There was a story to be told in how eyerolls and jests became flinches and downturned gazes. It was the story of Ethan Frye's death.
The day it became clear their father wasn't going to get better is one that's lost in both of the Frye twins' memories. Those long weeks of his sickness blurred together, and as his health took a dramatic turn for the worse, so did the way that Evie and Jacob reacted to it.
Comfort became taken in silence, sitting on the floor by the elder twin's bed, pretending not to notice whenever the dampness stung her eyes, or a stray tear rolled down Jacob's face. They were left with nothing to do but listen, and wait for the inevitable.
Jacob's worn-down overcoat had never been cleaner; Evie's already meticulously cared-for gauntlet shone fiercely. The best honour they could grant their withering mentor, who rarely acknowledged these painstaking efforts. The twins were often summoned, but never for reassurance on either side. Always for tactics, for battle plans with no room for himself in them.
'The fight against the Templars is not over,' he would say, fixing them both to the spot with a gaze they'd come to know too well. 'You two are strong. You will change things for the better.'
All argument had been stilled long ago, tongues held, because why contradict a dying man? They never left that room that smelled of decay without tears in their eyes, until these meetings began to dwindle and finally stop. Then, they were permitted occasionally to sit with him in silence, him too tired to offer anything else, them at too much of a loss for the right words to say.
It dragged on for weeks. Weeks that ended on the late evening of February third.
That night, the Frye twins had been huddled around the kitchen table, the warm glow of the candle reflecting in their troubled eyes. And with the flickering of that little flame, they felt it – the inexplicable sense that something had changed forever. Their gazes met, and they reached for each other's hands on instinct. The candle's light shied away from the depths of Jacob's cowl, offered no warmth to combat the cold that had settled within Evie's heart.
They both knew, long before George emerged from their father's bedchambers and looked at them, his eyes so hollow. The three of them sat in silent vigil for the man who'd mentored them all, an emptiness lurking from beyond the dancing light of the candle, closing in on them as the flame began to fade, and fade, until it was gone, casting the room into darkness. No one moved to relight it.
The next morning dawned dreary, and it remained so for the rest of the day. Dark clouds threatened rain, but no dampness save the early frost came. The sun never showed its face, even by the time the priest was repeating age-old words to the three mourners standing over the casket. It, too, seemed to mourn. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Those words would stick in the twins' heads long after they left the graves of Ethan and Cecily Frye behind them in the gathering dusk.
It's been three weeks. Three weeks of drifting from room to room in the silent and empty house. Once, that serene quiet had been her sole, understanding companion through lonely evenings. Now, though? She wonders if she'll ever be brave enough to speak louder than a whisper in these halls again.
Despite that, there's a rhythm they've settled into. Nellie comes in the mornings. Jacob slips out of doors when she leaves, and Evie more often than not holes herself up in the library. Afternoons slip away from her, as do the words on the pages. Restlessness keeps pace with her heartbeat, but she is in an aimless haze and its call thrums on, unheeded.
That's when the knock on the library door will come. She will have to strain to give the old woman who enters a smile. Nellie will usually brings tea for the two of them, a third mug always within arm's reach, never yet needed.
But today dawns, and Evie can't repress the anxiety in her step as she prowls through the house. Nellie arrives to fuss over her, but Evie soon finds herself ghosting out of the library, past her father's office and out to the back garden. The air is sharp in her nose and she can already feel her face reddening against the chill. She wraps her arms around herself.
The trees by the stream sway in the breeze. She can almost see a young boy there, so clear in her mind's eye. His face scratched up, a smile gracing his features, his nose wrinkled. He would say, Evie, come on! Father's gone off!
And she would answer, No, Jacob, Father's asked us to read this. Come on—
She takes a sharp breath, and that scratched-up face is gone faster than even the real one had managed at her words. She steps back inside with a shiver, and stops, listening.
There are voices in the house. Quiet, but obstrusive.
She moves back towards the library, slowing when she can make out what Nellie is saying.
"I really couldn't take this, dear, you'll be needing every last penny, believe you me. I'm well cared for."
Now it's Jacob's voice, and that sudden tension drains from her.
"Let me give you something for your grandchildren. Nellie, you've been a Godsend all our lives; I don't know where we would be without you. Please."
Evie pushes open the library door to see Jacob gently pressing a thick envelope into Nellie's hand. Nellie regards the young man for a long moment before she nods, and takes it, all the while holding onto Jacob's arm, squeezing with hands that have long lost their steadiness.
Her brother glances up, meeting Evie's eyes, and there it is. That signature – albeit sad – grin that she's come to miss without even realising it.
"Such sweet children," Nellie murmurs as she and Jacob walk slowly from the library, past her. If only they were children, Evie can't help but think.
No one else visits them. The twins rarely venture to the town now, other than to run their errands – a task which falls to Evie. She hears the whispers behind her back when she passes, catches the store owner looking askew at her as she surveys the shelves. Each trip is the same, and she has begun to harbour a particular distaste for them. Her ears burning, Evie sets down the coin for the produce. She waits, watching the assistant put the eggs into her bag. Furtive glances at her, exaggerated care handling the supplies.
