Takes place between the main game and JTR. This story is already written, and much darker than the actual game, you've been warned.
Rated M for violence, sexual themes, drugs, alcohol, torture, swearing, and biting snipes. Basically, Victorian London. :)
Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, no copyright infringement intended.
Thousands of years ago...
When I came into this wandering existence, mother nature blessed me with the unfortunate malady of being fortunate. In another life that highlighted another horizon, being fortunate meant I am to prosper. But as I stare at the stump of my right arm, I realize the life I'm dreaming of is not this one.
The other half of my soul came to visit for the 574th time this year, and that was the last time we were basking in the golden calamity of the keep. He used to bring me news, food, and stories from above. Now he brings me only news. News of our collective retirement from this world. I am not saddened by the notion, for I have been here for trillions of eons. If I crave the thrust of the winds, then I will endure the silence of death. I do forgive my masters, but I don't forgive myself for submitting to them, their chambers of doom, their pointless documentation of our lives. Would anyone care to read a segment of their carved paragraphs, now that the dooming fury of Adam and Eve is upon us?
And now I numb my bleeding stump with harrowing thoughts—approaching catastrophes that will leave me wanting of another life. And yet another one. And another. I, Yara, not quite Isu and not quite human. Both in servitude and rulership. I, Yara, drowning in a sea of glowing fears inside this endless tower. And now I'm finally leaving. But if the fallacy of Eden is evergreen, then I am forced to submit yet again—now to the omniscient, all-encompassing shade of fate. But my golden chain is nestled within years of ashes, there, in the midst of the poetic dreamland they forced me to keep safe.
The sun is approaching, Eden is to be scorched. We are to be killed by our own workforce.
I was a vigilant guard to the Isu's painful secrets. And now, I am free to wander this burning isle.
1875
Maybelle's left hand closed tightly around the barrel of her favoured rifle, and the other hand drifted to rest against the trigger. It was cloudy, and the fog had devoured of her vision what the smoke of the factories could not. But she has to do this- she has to check for men lurking around the possible route that ends at the lord's mansion. She has to, she must to. He was to have a gathering that night, perhaps the biggest he had till this day. A sort of a banquet with a hired band. Behind her back, there on the solid ground, workers tended to the garden and the surrounding sculptures. The interior, which the lord's maids are working within, must be just as impeccable as the exterior.
But it was futile to picture the beauty that may lie within- she won't see how it would look after the days of toiling that numbed every servant's fingers. The presence of lords and ladies tonight meant she won't be able to mingle with the guests like Lady Willis, or sample the ridiculous amounts of food currently being prepared within the mansion. Not only because Lady Willis, whom she considers a close friend, is older than her and ready to receive the attention of men, but she is also a lady, and Maybelle's not. Lord Willis is a Lord, and Rosalie is his daughter, she is not.
Hayward Willis is Maybelle's uncle.
Her eyes searched the fog-enveloped horizon, and she realized there's nothing but the usual bustle of London. Reluctant, she lowered her rifle and began walking to the opposite side of the roof. There in the midst of the roof, she couldn't see what lies beyond the edge. If she could, she would topple over like she had just learned to take her first baby steps. She lowered her chin and stared at the ground, observing her gentle locomotion. Better to see my feet than see how high this roof is, she thought.
In what seemed like hours of nervousness and precipitation, she arrived at the edge. Instantly, she lifted her gaze and let it roam beyond the iron fence that surround the pretentious mansion. Grosvenor Square wasn't quiet, but, when was it? Ladies and Lords were strolling in the large circular park in the midst. And carriages were drawn to and fro by rowdy, panting horses. No shady-looking fellows dawdled on the rooftops of the other mansions. None anticipating the right moment while disappearing between innocent men and women. She lowered her rifle, not bothering to search the rest of the available mile with the scope.
Perhaps now she can climb down for luncheon. And only the prospect of having something to fill her growling stomach forced her to face the ladder that leads to the ground. Suddenly, dizziness overwhelmed her, and she dropped into a crouch and waited for it to disappear.
