornucopia until even the last trace of Octavian's scent has dissolved into the London air.

Chapter Text

18.

She can't find it alone, and that makes her feel something between anger and relief.
She turns the black cross over in her fingers, a cup of cold tea and a half-eaten sandwich beside her.
"White suits you." Evie says, trying to start a conversation.
Bedelia gives her a sidelong, neutral look.
"It matches your hair color." she adds, rotating her index finger toward her.
Jacob shifts his weight from one hip to the other, staring at her with a mixture of apprehension and irritation.
"I've never come in..."
"I always thought your brother was the talkative one." Bedelia interrupts, straightening up.
Evie looks at her, impassive.
"He is; but he doesn't have anything nice to say right now."
Jacob makes a sound that's like a grunt, coughing a couple of times to cover it.
Bedelia takes a sip of her tea, licking her lips.
"If I do this - if we decide to work together - our heads will most likely pop off."
"All the more reason to get up and leave.'' Jacob says stiffly.
Bedelia gives him a condescending look, as if she were talking to a slightly dumb dog.
"You have no access to the Inner Sanctuary; you couldn't get there on your own."
Jacob inhales sharply, biting his lower lip.
"Is this a test?"
"No, just a statement of fact. It's no accident that in all these centuries, no one - and I mean, no one - has ever gotten to the Nine."
Evie pops a butter biscuit into her mouth, chewing it slowly.
Jacob leans forward, the edge of his jacket touching the edge of his teacup.
"We could kill them all."
"But you won't."
Jacob smiles an unpleasant, merciless smile.
"Because we're good people?"
"Because Lydia is more important."

Silence.

Evie doesn't seem to be affected by her words, just wiping her fingertips on the lace-trimmed cotton table — a refinement that is Bedelia's own.
"... I'll kill you." Jacob mutters, sitting down so as not to draw attention to himself with the other patrons of the small tearoom in the middle of London.
Bedelia shrugs, her jacket swinging differently on the left side.
"You can try." she says quietly, "But it wouldn't be wise. You don't know if I have documents about your secret or if I've already given them to someone I trust. Sure, the Brotherhood wouldn't kill you, but you'd surely end your days in disgrace, and worse, the child would be a pariah for life."
Jacob presses his teeth together, holding back the fury that spreads from him in hot, liquid waves.
Evie lightly touches his wrist, calming him.
"What do you want, Bedelia?" Evie asks, maintaining physical contact with her brother.
"A place in the Nine."
"And you want to get it because of us?"
"Of course. You get the glory, I get the power. And our truce can continue."
"And whoever killed that Templar will die."
"It's called justice." Bedelia says, crossing her legs.
"You could ask your friend from the Black Cross."
"He left it to me to find the traitor. It's a test. If I fail, I'm out."
Jacob drums his gloved fingers on the arm of his chair, annoyed.
"We're not your minions."
Bedelia tilts her chin toward him, a smile that most would find charming if they weren't paying attention to the woman wearing it.
"No. But you are different from other assassins, and you know how in chaos the Order always finds new roots. You, on the other hand, manage to make space for yourself when there is already an established hierarchy that you can undermine."
Evie tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, staring at her.
"And you are our hierarchy?"
Bedelia looks at her, nodding.
"The new century is upon us, Frye: opportunities undreamed of are already on the desks of many whose decisions will affect the coming years. If we are to have any hope of surviving, we must open those fucking drawers and see what is inside." she contemplates, determined.
"Let's find the culprit; if you kill him I will take his place, you will rise in rank in your Brotherhood."
"It is not the power that interests us." Evie replies, calmly.
"But it is what can keep you safe." Bedelia sinks, ruthless.
Evie studies her carefully, Jacob's fingers closing on her knee, possessive - nervous.
"There's something you're not telling us."
No response.
"You're perfectly capable of eliminating a member of your Order on your own; you never do anything without an ulterior motive. What level we are in the Brotherhood shouldn't matter to you unless there's something else."
Bedelia persists in her silence, her face a smooth, neutral mask.
"...you're doing it because there's a relic involved."
"Maybe."
"And you think we're going to use the Shroud."
"Why, do you know where it is?" Bedelia says sardonically.
Jacob resists the temptation to shove his plate, still full of sandwiches, in her face, because something in him tugs, and claw like a wild, unruly beast.
Bedelia catches his gaze and seems to read something in it — perhaps the gleam of the Koh-i-Noor, perhaps the gleam of the beast.
"Do we have an agreement or not?" she asks, holding out her right hand to them.
When Evie shakes it, the scars on both of them burning. 