She shifts, casting a glance at the clock above the assistant's head, her gloved fingers tapping against the palm of her other hand. Her dress is too tight, the black, scratchy fabric so unfamiliar. Finally, the assistant hands her the bag, and with hurried thanks, Evie steps out into the street. She takes a breath to steady herself as the door jingles shut behind her, and home it is.
Hands go up to hide a whisper in a neighbour's ear. It's the Frye girl. She is a spectacle here, and it strikes her that it won't matter what she wears, nor how she minds her speech. She longs for the comfort of her cowl right up until she steps into her father's chilly house, the gathering darkness chasing her inside and into the kitchen.
She lights a candle and takes a seat at the table, her chin in her hands – but that peace is swiftly broken as a door in the hall opens, and Jacob enters a moment later, his expression unreadable as he drops a stack of papers onto the table before her.
"What were you doing in father's study?" She asks, intending the tone to be sharp. Instead, it comes out an exhausted sigh.
Jacob gestures at the papers without a word, leaning on the table, waiting for her to make a move. She glances at them. Letters, all opened, addressed to Ethan Frye. Handwriting she doesn't recognise; she gives her brother a disapproving glance and reaches out to tentatively take one of the envelopes from the pile. She flips it over to read the return address on the back – Henry Green.
Something stirs in the fog of her tired mind. Henry Green… the London operative?
"This is it," Jacob's voice breaks through her stupor. "Read it."
She obeys as if in a dream, lifting the flap and pulling out the paper nestled inside.
Ethan.
It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter to you, but our needs are greater than ever, our options few. London needs the Council's aid; for every day that passes, one of our assets is discovered, shut down, killed. The Templars are finding their way into every nook and cranny. Four spies have I lost, and I can no longer jeopardise the safety of the rest.
Make haste. For London's sake.
Henry Green.
"Father never mentioned these letters," she murmurs, frowning once more at the neat handwriting before her before picking up another.
Ethan.
I pray that this letter finds you in good time. I pray that your silence is simply to maintain the security of this operation.
In the event that my hopes are misplaced, I plead a second time. I know what you would counsel, mentor, but you've not seen what I have. The London you knew is no more. I have watched its descent into Templar reign piece by painful piece. We – I – need the support of the Brotherhood as soon as it is readily available. Our allies in London now run thin.
The time to strike is now – we cannot delay for much longer.
Henry Green.
She doesn't hesitate to snatch up the final letter this time, doesn't even look up when Jacob leans forward, watching her intently.
Ethan.
Why do you maintain your silence in so dire a time? I write to you a third time, in the hopes that my desperation will not go unheeded.
Crawford Starrick is far, far more ruthless than either you or I have ever seen. He is cunning, too; no business is untainted by his poison, no aspect of society safe from his influence. You already know this; his reach extends far beyond London. Thus I ask once more: why do you do nothing?
The Templars' hold has tightened beyond my ability to undermine. He already has a piece of Eden, need I remind you, and most troubling, is on the hunt for another that is somewhere here in London.
Whosoever controls London controls the world – you yourself told me that. And through these plots, his sights on the highest office of them all will be fully realised. Need I remind you that you have a duty? That to abandon the cause now – to abandon me – is to betray every word you ever spoke?
As you look inward – and dare I say it – afraid, Starrick's ambition knows no bounds. We are running out of time, mentor. All our efforts will mean nothing should this come to pass. I'm asking you to help me as you once did. To help London. I await your response.
Yours in great need,
Henry Green.
Evie lets out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding as she lowers the piece of paper and meets Jacob's eyes. "Look at the dates on these – they were sent shortly before father…"
She can't finish that sentence. A million thoughts whirl around her head, each sharper, clearer than the last as she studies the letters once more. Her brother nods, understanding.
"They were open when I found them. Someone read these. If father didn't, then George did. Evie, this is what father's been preparing us for."
She hums thoughtfully, gaze resting on the letter still clutched in her hands. "Perhaps… we should bring these to the Council."
Jacob practically recoils, regarding her with that look on his face. "The Council will do nothing. You know how they treated father."
"But father wouldn't have had us go alone," Evie retorts. "London is under the Templars' hold. Didn't you read these?"
"It's got to be done. We can't just sit here and let these letters keep piling up – this Green bloke is asking for us."
"He's asking for father, not us," Evie points out, crossing her arms.
"Well, father isn't available at the moment, in case you haven't noticed."
They both immediately still. Jacob's jaw clenches and he looks away, closing his eyes. Slowly, Evie sets the letter down with the rest of them, fighting to keep the flash of anger in check.
"The only ones who care are us," he continues, finally, and there's a tremor in his voice. He doesn't meet her eyes as he clasps his hands together, gaze fixed on his gauntlet. "We've got to help."
The fight drains out of her, and she sits back, her fingers tracing ghost patterns on the table. "We're two assassins. We've not even taken our blooding yet. Think, Jacob. What could we possibly do to save London?"
A knock from the front door echoes into the kitchen.
"That must be George," she sighs. Jacob nods, reaching out for the letters – but Evie finds herself laying a hand on them with an imperceptible shake of her head. "Let him in."