She should not have looked down, she lamented herself. The next time she does so, she will be close enough to the edge for the waiting monster to pull her off the roof. Such childish notions were developed in the eras where they belong—childhood. But somehow, they stuck with her into adulthood.
Taking a breath, she stuck her feet to the protruding tops of the ladder and turned her back to the edge, willing her heart to slow down. She began her long descent along the face of the estate, where solid ground welcomed her with the smell of moist grass and the wavering scent of flowers. She promised herself- once I'm down I'll have the pleasure of boasting about staying alive to be there for breakfast, I just have to touch the ground…
When she did, she sighed until her lungs were completely empty. She looked at the metal fence that now towered over her. And for the millionth time, wondered what in the blazes kept her in her uncle's employ for this long.
The bastard, he might have treated her as one of his own through the first few years, but once she was old enough to climb the dreaded ladder that led to the rooftop, he knocked the books out of her hands and put a rifle in place. She wasn't sure if she should feel grateful for the fact that she wasn't sent off to a workhouse, or fuming because she wasn't inside the mansion like Rosalie, matching earrings with her gilded cross necklace. Or trying to decide which corset gave her the best hourglass figure. Her waist should be thin enough to match her age, twenty-three.
She pushed her inner turmoil aside and walked by a couple of gardeners that tended to a growing patch of tulips. She made her way to the guard's quarters, which was glued to the outer range of the estate, and went in the open door. Glen, a guard who oftentimes found himself partnered with her on patrols, was at the large table in the main room. His feet kicked up and a pint of ale in his hand.
"Drinking, already?" She tutted, and walked around the table. He eyed her as she took a seat beside him.
Her eyes ended up on the papers that arranged guard duty for the upcoming party. She had studied those plans for a long time while musing about the joy that bustled inside the mansion itself. The head of the guardsmen, Mister Stocker, made it clear to everyone that she wasn't paying attention to him, her cheeks still burn at the memory.
"I wasn't aware that you were involved with my drinking behaviour. We get a pint a day, and since I'm off duty, I'd like to drink it this instance." He punctuated his words with a sip, then stared off into the void again.
May shook her head, "Suit yourself, but when it is time and the event starts, Lord Willis won't be glad to see you intoxicated."
"It's just one pint, relax." He gulped down the liquid and slapped his pint down atop the plans. He reached up to scratch at his nose as he eyed the pint with a sad expression. Next pint—tomorrow. Maybelle could almost taste his sadness.
"What's for luncheon?" She asked him while her finger drifted upon the surface of the table.
"Boiled eggs, Lord Willis is sparing no expense for his guests. But I can't say the same for his employees."
She shrugged, "Not the first time," She looked at him and noted his drooping eyes, "Had sleep last night?"
His brows furrowed, "That obvious that I hadn't? I keep thinking about the position Stocker gave me, he put me right at the Lord's office."
May's eyes widened, "I haven't actually… I didn't hear…"
"Of course you hadn't, you were too busy chewing your lip and thinking of food." He laced his hands behind his head and dropped his legs from the table.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her arms crossing defensively, "I wasn't thinking of food."
"That is your answer? You were thinking of food but a moment ago."
"Well, I wasn't the one who got to spend an afternoon sipping on beer. I had to scope out the area for assassination attempts!"
"He issued the command? Sounds like a usual Lord Willis schedule to me." He said in a mocking voice, but May found nothing funny.
"The man is paranoid. I got your opinion already. This isn't a secret, Glen. The man himself admits that to us sometimes." She rolled her eyes at him, "My point is, you could spend time in the shade while I have to face the midday outside."
He hummed at her.
"And this isn't even the point! You got a crucial position this time, any idea why?" She continued.
His eyes snapped to hers as he removed his arms and fixed his posture, he seemed to look down on her now. She found it unsettling, and his continuous silence furthered her discomfort.
"No." He finally answered with a smile. His muscles instantly relaxed and he settled back into his chair.