Chapter Text

19.

When they left Crawley they had done so with the idea of ​​annihilating the Templars, the hidden blade on their wrist and an unexplored rage in their chest, between their ribs.
London had torn these illusions from them, laughing with teeth of steel and coal at their foolish pretensions - children playing at being adults.
They had learned to bleed on the banks of the Thames, pouring the frustration of a still immature feeling into fighting and violence; they had defeated Starrick, but not his idea - the Templar Cross rising again, and standing among the rubble of a city that was the whore of both.
They had rebelled, Evie and Jacob; against themselves, against what pressed under their skin, crossing London and time - touching the future and accepting the past.
They had fought, but they had surrendered when they had understood that they were born losers - the blood roaring, the desire burning, reducing them to ashes.
They were lost, they were reborn - they had overlapped with the profiles of those who, before them, had touched eternity.
Evie sits on the edge of the window ledge, listening to the night, its whispers - under the scars a faint pearly luminescence.
London is changing; she can feel it in every stone, every breath - the rumble of an engine gaining speed and power moment by moment.

"War is an opportunity, Evie Frye, and everyone will want a little piece of it."

She would say that Bedelia was wrong; that she had lied to sow doubt.
She wishes she could ignore that instinct that had always allowed her to leap at the right moment, defying the sky and fate.
She would love to keep Lydia by her side, but she knows it would be an unnecessary risk - a target that would make them easy prey.
She stands, balancing on the thin strip of marble of the windowsill - the hum of London interrupted only by the blast of cars, the clatter of horses and carriages.

"You want revenge."
"If you prefer to call it that."
"They have a relic."
"Perhaps."
"If you asked for our help, it is a certainty; I will not lead my brother to his death."
"Is this the courage of the much vaunted Assassins?"
"They died young who did not pay attention to detail."
"They were dear to the gods."
"I am an atheist, unfortunately for you."

She spreads her arms around herself, closing her eyes - the night taking on a palpable, dense consistency.

"They didn't think I was capable of it and I proved them otherwise: just as you to your Brotherhood."
"You and I are not the same, Bedelia."
"No, we aren't: but we don't have to be to make this city work."

Evie jumps, splits the silence, the darkness: at her side Jacob is shadow and refuge.

Chapter Text

20.

Octavian is a cautious man: behind his handsome exterior and dandyish manners he possesses a sharp mind - attentive.
He taps his index finger rhythmically on the periwinkle napkin, studying his surroundings with feigned disinterest.
Hathaway was dead: abandoned like a dog in a Whitechapel alley - Assassin territory.
Hathaway was dead and Bedelia was held responsible - there is no way that something like this could happen under her watch, Alistar had said.
He takes a sip of brandy, rolling the glass between his fingers - the ring on his right ring finger catching the dying glow of the sun.
He licks his lips, trying to chase away with alcohol the bad taste the meeting with the other members of the Inner Sanctuary had left him, his head having started to hurt almost immediately, getting worse by the minute.
He sighs, shifting his weight from hip to hip and pushing his jacket off the back of the chair.

"What do you think?"
"Uhm?"
"About Gabriel's murder?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah. I think it was the Assassins. Or maybe Bedelia herself; she's started barking like them since she started hanging out with them."
Octavian raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to his shoulder.
"Are you okay, Abigail?"
"Yeah, I just have a headache."
"You've always liked Bedelia; blaming her for her mentor's death is a serious thing."
"I know."
"Do you really think so?"
"I... I do. I think so."

He finishes the brandy in one gulp, rubbing his eyelids; what kind of person isn't sure of their thoughts?
Someone who doesn't have any, he tells himself, but Abigal has never been stupid, or ignorant.
Then maybe it’s not hers, a small, uncertain voice in the back of his skull suggests.

