Chapter Text
HORSHAM, 1868
A young woman stands in her backyard, a bow in hand and an arrow in the other. She scrunches her nose in attempt to raise her oval-shaped glasses up her bridge. Slowly raising her aiming arm; she straightens and firms her grip on the handle, making sure not to apply much pressure than needed. Fingers tugging on the string finding it tightly attached to the bow’s ends, the lass places the arrow on the rest and her calloused fingers pulls the bowstring whilst locking the arrow’s nock upon it.
Adjusting her hold on the bow once more as she pulls the string further, just until it reached the tip of her lip. She recalls a past lesson to aim a tad to the left, she executes an inhale then releases with a shaky exhale. As she was about to release, a frantic man in a uniform calls her over.
“Milady! Milady! Master Marshall has been looking for you!”
This sudden interruption caused the woman to yelp in surprise, causing her to release the arrow in a wrong angle. The arrow’s fletching slices her lip, she instinctively flexes her right hand upwards and places it to her fresh wound. The panic-striken man who called out to her came in rushing to where she was with a white handkerchief in hand. Upon reaching her slightly-hunched state, the woman had her eyes closed shut.
“What does he need now, Damien?” She groans at the man before her as she fixes her composure. The man, who she referred to as Damien, removes the woman’s hand from her bleeding face and places a white-gloved hand on her chin, raising it to see her cut better.
“He did not say, Milady- And goodness! You’re bleeding!” Damien almost screams at her, dabbing the handkerchief on the sliced lip. “A thousand apologies, Milady! I’m sorry!”
“Nonsense, it wasn’t your fault.” She calmly reassures him, taking the bloody handkerchief from him. “I was bound to hurt myself trying this outrageous bow anyway.”
“I still apologize for interrupting your practice session.” Damien bows his head towards her. “Anyway, we should have your lip cleaned before you meet with Milord.”
“No need, medical care can wait.” She dismisses his concern and immediately cuts him off before he protests. “You wouldn’t be yelling for my attention if it wasn’t that important.”
She walks past Damien, her muddied boots hits the end of her ankle-length skirt as she walks up the porch. Damien, their family butler, seemed unfazed with his lady’s negligence. He briefly gazes at the target dummy a few feet from where she was, a handful of arrows struck on the target’s head, chest and abdomen. A glint of satisfactory can be seen from his eyes before he began to head back inside the manor.
The young woman stomps around upon entering the house, her hand still gripping the bow and her lip bleeding quite a bit. She directs herself towards the living room, her steps carrying haste. Thankfully, her mother and younger brother were out for their errands. She grimaces at her mother’s possible displeasure for her unladylike mannerism; her firm scolding was something she wanted to avoid for a while.
Upon entering the doorway of the living room, she immediately finds her brother. Marshall had his back turned to her, he was fiddling with the piano’s keys; perhaps unsure of what song to play. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing his hairy forearms. His sister casually knocks against the wooden wall, causing Marshall to snap his attention to her.
“Ah, [Y/N].” He greets, standing before he fully faces her. He wipes his hands on his breechers despite them being dry and clean. “I’ve been looking everywhere- what the hell happened to you?”
The young lady, now referred to as [Y/N], raises the heavy bow and gestures to it. “Had a bit of an accident during practice.” She cooly replies, pursing her bleeding lips. “Maybe tell Damien to not scream at me as if the world’s about to end, hm?”
Marshall’s expression distorts into unimpressed one. He unrolls his sleeves and buttons them soon after. “A letter came by just now, it’s addressed to you.” He walks towards the table in between the couches, grabbing an envelope from the pile. “It has the brotherhood’s insignia. Therefore, it’s of high importance.”
Marshall outstretches his arm to his sister, handing the crisp and unopened envelope to her. [Y/N] takes it from him, examining it. It definitely was sealed with the Assassins’ symbol, she flips the envelope to see her name neatly-written in cursive on the back. She gently places the bow at hand down, leaning it against the couch’s frame. Marshall hands her the letter opener, in which she gratefully accepts.
She slashes the knife against the envelope, ripping it open. She pockets it as she takes out the folded paper inside the said envelope. [Y/N] unfolds it and inspects the contents of the letter, her brows narrowed as she reads through each written sentence. Apparently, it was written by George Westhouse; a fellow assassin currently located in Crawley. Mentioned in the letter was the Council’s demand for her immediate presence. [Y/N] ponders, wondering why they’re suddenly frantic despite the past months of silence.
“Well? What does it say?”
[Y/N] visibly jumps from his words, Marshall unintentionally spooked his younger sister with his interruption. He chuckles from this, but doesn’t comment on it. She clears her throat and glances at him. “Read it yourself.” She hands the letter back to him, Marshall eagerly takes it and engulfs the letter as well.
He shows annoyance immediately after. Lifting his gaze to her, he asked, “What do you presume the council wants now?”
“I am as clueless as you, brother dear.” She replies, unfazed by the news. [Y/N] inspects the envelope once more, another folded letter inside. Pulling it out, she reads it out loud for Marshall to hear.
“[Y/N] Williams -“ She reads aloud, causing Marshall to have his full attention towards her. “I regret to inform you that Master Assassin Ethan Frye, a former teacher of yours, had passed away early this January. I, Selena Barclay, the current mentor of the Assassin Council, would like to apologize for the late relay of message. The council and I would like to further discuss the situation by your return to Crawley.”
Silence fills the room as the siblings stood agape, the both of them unsure how to react upon hearing the death of their former mentor. [Y/N]’s eyes continues to stare at the letter at hand, reading each line over and over in hopes to find any sort of mistake. She recalls the last time she came to visit the late Mister Frye; he taught her and her siblings how play a proper game of chess and that was only before Christmas eve the year before! She wonders if she missed any signs of illness in Ethan’s features during their last visit yet, she thinks of none.