She moved her eyes away from him. It was hard to look at him after his abrupt change of mood. Perhaps her uncle promised the young man a special prize if he could keep curious visitors out of the office for the night. Maybe Glen understood that Maybelle would be sour about it, at the very least. As far as she could remember, Lord Willis was never trustful enough to send his niece on a special errand or appoint her at the doors of his office or library. It was hard to accept the fact the he simply did not want her to meddle in his affairs beyond keeping out intruders…
She rose and walked to some shelves that held a few rifles and ammunition for them. A lone revolver sat at the edge, waiting for whoever used it on a daily basis. She felt Glen's eyes at her back.
"When was the last time we had an opium fest with Stocker and the men? I honestly can't remember," Glen drawled, "I think he's hiding it away from us because of the dinner party. What do you think?"
While May did partake in the squad's risky union monthly, she was thinking about quitting forever, "You know what I think. He will store it away for his own entertainment this evening, then complain that we ran out. If you smell anything funny coming from Stocker's quarters—you know, other than odorous gas, tell me."
"I hear he often takes the stuff to smoke it elsewhere. You wouldn't be smelling anything but odor anytime soon, I'm afraid."
Her eyes narrowed in despise, "That would explain his nightly walks. They used to say he frequented the brothels, not a private opium flat. But whatever's the case, I'll follow him into his den and show him business."
He smirked cheekily, "What do you plan on doing, Maybelle?"
She whipped around and glanced challengingly at him, but her mind was honestly as far away from a working plan as possible, "I'll raid his cabinet and take the whole supply for myself. Next time he goes on a pleasure mission; he'd have to settle for whores instead. And oh, I won't share any of it."
"You wouldn't dare, May."
She had to say something to dissipate the talk of drugs, "Do… do you think the leftovers will be great this time, or will they be chewed by some aristocrat who didn't like the sauce?"
"I swear to god… You're talking about food again… Do you have anything else to talk about?" His frustrated voice called to her.
"Yeah, will the flower arrangements be made with yellow roses, or white ones?" She sighed lengthy and turned to face him, "There's little else to talk about since those kinds of events are not for us."
He considered that for a moment, then nodded, "A good point."
"Maybe in another existence, I was Miss Willis and she was Maybelle. Maybe then I'll share gossip with you about who bedded what." She smirked and walked to the table, she sat at the edge.
He grinned, and it was heart-warming to at last see the Glen she knew, "I would love to hear that. Sir Duncan of Duncanshire bedded a mare a fortnight ago, that would keep me laughing for a day."
She snorted at him. And when he laughed, she did alongside him. He was slightly buzzed due to the beer, but she still laughed harder than him at the obscene rumour that came from another life.
It was good to have a true friend when everyone paid her no heed.
The sun was falling behind the houses as she looked on from her vantage point. The haze enveloped the birth of a new night. And a new night meant the gathering was imminent. She felt an odd mix of apprehension and excitement. It was illogical, since it was neither her first party to guard nor her last, but it still felt as if it was the biggest to be held in the estate for years. Finally, something to do other than answer to her uncle's paranoia. At least now she could observe as each man walked into the estate, a lady at his arm, as they both dragged themselves towards the party under the roof of the huge mansion.
It started slow. Hansoms began drifting by the estate to drop off early guests. Women's faces were painted and the men's outfits were ironed. She noted as the evening unfolded into darkness and gaslights were lit one by one, illuminating the streets and giving off a dazzling appearance to the area surrounding the mansion. Guests began pilling in and May lost track of how many entered in groups and couples and solos. She stood high and for once appreciated the fact that she could look down onto all these snobby aristocrats, after spending an eternity with the roles reversed.
Sometime into the night, behind the veil of loud and harmonious music beneath her feet, she managed to hear Glen calling for her softly. He stood on the groomed lawn, waving at her. She lifted a hand from her rifle and waved back, giving him a smile whilst knowing he probably didn't perceive it from the height.
"Wish me luck!" He called out, and ducked away from the questioning gazes of the guests who were out in the garden, viewing the arrangements under the soft gaslight.
She tried to reassure herself that she was on solid ground. Something solid indeed was at her feet, but it was not ground. She pushed the idea behind and paced towards the southern edge of the roof. The music was ingrained in her memory thus far, and she was sure it would bother her and make her hum through the recitations of tomorrow's positions. Stocker won't just have her head- he will have her entire body.