“Any news of the recovery of Apple of Eden number four?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s strange. I thought Morgan had already cut off Tesla’s research.”
“He did, but Edison hasn’t completely discredited him yet.”

He stares into the bottom of his empty glass, catching glimpses of the mahogany of the coffee table, part of his own reflection — an aristocratic nose, eyes so blue they stand out even in a dim room.

“What are its powers, Eleanor? Remind me.”
“According to our sources, it can create illusions and control other people’s minds.”
“A dangerous artifact.”
“That’s why we need it, not those cutthroats.”

Octavian pulls a peacock pin from his lapel, squeezing it in his palm until the needle sinks in and he bleeds — the pain making him alive again, him again.
They can touch his body if he wants, but no one will ever have the right to own his mind.

Chapter Text

1897

The sins of the fathers fall on their children, Jayadeep Mir had murmured on that platform years before.
The sins of the fathers fall on their children, had been George's sad observation as they renovated their old house in Crawley.
The sins of the fathers fall on their children, Bedelia's warning, her eyes hard, furious.
"Aren't you coming?" Lydia asks for the tenth time, staring at him.
"No." Jacob replies, finishing packing her suitcase.
Lydia frowns in a perfect imitation of Evie as a child, clutching a crumpled, cross-eyed duck.
She opens her mouth, then closes it again - that why stuck in her throat, where all the other questions she'd never been able to ask reside.
"But are you coming back for me?"
Jacob turns, looking at her - a small thing just over a meter tall and in which the profiles of both of them overlap with a brutal, violent force.
"Yes." he replies, lowering himself to her height and staring straight into her eyes.
The girl holds his gaze and god, she really is the spitting image of Evie - a déjà vu that takes him back to a different time, full of possibilities and doubts.
"We're not going to die, Lydia." he adds, honestly - the truth is the only thing that has allowed them to survive in the midst of a web of conspiracies and lies.
The girl bites her lower lip, nodding - shoulders straight and back stiff; a reflection of the pose with which she had seen her father face life.
Not today, the annoying thought that slips onto the tip of his tongue, almost becoming a sentence.
Lydia reaches for his hand and squeezes it in silence.

Chapter Text

21.

"The Inner Sanctuary is about to vote you out of confidence."
Bedelia touches the stump of her left arm, trying to soothe a phantom itch.
"Only Octavian and Julian still seem to be opposed." Victor adds, calmly.
Savage doesn't change her expression, just looking at the flames in the fireplace, absorbed.
"You're in a delicate position, Bedelia; you're losing support, and the Frye twins aren't helping your cause."
"I have two left." she begins, neutrally.
Victor tilts his head to his shoulder, curious.
"Two suspects." she points out, still staring into the fire. "Octavian's actions remove him from the list, and Eleanor is clearly not herself, leaving Arthur and Alister."
Bolden is silent for a moment, considering her words.
"You did it on purpose."
Bedelia doesn’t respond, remaining still.
“You let the situation fester to see who would back you and who wouldn’t.”
“It was the safest way.” she says, finally glancing at him. “The Fryes helped me weed out some of them, but without a real conflict I couldn’t tell who was lying or not. Or who was using the relic to influence others.”
Victor listens intently.
“The Apple of Eden isn’t in Edison’s possession; it never got there, apparently, which means someone got it somewhere in the middle.”
“Who discovered it?”
Bedelia turns, resting her elbows on the desk and staring at him, her hair softening in the glow of the flames.
“Alister.” she murmurs dryly. “It was Alister Lowe who found it in Tesla’s labs.”
Victor shifts from hip to hip, his gaze fixed on the floor, his brow furrowed.
"And he would have done it out of greed?"
"And revenge." Bedelia says, leaning back three-quarters and crossing her legs. "Ethan Frye almost killed him when he was a young Templar. He saw an opportunity to right a wrong, and I admit I can understand him very well in that sense."
Bolden intertwines his fingers together and in his ambiguous smile Bedelia find a peaceful awareness.
"But you already knew."
"Maybe."
"And you just wanted to see how far I would go to figure it out, and more importantly, how long it would take me."
"Two months is a good result."
"How long did it take you?"
"Three weeks. But I have other means, Bedelia. The Black Cross does."
Bedelia lets out a dry laugh, far too brief to be genuine: the pain and anger have consumed everything that was left of her.