Jacob pauses for a long moment, uncertainty in his eyes. "You're not going to—"
"Jacob."
Her brother retreats at her sharp retort, and she listens as he moves down the hall and opens the front door. George's voice greets him, but she doesn't hear Jacob reply. A moment later, the two enter the kitchen, Jacob lagging behind, eyes flicking between George and his sister.
George… notices the letters right away, pausing curiously as he nods at the elder Frye twin. She looks for any hint of recognition in his face, but there is none. Not until she picks one of the envelopes up and holds it out to him. With a quizzical expression, the older man takes the letter – and stops short.
His eyes flick up to her, then back to the letters. "It was only a matter of time, then, I suppose," he sighs, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world is upon him. He scans the page, but he doesn't say anything more. Evie shares a glance with Jacob.
"What is the Council going to do about London?" She asks cautiously.
George shakes his head slowly. "I don't know," he admits, handing the letter back. Evie returns it carefully to the pile, knowing that she's taking a moment longer than she needs to. George speaks up again. "Your father wanted dearly to help. But… he was too sick. He could no longer give Henry the answers he needed, nor fight with the Council for results."
"What are we going to do about London?" It's Jacob speaking this time, a frown in place.
Another helpless shrug. "The Templars have a piece of Eden. Their presence in London is too much for us to overpower now."
"Oh, rubbish," Jacob spits, crossing the room in one stride. "Forget the bloody magic apple. The people are suffering. We can do something. You're just too scared. You've read these. You know about everything."
Evie shoots her brother a warning look, but George turns to him with no reproach. "The pieces of Eden are vital to our struggle. The Templars being in possession of one is no small matter."
"We won't get anywhere if we don't start trying. Their Grandmaster has control over the city with or without the pieces of Eden," Jacob argues.
"If he gets more pieces of Eden, where will we be?" Evie snaps at her brother, rising to her feet.
"Evie. Jacob."
Fuming, the twins turn their attention back to their mentor. "Neither of you are wrong. We're… simply not in a position to help Henry – or London."
"We're not to try, then?" Jacob demands.
"Have patience," George tells them, with another one of those sad smiles. Evie bites her tongue, the words bringing an uncomfortable tightness to her chest. "We're three people. We must wait for the Council's approval to act on London. Now," he adds, before either twin can speak. "There's a far more pressing matter that I think will catch your attention. It's about the piece of Eden we lost."
He presses a piece of paper into Jacob's hands – her brother quickly turns it over and reads it, his eyes narrowing. Evie peers over his shoulder.
The Metropolitan Piece of Eden is close. The Templars have hired Sir David Brewster to unlock the piece of Eden's secrets.
She glances up at George, tearing her gaze away from the location marked out on the paper. "You're saying you want us to find this artefact?"
He nods. "It is time for your blooding. Your father would have wanted this."
She blinks, her gaze falling back to the piece of paper in her hands, then to the letters on the table. With a nod, she glances at Jacob – his expression impassive, yet a spark burning in his eyes. "Then let's go."
open . spotify playlist / 65CR48CY068vwsJfaHpmPL?si=c7d7a05686d945cb
^^ Official playlist for prologue!
I started releasing this on AO3 already, so I'm slowly catching up here!
I've been working on this goliath for two years and I have very little to show for it. ;-; But here is my tentative offering, and I hope to do my vision justice as well as maybe(?) improve on the source material if I can. What I've tried to do with this rewrite is try to make the story, its characters and its emotional impact stronger - I'm following canon; no major plot points so far have - or are likely to be - changed. This will either become a series or remain a single gigantic fic that follows the twins from the moment the game(and its expanded content) ends, through the Jack the Ripper DLC, to WW1, Lydia Frye and most likely concluding with their respective deaths. If I feel like it, I may also write one or more prequels that go into the twins' childhood, but that's for future me to think about! Aaaand I also have multiple ideas for animatics/animations that could accompany this. Idk, if I have the time and willpower I will do it :)
I make no guarantees on release schedules. I don't think there even IS a release schedule currently! I may aim for monthly updates, but I have a few other LONG fics in other fandoms to write alongside this and a major set of exams(Leaving Cert) next year that I am not emotionally prepared for in any way shape or form. Anyway, all this to say, thank you for sticking with me so far. I'd love to read thoughts, critiques and etc in the comments as this fic develops!
Last but not least, I'd just like to send a couple of shoutouts:
To MirrorandImage. Their Assassin's Creed Unity rewrite is a big part of the reason I even started planning this in the first place, because they showed me that it was something that genuinely could be done and that could improve canon. If you haven't already read it, please go and check it and their other works out!
To Oliver Bowden - esp. their AC: Syndicate novel, Underworld, for much the same reason as above. A (prequel) novelisation of this game already existing that has given me so much more to work off? Mwah.
To my friends, who all deserve the world for listening to my rants. There are a lot of you, but I name CourtesyTrefflin (Amina, Tirana and Rivana), for being those poor souls I inducted into the world of AC. Love you three, and everyone else who's supported me and in some cases demanded my writing in a feral manner that sends fear into my soul (you know who you are.)