The hours seemed to drag on but the music only seemed to get louder, more varied. The smell of food wafted from an open window three storeys below her—the cook was extremely busy. Her mouth watered at the prospect of sampling some of his work. She shivered against a particularly strong wind as it blew past her. The night seemed to have no end, and she was tired. She wanted to know what happened with Glen. A far-fetched idea grasped her attention—both Stocker and her uncle would forgive her if she climbed down and patrolled the hallways for a minute or two. Three other snipers were situated in various parts of the estate. One was on the ground, scoping out the long distance that ran from the end of the gardens to the gates. The rest were standing atop the detached building that served as their quarters. If anything were to happen, they will take care of it long before she had taken note of anything happening.
A thought crossed her, the reasoning voice from her subconscious—what she was trying to do was wrong. She had enough trouble with the two men who controlled her life already, why make it harder on herself? But the calling of food and the promise to witness whatever is happening below was far too hard to ignore. She never climbed out of her post in a gathering, or even in a tiny grouping for afternoon tea. But she was determined to check on Glen and see if her uncle had already devoured him or saved him for breakfast.
It was the biggest party Lord Willis ever held—she would be cruel to herself if she didn't climb down and offer herself a chance to witness it from below.
She climbed down the ladder and stood in the midst of mingling guests who ignored her. She moved around the estate to the main entrance that faced the west, and went through the large open door. Two guards eyed her warily as she went in. She recognized them—Mack and Gerald, they were often posted as general patrol around the premise. Their leader seemed to have a different opinion about them through this night. It seemed as if every single position was switched for this night—perhaps a tactic her uncle acquired from his book of paranoia.
She stood in the hallway that led to the parlor if one was to continue forward. The drawing room was on her left. Music was numbingly loud here, and she itched to put her hands against her ears. She walked through the crowd into the parlor and observed the band that was situated atop a makeshift platform. Each man had a woman in his arms as they swayed to the booming tunes.
She averted her gaze and looked towards a table full of refreshments. A maid stood by the table, waiting to serve guests.
She made her way to her goal and wasted no time in scooping up a bite-sized appetizer from the ceramic. The maid scrutinized her with a perturbed frown but said nothing. She popped the piece in her mouth and savored how sour blended with sweet. It was possibly laced with every spice the cook thought up.
Wiping her mouth with the edge of her red sleeve, she kept herself wedged in place and stared at the rest of the appetizers and desserts that called to her. But she had another mission in mind—find Glen. Perhaps he'd appreciate a sample? She grabbed a circular delicacy that fit nicely in her hand and moved to the top floor.
After passing several apprehensive guests that might have suspected her for a gossip sharing damsel, she arrived at the hallway that ended with the infamous office. Glen was standing in front of the door, his face lit by two gaslights on either side of him. He looked a lot more bored than those guards who were made to patrol the entrance. She walked to him with a faint smile on her lips.
"Glen," She called, grinning heartily when his eyes widened and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He blinked away the shock and studied her approaching physique, as if he was attempting to learn the identity of the intruder.
"May?" He gasped.
"No, it's Stocker, boy. Stand straighter or I'll shove a stick up your arse to save you the trouble." Her smile was genuine against her challenging eyes.
He sighed and closed his eyes, as if shaking away her attack. For a moment May suspected he bought it. Patrolling an empty hallway would do that to a man.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, removing his hand from the Remington 1858 that sat at his hip, "What are you doing here, May? If Lord Willis sees you…"
"I'll be back in about a minute. I just came to check up on you." She shrugged, and busied her hands with a flower arrangement that was propped up by a metal display.
"Afraid I might've passed out of boredom?" His voice was very clearly tired.
"Or worse, complaining aristocrats who might mistake you as one of the servants." She turned to him.
"May, go back to your post." He offered with an appreciative smile.
"Alright, Stocker."