Chapter Text

22.

Jacob’s body is warm, comforting.
Evie curls into his side, entwining her thighs with his and nuzzling the tip of her nose against his chest.
She traces the tip of her index finger over one of the many white scars, pale threads that stretch across his skin like a spider’s web.
“We can’t use it.”
Jacob narrows his good eye, staring at the clothes abandoned on the chair.
“The Shroud.” Evie adds quietly.
The rain makes a harsh sound across the streets of London, making the view outside the window blurry and uncertain.
“Using it would only reveal where it is, and we can’t do that.” she insists, drawing concentric lines near his collarbone.
A muscle under his left pectoral tenses, lifting the wings of the peregrine falcon — Jacob’s breath shortening, brushing her forehead.
“But you would like to.” he whispers to her, his voice hoarse with sleep.
Evie frowns, pausing her movements near his throat.
"... Yes." she admits, rubbing the shilling dangling from his neck between her thumb and forefinger.
Jacob makes a throaty sound at the gesture, low and vibrating.
"We have this." he tells her, clasping her hand in his and turning it palm up, "And I believe it is infinitely more powerful than any relic."
Evie gazes at the thick, translucent web radiating from the center of her hand as if something had exploded on it — she remembers, and instinctively presses closer to her brother.
Jacob tilts his chin down, his right eye socket an empty space that seems to look beyond — where they had met ghosts of a future that looked like the past.
"He didn't save you from Jack."
"No." he grants her, lifting her up and kissing the corner of her mouth. “But it still made us stronger.”
Evie sighs, parting for his lips and pressing her body against his — the sky roars, raining down on London in a flurry of ice-hard drops.
Jacob stands over her, flipping her over the sheets and dropping the blanket to the side; Evie makes a noise of protest, trying to catch it.
“It’s cold.” she hisses, moving her hand blindly over the edge of the bed.
Jacob smiles against her skin, sliding his knuckles over the curve of her breast and biting her nipple — a gesture that elicits a surprised, almost outraged yelp from her.
“You’re an idiot.” she scolds, but there’s no real annoyance in her words, no anger.
“I never said I was the smart one in the family.” he snaps, staring up at her and resting his chin at her navel.
Evie looks at him, tilting her head down.
"You're not." she confirms, grabbing the blanket and throwing it over him.
Jacob laughs and grabs her hips, bringing her knees up to his shoulders and resting his cheek against her thigh - the blanket only half covering him, leaving Evie completely naked.
"Idiot."
"You said that before."
"It's good to remember that." she says, haughtily.
Jacob kisses the space between her cunt and thigh, his fingers grazing her mound of pubic hair - the bottom of his pupil a predatory, wild glint.
Evie leans in ever so slightly, inviting him - wet, yielding; her cunt a delicate pink, still bearing the marks of their previous embrace - and Jacob responds - always.
The rain turns to snow and covers everything in white and gray.

Chapter Text

23.

There’s a Victoria Sponge Cake in the middle of the table, next to it a package wrapped in blue paper and blue ribbon — a remnant of porridge on the plates, a half-baked piece of focaccia on a crumpled napkin.
“Happy birthday, Lydia.” George murmurs, leaning back in his chair for balance.
The little girl is picking at her fingers, staring at the cake and then at the package in front of her.
“It’s from your grandfather and your aunt.” he adds, pushing the blue rectangle toward her.
Lydia’s eyebrows furrow slightly, her expression serious, almost adult.
George feels like she’s about to correct him on something — the vertical crease in the middle of her forehead, the scowl, and that little grimace she always made when she thought someone had said something really stupid.
“Thank you.” is all she says instead, pulling the package toward her and opening it with quick, precise movements — the training having shown her natural inclination for breaking and throwing bladed weapons.
She takes out a colored glass charm that faithfully reproduces an eagle in the moment of attack — the feathers of the wings having been rendered so minutely that they seem soft, real.
Lydia's face lights up at the charm and goes back to being that of a five-year-old — free, innocent.
George cuts a slice of cake, making sure to add more cream to her plate.
"It's very beautiful." he says, sitting down beside her and studying the charm.
Lydia lets it swing in front of her, her fingers sliding over the silver chain and the small clasp.
"That must have been your aunt's idea; Jacob wouldn't know how to give a rose if someone put it in front of him." he says, and Lydia laughs, letting George lean in and lock the chain around her neck - the eagle landing just below her throat, calling out.
"More jam?" he asks, and the little girl nods, momentarily forgetting the thoughts that had crossed her mind when he told her whose present it was.
George watches her eat and chooses to ignore a resemblance that is too much to not be enough.