She wanted to move before she heard voices appear behind the door to the office. She listened to the steady hum of two men talking, then another joined him. Her eyes fixed on Glen, "What's happening in there? Willis finally found a man that could control his daughter without ending up in bedlam?"
Glen studied her and his forehead wrinkled several times. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and put his gaze to the ground. May tilted her head at him, attempting to coax him into talking.
"Is Lord Willis inside? I haven't seen him below."
He stiffened at the name, "May, go back. Please. This isn't your business," He told her as he let his hand drift to his weapon. Maybelle knew that Glen would never shoot her, especially because she was somewhat related to his boss, but also because he was her friend.
Maybelle assumed he was doing his job. She respected him for it, but something still dared her to question the inhabitants of the room before her. She held her breath and listened.
"But the sights that I've seen when I recovered these documents," said a thick voice that was muffled by the layered wall, "You wouldn't believe what I've seen."
A feminine voice answered him, "I suppose we're all eager to find out, Mr. Roan."
She wanted to keep listening, but Glen's voice overpowered the hushed voices behind the wooden doors, "Maybelle, go away. This isn't what you're supposed to be doing tonight!" He hissed.
She was taken aback by his hostility, since he never let it show when she was around. They never fought. It was a perfect friendship that had no complications, simply because it was built on one thing—their duty as guards.
"What is he planning this time? A contraption that will let him gain the favor of the whole borough, or one that will print money?" She thought aloud.
Glen stepped forward and seized her by the arm. He snarled and leaned his head towards her, "Maybelle, if you don't depart right now I'll be sure to send you flying back to your post with the back of my hand. There's a lot at stake here. Stocker will kill me if he found out I let one of his guards eavesdrop on his employer, so leave."
She scowled, and her lips spread into a thin line. He never treated her like this, which made her wonder if what Lord Willis promised him was a great deal more than some extra shillings.
She shook herself free of his grasp, and stepped back from him so quick that she almost stumbled and fell onto the arrangement. She didn't mind her friend getting richer, but she certainly did mind the way he treated her because of an unspoken promise between the young man and his superior. She fixed the cuff of her coat and turned away from his burning gaze. Once she was out of his sight and safe in the lavishly decorated corridor of the storey, she leaned against the wall and took a breath to steady her nerves.
She tried to recollect what she heard. They were conversing about a map, and what seemed like a fantastic display which one of them had seen. What is this map, where did it lead? Knowing her uncle, it was something astoundingly useful to him if he held secret meetings to discuss it. The last secret meeting he held was arranged between him and Stocker- they discussed the bolstering of the Lord's guard power, which she later learned was brutally important. In three days' time, the estate was assaulted by whatever enemies the man had made through his time as a Viscount. She still remembers watching as the morticians gathered the corpses that littered the bloodied garden, to either bury or send for science. She realized it was an arranged criminal offence.
And if Lord Willis was holding a secret meeting in the midst of a bash, something urgent was approaching. More imperative than a meeting between a potential suitor and the father of a beautiful woman in her early twenties. She shuddered as her eyes drifted to the freshly-polished wood beneath her feet. Her mind began to wander and she fished several deductions from her experience with Lord Willis. What he was holding may be a simple meeting of long-lost relatives, or it might mean something as crucial as London's safety. Nonetheless, she imagined that blood will drain from bodies sooner than she anticipated. Whether that blood surged from her uncle's enemies, or from herself.
She lifted herself from the wall and hurried towards her post, pushing past dancing guests in the parlour that blurred in her vision into blobs of blinding colours. A few called her a raging buffoon, a man questioned her identity. She ignored the serving girls and dashed towards the door.
Once she was out, she spared herself a moment to inhale a portion of the midnight air. The atmosphere inside was stifling as fireplaces and even the glow of the gaslights made the manor unbearably warm. She felt the guard to her right look her up and down, but she ignored him and walked down the steps that led to the grass. She put a hand to her chest and fiddled with the lone pearl, threaded with a leather rope and tied around her neck. An ornament her mother gave her years ago.