Chapter Text

24.

Lester is one of the old guys: a crooked-smiling, bright-eyed Irishman, always on the alert.
He was at the Thistle & Crown when Jacob kicked the door open, conquering London piece by piece - Miss Frye at his side, the animated cane between his fingers.
He had seen a lot of shit and watched helplessly as the Rooks as he had known them, good, easy-hitting people, were destroyed.
He had survived the Blighters, Jack, pneumonia and a leg wound that had nearly bled him dry.
He had held on, Lester, and when he looks in the mirror he sees a man who has made it - who has never wavered from his beliefs and who will see the turn of the century, perhaps.
"What the fuck is she doing here?"
Lester walks past Bert, ignoring his half-spoken question.
"Ma'am." Lester greets her, spreading his legs and opening his arms around himself - behind him the younger ones murmuring, uneasy.
The woman tilts her head toward him and up close she looks even more elegant, cold.
"The boss warned me of your arrival." he tells her, the buzz intensifying, almost drowning out the baritone of his voice.
The woman remains still, her black coat hanging empty on her left side, a glove on her right wrist that is remarkably reminiscent of their boss's.
"If you want to follow me." he invites her, and Clive almost has a heart attack when the woman moves, the Templar Cross on the lapel of her jacket bleeding, reminding them all of the thin line the Fryes have chosen to walk.
"Irish." she calls him, and her voice has a monotone, almost bored quality.
"Aye, ma,am." he replies, making his way through the Rooks.
The woman follows him and has to admit that she is different from Starrick - she possess the light, determined step of a fighter and dancer.
"I had an Irish friend." she continues, neutrally.
"We're good people." Lester replies, slipping through the door that leads to the back of the bar.
"She gave me a black eye and broke three of my fingers."
Lester chuckles, snapping his fingers together.
"You must have asked for it, ma'am."
The woman is silent, but when he glances over hshis oulder he sees a small smile of amusement on her face, of nostalgia.
"I stole her favorite doll."
Lester laughs, the woman's smile widens - two predators measuring each other in the time of a breath.
Bedelia le Savage is a woman he could almost like.

Chapter Text

25.

Power never reveals itself.
It projects its illusion outside itself - it deceives, sending out little bannermen to imitate it, but it never shows its true face, leaving others to perish in its place.
Jacob touches the space beneath his throat, rubbing his fingertip over one of the scars that branch out from the center of his chest.
Power hides, and so did the Koh-i-Noor, dissolving into their bodies and crawling under their skin, between their ribs - rooting itself in their organs, their thoughts, maybe even their souls if there is one.
"She will be called to account for her failure in two weeks."
Evie looks up from her desk, marking the page of the book with her thumb.
"That was always her goal." she contemplates, staring out at the London night and all its horrors.
"She would never have been able to access the Inner Sanctuary so easily otherwise."
"You think Bedelia is afraid of being bait?"
Jacob laughs, a harsh, dry sound — adult.
"That woman isn't even afraid of death." he says, pulling a black-and-white photo from his inside coat pocket. "But she has a weakness."
Evie frowns, puzzled.
"We agreed."
"Studying the battlefield is one of the core tenets of the Creed."
"You never gave a shit about the Brotherhood."
Jacob nods, swinging his head from side to side mockingly.
"But you don't like Bedelia."
"On the contrary; if she were on our side I'd find her an invaluable asset, but here," Jacob tells her, tapping his index finger on the lapel of his coat, "she wears the Templar Cross."
"Balance is a matter of two weights, Jacob; she's as necessary as we are."
"I know." he retorts, stepping away from the open window. "But she knows about Lydia."
Evie lifts her chin, shifting her weight from one hip to the other.
"And I wanted to know about her."
"And what did you find?" Evie asks, intrigued by her brother's inventiveness.
"This." he replies, tossing the photo onto the desk.
Evie leans forward, rotating the image with her fingertips.
"His name is Shane Hathaway."
Silence.
"And he's the son of the murdered Templar and Bedelia." Jacob sinks in, the truth making the battlefield fair again, even.
Evie studies the profile of the boy talking to Churchill in silence.

Chapter Text

26.

He feels like vomiting.
Octavian presses his fingers to his temples, resisting the urge to lean forward and cough — the pressure of whatever Lowe is using is so strong that it stops his thoughts in mid-sentence and takes them somewhere else entirely.
"Bedelia will be judged in ten days," Eleanor announces, her eyes blank, making her look suddenly older.
"Her stubborn refusal to acknowledge the assassins' guilt and her negligence in handling Gabriel's murder are morally obligatory to us to do something."
Octavian looks up, trying not to meet Alister's.
"The Black Cross..." Julian interjects, interrupted immediately by Arthur.
"If they haven't intervened yet, it means they also believe she is responsible for something."
Octavian knows that this is not the case: that as elusive as the members of the Black Cross are, they only intervene when a Templar acquires and uses power for personal gain, being corrupted and betraying the very values ​​of the Order, not when a mission fails.
Julian opens his mouth, then closes it in a painful grimace.
"Gabriel believed in her." he insists, his idealism making him more resistant - tenacious.
Alistar gives him a condescending, almost tender look.
"Gabriel is dead." he emphasizes, calmly "And why he held Bedelia le Savage in such high regard, we all know, Julian."
Octavian wants to get up

No, it's not like that, idiot; it's not just for that, you big dickhead.

he can't, his legs heavy, inert.
Alistar catches his attempted movement, narrows his eyes, annoyed - and you're right, you bastard, he's about to tell him, but his tongue curls up in the roof of his mouth, threatening to suffocate him.
Between the folds of his red and black cloak the light of the relic is a blinding flash.

Chapter Text

27.

From the heights of the Westminster Palace they observe a city that had defied them, devouring steel and stone to become the tentacled monster it was today.
London is black and gray; it is a handful of progress and technology that already shows the signs of the time to come - unbridled wealth arm in arm with a dirty, sick poverty.
Evie rises, the wind carrying with it the moans and sighs of the city - the clatter of its elegant carriages and the sad swish of the bare feet of the orphans.
A thread of blood flutters behind her, leather and silk wrapping a profile that time seems to have barely scratched - under her skin an unnatural shine, that responds to the movements of the soul of its casing.
"The crypt is still sealed."
Jacob lands beside her, bending on one knee and pointing his gaze downward.
"The Shroud is still."
The sound of a bottle breaking reaches them from the street, followed by the raucous laughter of some drunk.
"Jack has shown us that we are not immortal."
Jacob stands his ground, the shilling around his neck swinging lazily in the void, his hood covering most of his face, but not the stiff crease of his lips.
"Tomorrow we will find ourselves facing another relic, if Bedelia is right."
Evie turns, looking at him.
"We must destroy it." she says, determined.
Jacob stands still for a few seconds, then his entire body seems to awaken and reassemble into something different - larger, more menacing.
"A graft." he surprises her, his voice an ancient, deep whisper.
"That's what they call the Black Cross: grafts cut from the Assassin tree and inserted into the Templar tree."
Evie remains silent, watching the edges of his hood flutter lazily in the wind.
"Bedelia fights for the same reason as us; that's all that made me want to help her." he confesses, standing up and staring at the horizon.
"And because if nothing is real..."
"Then everything is permitted." Evie concludes for him, curving a corner of her lips upwards.
Jacob searches for her eyes and smiles.

Chapter Text

28.

She is good at enduring pain.
She is talented at weaponizing it, sharpening it along with anger and remorse.
Bedelia takes a sip of whiskey-laced tea, rolling the cup between her fingers.
There is a dark sky above London, black with soot and rain - the thick smell of burning coal in the air and the acidic smell of a city growing, disproportionate and voracious.
It is an Apple of Eden, Victor had told her, and she is sure he has shared with her only the bare minimum - the secrets were the backbone of them all.
You will also find yourself up against the other members of the Inner Sanctum, the warning, but Bedelia would have had no problem eliminating every last one of them.