She bumped into a tall man with a thick beard and mumbled an apology. She disappeared before she heard him scold her and threaten to remove her from service. Maybelle climbed the rickety ladder that often invaded her nightmares. In those dreams, the ladder grew legs and walked away from the manor while she still latched on. But tonight, she will have nightmares of another kind—she will dream of the unspoken events which may or may not transpire in the days to come.
She stood at the precipice for the hundredth time this month alone. Her unease with the height that looked insurmountable to her was overshadowed by her thoughts. She had to know what was to happen. She made it a mission to discover what her uncle wanted of London this time. She looked down at a woman who stood on her toes to take in the scent of daffodils with a grin, while a man stood by her side and chuckled at her cheer. Her mind began to picture a gang coming in tonight, slaughtering everyone in sight with only her left to pick up the severed limbs. The infinite possibilities were agonizing.
The evening dragged on until the sky turned brighter behind the mist. Her eyes almost drooped and her weakening body threatened to give her a sticky death on her uncle's fabulous garden. She shook her head awake and instantly realized the night was over. If somebody called her down as her shift ended, she didn't hear them. So she offered herself the courtesy of heading to bed. Until sunrise, Stocker told her as his rough hands held up a piece of paper. But guests left the estate long before a new day dawned.
Climbing down with the usual foreboding sensation at the back of her neck, she touched the ground and tried to find her way to the quarters in her current state. The place was almost deserted, with only a few early rising servants or those that didn't sleep bumping into her, sweeping the pavement outside the gates or tending to a few flowers accidentally trampled by formal shoes. She stopped in her path and her gaze immediately drifted to the open doors of the manor.
Now's your chance, she told herself. It's either this, or an unknown danger that lurked around like a hungry beast, waiting for the kill. She has to warn Glen because her uncle never would, she has to warn herself.
Before her fear could pull her away, she entered the manor and pretended to patrol the empty hallways that were partially sullied by mud and bits of food. She walked past the parlour and up the stairs, in a few moments she found herself staring at the unprotected door of the forbidden office. Glen was nowhere to be seen, neither was Stocker. And Lord Willis was definitely asleep.
She looked over her shoulder twice and her feet carried her to the tall door. The wooden frame was covered with patterned glass that made it impossible to see anything beyond but indistinguishable shadows of furniture. She dared to push down the doorknob, but it was closed. She couldn't say if she expected otherwise.
She felt eyes on her back, but as she turned she found nothing but the protruding leaves of the arrangement almost bending to touch her neck. She pulled out a lock pick and kneeled in front of the door.
She stared at the steel in her hand. Her sister once told her the only way to open the closed door of their room was to fiddle endlessly with the lock until it budged beneath a hairpin. But after May got over the inevitability that is her father's abusive nature, she taught herself the art and discovered it required a great deal more. She learned to listen to the sweet click as each pin slid into place. And she learned to stop when she heard her father approaching in the hallway with a cane scraping the wood behind him. She missed her sister, and as much as she hated herself for it, she missed the idea of having a father.
As quickly as she could, she picked the lock and thanked the day she finally made it to the locksmith on one of her errands without Stocker finding out. The door opened with a dangerous creak and she slid into the small opening, finding it sufficient. Feeling like a fugitive, she spent a minute closing the door as quietly as she could, and whipped around to take in the disheveled appearance of the office. No servants were ever allowed inside but a select few. She might have seen the place once or twice when she was studying with Rosalie. But as she set foot inside, she found that it changed a great deal.
Instead of a desk, a large mahogany table not unlike the one they had in the guard's quarters was in the midst of the office. The shelves that once held books that couldn't fit in the library were now filled with weapons and metal trinkets that a weaponsmith would be happy to melt and turn into complex arms and innovative ammunition. Here and there, folded white clothes, that had the same fabric as a flag would, were hastily stuffed into drawers and cabinets as if they were a secret. The faint smell of beer came out of a mug still filled to the brim, and a circle of beer drew around it and continued into what looked like a spill. Perhaps a result of pouring at a height to generate more froth, or simply because a man knocked it unknowingly in his state of surprise. The green curtains were drawn along the window that overlooked the quietest part of the garden. But what captivated her most was the papers, letters, and newspapers that were thrown onto the table until the brown material couldn't be seen. She moved around the table until the writing on the largest paper became right-side-up.