For Gabriel. For Shane. For everything I could have had and have given up.

She folds her arm to her chest, her lips brushing the rim of the cup, absorbed.

"You got their cooperation."
"I have my ways."
"Blackmail?"
"Persuasion."

She remembers love, Bedelia; the feeling of being understood before you were wanted — the loneliness that, for a few moments, stopped tormenting her.
She also remembers the aftermath, when love remained, but her future was stolen — one of many she had deluded herself into thinking she could choose from.
She taps her index finger on the cup, letting the memory take hold of what might be her last night — the idea that Alister had used the power of a relic to overpower a skilled fighter like Gabriel pissing her off enough to erase her fear.
And it was always anger that dragged her out of situations — first with Shane, then when she climbed the ranks of the Order, finally with that son of a bitch Jack.
Anger made her dangerous, because she knew how to harness it and use it - because it gave her the strength to do what she had to do, burning away fears and doubts, hesitations and uncertainties.
She finishes her laced tea in one gulp, chuckling to herself; at worst she will be able to see Gabriel again sooner than expected.

Chapter Text

29.

An eagle lands among the red calla lilies and daffodils, silencing the other birds around Crawley.
Lydia stops digging the hole where she was going to bury a mouse killed by George's cat, staring at it.
The eagle rolls its neck toward her, watching her - its gray plumage so different from what she's seen in birds of prey above London or in book illustrations.
The girl stands, tilting her head to her shoulder - cautious, alert.
"Hey," she says, and the eagle keeps its gaze on her, shifting its weight from one foot to the other.
Lydia approaches it slowly, opening the fingers of her right hand in front of her in surrender - the eagle spreads its wings, showing her a span of at least eight feet.
The girl stops, frowning.
"Don't..." she begins, but never finishes the sentence, returning to sit in the grass just warmed by the May sun and admiring the eagle in silence.
From the kitchen window George watches it and wonders when.

Chapter Text

30.

She looks at him, and Alister does nothing to hide the half-smile that curves his lips.
"Le Savage."
"Lowe." she replies dryly.
Alister gestures for her to sit on one of the chapel benches, stretching out the fingers of his left hand in front of her.
Bedelia's gaze slides over the other members of the Inner Sanctuarium, realizing that none of them are in control of their minds anymore.
"No, thank you." she replies quietly. "I have enough dignity left to not take part in this charade."
Lowe shrugs, nonchalantly.
"I was taught to be polite."
Bedelia lets out a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt, her thumb brushing the tip of her hidden blade.
"But it's comforting to be able to speak freely." Alister adds, raising his voice slightly.
"You're using an Apple of Eden."
"Yeah."
"They are the only relics that can control the mind."
"And there are dozens of them around the world." he updates her, rocking on his heels. "Connor Kenway threw away one of the many, but not the only one."
Bedelia notices the jerk of Octavian's knee upward, catching a painful, uncertain expression in his profile. She returns her gaze to Alistar, trying not to pay him any attention.
"Gabriel found you."
"Intelligent man. But intelligence is a sin in the eyes of power, you know that."
"That's not what the Order says."
"But that's what it does." he points out, the scar on his neck moving with his Adam's apple. "Why do you think it allowed people like Starrick or Charles Lee to be part of it?"
Bedelia presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, waiting.
"Ambition. Greed. Arrogance. All the things they had in abundance and that made them the perfect soldiers for those who truly knew what power was and where to find it - how to cultivate it."
"And I imagine you fall into the latter group."
Alistar raises his eyebrows, a bored, indifferent expression.
"No: I think you are clever than me, but that doesn't change the fact that I was smarter."
"Unfair."
"I found an alternative way."
Bedelia notices an involuntary movement of Octavian's left pinky again - she keeps her gaze on Lowe, trying not to let him notice.
"The Black Cross will send someone else."
"I know, but in the meantime London will be ours again."
"Yours." Bedelia points out, seraphically.
Alistar is silent, but there is a satisfied, contented glimmer in his eyes.
Bedelia inhales sharply, drawing her hidden blade and staring at him.
"Do you want to fight?" he asks, touching his right side too - where the sword scabbard hangs.
"I would rather die standing up, if you will allow it; leaving sitting down has never been my dream."
Alister answers her by drawing his sword and pointing it at her

Chapter Text

1898

"We can go in from the southeast corner," Evie suggests, coming up beside him. "It gives us direct access to the chapel, and the crypt has no other way in. It was intended as a vault for important documents and royal treasures, so we should use it to push Alister and the artifact inside."
Jacob follows her gaze, studying the White Tower of the fortress in silence.
"Bedelia will already be inside. Her presence will distract Lowe enough that he won't notice our arrival." she insists, her eyes alert, watchful - predatory.
Jacob bends down on his knees, using the Eagle Vision to scan the perimeter - nine people inside, all detected as a threat.
"If we can't destroy it, we seal it off." Evie says, pulling her hood over her head and pulling the grappling hook from her belt.
Jacob is silent, nodding sharply — the muscles in his thighs tense, his blind eye burning, the images the Vision sends back to him so clear they almost hurt.
"On my count of three?" Evie asks, touching his wrist in a warm, reassuring caress.
Jacob clasps her fingers in his and jumps.

Chapter Text

II

"The saddest word
in the whole wide world
is the word almost."
- Nikita Gill -

1.

There is an honor in Alister, to his credit: if she had been in his place she would most likely have used the other members of the Sanctuary as toy soldiers to throw at him to slow him down, and weaken him.
Bedelia knows he is using the power of the relic - she can feel it in her bones, as it warps and bends them, and in her thoughts, where it makes them uncoordinated and confused.
It is not control, but a progressive destruction of her ability to think and act.
She steps aside, avoiding another lunge, but stumbles over her own feet - muscle memory making up where her mind is failing.
She holds onto the image of Gabriel,

alive, as he teaches her to parry and stab; as he kisses her and makes her feel, for the first time, whole, something worth fighting for.

Shane's,

asleep beside her for those few nights, nothing more than a crumpled bundle with a tuft of blond hair like hers sticking out.

the anger that neither ambition nor power could quell - a disease that would destroy her, sooner or later.
She spins around, feeling her movements slow, as if she were fighting underwater.

"I would have married you."
"But you didn't."
"No. And it was my fault."
"You didn't have enough power to impose my presence."
"I could have gotten it."
"Not with me, or Shane around."
"But I would have been happy. And you would have been happy, too."
"... Yes, we would have been, Gabriel. We would have been."

Alister slashes through the air, missing her by inches and slamming his blade into one of the white columns near the altar - the golden cross above it towering over them, casting its shadow down the aisle.
Bedelia takes up her guard position and waits.

Chapter Text

I smell blood
your fire, your pain.
I know that you hurt
and suffer like me.

"So it's over."
Jacob takes a sip of his tea, keeping his eyes fixed on Evie, who is folding an origami for Lydia, sitting in the middle of the lawn.
"Whatever you were supposed to do." George adds, calmly.
Jacob is silent for a few seconds, breathing in the clean air of Crawley.
"There was a relic." he murmurs, softly.
George lets out a knowing, soft hum.
"We destroyed it." Jacob adds, twisting the cup by the handle.
George turns, looking at him.
"It crumbled in our hands." he whispers, and Jacob seems to tense under his skin, taking on a pale, unnatural shade.
"...an artifact doesn't break so easily." George replies, neutrally.
Jacob tilts his chin toward him, and in their old teacher's tired expression he sees how much time has passed and how close it is to its end - a feeling he tries to avoid as much as possible.
"I know." is all he says, staring at him.
George holds his gaze, then nods slowly - his hair noticeably thinner at the temples and his skin thin, fragile, that blemishes every day.
Lydia raises an eagle that looks like a chicken to the sky and laughs.

2.

Octavian senses them.
Octavian senses them, and it is with a devastating effort that he manages to turn toward them, staring at them.
The two assassins have their faces covered by hoods, but he does not need to see them to know who they are - the unstoppable Frye twins, as has often been whispered among the ranks of the Order.
The woman catches his gaze, nodding with her chin to the man: he turns too, studying him for a few seconds and then deciding that he is not a threat - for now.
If he could, he would laugh at the irony of a fate that had wanted the beating heart of the Order saved by those who had sworn to destroy it.