The Artifacts of Pre-Dawn, it read. A report, it seemed—it was scribbled by neat handwriting that often pointed with an arrow towards an illustration or two. The drawings were of what appeared to be a gauntlet made of gold. Guardian's Veil, it said below. She traced the open palm with a fingertip, wondering what in the world was she looking at. Was her uncle looking for a treasured item? Was he going to sell it or keep it as a novelty?
Her eyes roamed until she found the first paragraph in the crammed paper. She had to squint to read the miniature writing.
It seems likely that we have located the means to open the vault that we have been looking for. Our archives called this crucial Piece of Eden 'Guardian's Veil'. But to get to it, the order needs a map especially designed by the First Civilization to provide access to the vault. Our historians remark that once the map was acquired, a team must be assembled to complete the tasks needed to open the vault. Once we have located the map, we will send it to the grandmaster while keeping the knowledge of the artifact reasonably secretive. No more than twenty men must know of its existence, and no more than five shall peruse it once the map is acquired. Further information about the artifact itself follows below.
She narrowed her eyes as the text led her to explanation of the gauntlet along with more illustrations, which were slightly less detailed when compared to the largest one drawn directly onto the paper and colored with dye.
An underlined bit caught her attention, she read on.
The Guardian's Veil is a powerful item which effects are not dissimilar to the Piece of Eden recovered from the Americas. Known as the Shard of Eden, and also known as the Ring of Eden. It is also not at all different to the artifact that was once sought by the order but was lost to the Assassins, called The Shroud of Eden. With the gauntlet alone, our extensive studies reveal that the wearer would be granted with immunity from physical damage. Along with the Shroud and the Shard which would be recovered from the Americas once its location is known, the wearer of all three artifacts would be able to resist all possible damage.
She stopped reading as realization hit her. She found herself recalling the anger in Lord Willis' voice as he argued with Stocker about guard patrol, or his unease when he found himself alone in his library when no guard was on duty to patrol his hallways. His fear has surmounted several stages until it probably reached clinical paranoia, and there's no one who questioned his methods or offered him a listening ear and a reassuring word. There were guards upon guards in his estate and in so much concentration that Maybelle found it unnatural. She heard him toss and turn in his sleep and rise to pace around the hallways when she still was the girl that considered Rosalie her sister. And what of those secret meetings he held to ensure the safety of himself and himself alone? What of the nights of assaults which he informed his guards of after making sure he was properly cushioned in his room, surrounded by four guards inside and out?
Lord Willis was looking for a way to rid himself of his fear, a common fear, one made to protect a human if in reasonable amounts, but too crippling in his. His fear was death, and he was looking for a way to bypass it.
Not much else of what she read made sense. Assassins? Was someone looking for him? Was someone planning to kill him? And order, what order? She supposed it might be whomever he employed to get him the artifact. He possibly spent hundreds of pounds to secure it, and the air of secrecy that enveloped the whole ordeal only proved it further. He wants the artifact, and he would do anything to get it.
She looked over her shoulder at the crack of light the curtains left uncovered. A sight she always feared welcomed her, and she felt dread climb up her neck as if it was tangible. The ground below seemed far, so far. But it was only a drop of two storeys and a roll at the end. But what if her neck cracked as she rolled? What if she wasn't conscious enough to roll and in a few days, she would be lowered and embraced by the same cold ground she feared?
Something clicked in her mind. She looked away from the window and down at the hands that often were on a rifle than plans for a better future. She placed her hand upon the largest illustration, and pictured the woven gold covering her skin. The white gemstones that interrupted the gold every now and then almost melted against her paleness. And the more she stared, the clearer the image formed in her mind. It was her, standing on the St Paul's Cathedral. As she viewed the vast, hazy expanse of London, her foot slipped on a wet tile from the rain an hour before. And she went tumbling down, the wind blew her hair away and made her eyes water, but before she clashed with her biggest enemy, her hand gleamed with a golden light that soon surrounded her. She met the ground on all fours, but she felt no pain, she only felt shards of broken stone dig into her knees. She had split the road in two, but she was safe.
The vision faded and she felt the stale air of the cluttered office surround her again.
Wide eyed and filled with awe, she drew back from the table and stood as rigidly as she could on her shaking legs. She saw a way out, a door that was finally open. One she finally didn't need to pick to reveal what's behind. She found her safety by a promise made of gold. A promise she will not let her uncle get to first. He wasn't the one who climbed a wall everyday while praying to her god and all gods that people worshiped. While people prayed every night by their beds and on Sundays, she prayed also while hanging by a thread every day. She promised to be good. To be clean. But please, don't drop her. Don't drop her.
She realized time was quickly evolving, and the sun was already attempting to beam through the fog to tickle her neck. She moved around the table and didn't think enough on her next action. She opened the door eagerly and tried to exit the office. But she bumped into a crimson-clothed back instead. The person whipped around, revolver in hand, wearing a face that only belonged to Glen.
At first, he still aimed his revolver at her, and almost pulled the trigger and ended the misery that was her life. But once he recognized her pale skin and tied-back dark hair, her thin chin and thinner lips, her hooded eyes and her willowy figure, he knew it was a mistake to shoot.
"What in the blazes are you doing here?!" He screeched, and she feared the worst since her uncle's quarters was not far from earshot. He put his revolver away and moved towards her even when the distance between them ceased to exist. He looked down at her with those piercing teal eyes of his, and for once she found herself regretting ever entering the office.
"I-I was just… I was trying to…" How in god's name did he manage to wake, wear his clothing, and march all the way here to catch her? Unless, a passing thought told her, he never finished his shift.
"You were in there," He stated the obvious to aid his thinking process, "What were you doing in there? Are you trying to rid me of my job?!" He exclaimed again. She shushed him and moved slightly away.
"Do you want to wake the man? Damn it all…"
A baffled expression appeared on his face, "The Lord waking up or not is irrelevant, once he sees the door open, he'll send me off!" He pointed to his chest for emphasis.
"Alright, alright." She tried to calm him down by placing her hands on his shoulders, but he shrugged them away, "I can- I can lock it back up. It's easy." She nudged him away, closed the door, and immediately knelt before it.
She fished out her lock pick and quickly rolled the pins back down, she twisted the knob and the door remained closed.
"There," She said as she stood, "As it never happened." She turned to him to find him staring at her, the same warning glare in his eyes.
"What if he notices anything out of place in there? What if… what if he saw you enter but kept silent until he was bothered to send me away, what if-" His panicked voice made her feel guiltier and guiltier by the second. Her aim wasn't to place anyone but herself in trouble, but she blundered and did that anyway. To make matters worse, it was her only friend.
"Glen, relax. He isn't going to find out. I didn't change the position of anything, I didn't touch… Well, I touched, but I didn't move. I swear!" She whispered as loudly as she could.
"And what if he asks me?"
She stopped, glowering at him just as intensely as he was. She parted her lips to speak, but clenched her jaw at the idea of Glen betraying her. But she betrayed him in her own way, didn't she? He told her to stay out, and she didn't listen. But she didn't think he'd still be patrolling the damn hallway. He was nowhere to be seen when she snuck in. The whole manor seemed to be in some sort of post-event stasis as everyone recovered from the event.
"Are you going to tell him, Glen?" Her voice wavered when she said his name. She kept her composure firm as she looked up at him.
The edges of his eyes and lips softened, but she was sure he still welcomed the idea of breathing fire onto her until she turned to dust.
"No," He said. But Maybelle found his voice laced with something other than truth. The way he said it—with a weak voice and lips turned downward, made her take his word with a little more than a grain of salt.
"You are going to tell him, and we'll both lose a roof over our heads." She hoped that he understood the consequences now. It was unfair to drag him into the abyss with her, but there's nothing to be done about it now.
He shook his head in disgust, "May, don't do this to me. I said I won't tell him, I'm not stupid."
She sighed through her nose and tore her gaze away from him. She had to believe Glen, for now...