“...Do you think their demand of your return involves Mister Frye’s children?” Marshall carefully asks.
Now that the idea came, [Y/N] thought of its possibility. Regardless of the fact of never officially meeting the Frye twins, despite her visits throughout her novice life. Evie and Jacob were usually out doing their chores, doing assassin missions or watching over the small area of Crawley.
“It’s likely, but let us not jump to conclusions.” The younger Williams replied, as equally quiet as her brother’s voice. “I shall take immediate leave then, I’ll be upstairs packing if you need me.”
“I’ll have Damien and the maids prepare the carriage.” Marshall says, taking the letter from his sister’s grasp. Placing the articles of paper on a nearby table. “And make sure to clean and disinfect that wound of yours.”
[Y/N] simply raises a hand to dismiss Marshall’s concern and headed towards the staircase just outside the living room’s location. She grabs handfuls of her dress’ skirt, pulling it slightly upwards. Each step heavy, the young woman’s mood obviously dampens from the depressing news coming from the letter. She decides to make a visit to his grave during her curt stay in Crawley.
Upon reaching her room, she turns the knob, pushes it open and closes it soon after. She heads towards the dresser just by the humongous bed. Without a skipping moment, she pulls the dresser’s doors open, pulling out her assassin robes. [Y/N] strips out her dirtied morning dress and her muddy boots, standing in nothing but her corset and a pair of knickers.
Pulling on a white dress shirt, tucking it neatly inside her dark breechers. Whilst she places a red waist coat over her body, hurriedly buttoning it up. She reaches towards her bed to grab her weighty overcoat, dark and worn but gave good comfort and mobility; [Y/N] wears different pair of boots, designed for strenous activities but light enough for sprinting and climbing. To top her attire, she places a piece of thick, yellow cloth around her shaped waist, upon it will be her belts that carried ammunition and her tools; things she thought she wouldn’t be using for a while.
[Y/N] fixes everything as she turned around to check herself in the mirror, her hands weaving through her messy mop of hair and adjusting her spectacles once more. Staring at her reflection, she feels anxious for later’s events. She takes a deep breath and sighs, walking back to her dresser to pull out two more accessories: her father’s scarf and the family pin.
Before her own father’s passing, he gifted [Y/N] his blue scarf with golden embroidery for her coming-of-age birthday celebration a few years ago. It was of sentimental value to him, to the point to consider it as a lucky charm. She was reluctant to take it before, knowing how much the late Lord Williams was attached to it. In her later years, [Y/N] would wear it wherever she went; finding comfort and confidence whenever.
She loosely wraps it around her shoulders, tension leaving as she did so. Her now-gloved hands closes the wardrobe and takes one more glance in the mirror; the longer she looked at her own reflection, the more she could see her father in her image- only, shorter and sturdier than himself and perhaps with perfect vision. She lightly laughs at the thought, people had always mentioned that she’s his splitting image. As fast as she changed, [Y/N] runs out and heads back downstairs.
As she took her last step from the flight of stairs, a familiar, feminine voice can be heard from the other side of manor’s front door. [Y/N] knew that voice quite well, the sound of their mother’s volatile choice of words were always the last thing she wanted to hear on a daily basis. As if on cue, the door swings open. Damien opening it for Countess Williams’ entrance, along with the youngest child of the family, Caelan.
Her mother was dressed in her outdoor attire in the familial colors, along with her lace-designed bonnet sitting on her head. She smiles at Damien, her favoured butler, as a sign of gratitute; a symbol he humbly returns. Behind them was Marshall and [Y/N]’s younger brother, Caelan, who appears to be standing stiffly and a scowl present on his face. [Y/N] doesn’t blame him. During their time of adolescence, both her and Marshall would be forced to tag along their mother’s meetings and errands with fellow assassins there in Horsham. Not only was it entirely agonizing, but incredibly boring as well.
“Now, now, Caelan dear.” Countess Williams tuts her son as she removes her shawl and pristine gloves. “Don’t pout, one day you’ll be doing these assassin chores you call a bore.”
“Mother, having me stand by your side the entire time- and not to mention, in complete silence!” Caelan began, waving his arms to further exaggerate his frustration. “Is tedious, utterly tedious! Why even bring me along?”
Their mother offered him another of her calculated smiles and presses a petit hand on his pale cheek.
“It’s good for you! Having to leave the house is better than sticking your nose inside your father’s dusty books, hm?” She answers his inquiry, and gave her full attention to her daughter- who in turn, was amused in the exchange in front of her. The Countess scans her from head-to-toe, her gaze narrows at her; her thin lips open agape, obviously nobody had informed her of the situation her daughter was placed.
“Why are you in your robes?” She voiced, eyes widening as her index finger accusingly points at [Y/N]’s face afterwards. “And what happened to your lip?!”
[Y/N] sighs, already taken her defeat. “The lip- it’s a long story. If brother dearest, Marshall, had not informed you yet, I am being summoned by the council.”
“And on what terms, young lady?” Her mother presses as she strolls into the dining hall to have her timely tea, Damien and Caelan trailing behind her. [Y/N] stares at her mother’s departing figure and responds with “Uhm, the council’s? They seem to be in dire need for my help.”
The elderly woman scoffs at her daughter’s statement as she sits on her selected chair, Damien assisting her from behind. Caelan and his sister stood awkwardly on both sides of her. Calmly did she add a cube of sugar to her steaming cup of tea, stirring its contents until bringing the porcelain cup to her lips- sipping her drink. She then lays down the cup and purses her lips, querying [Y/N] further without facing her. “Don’t you think they could handle the situation themselves?”
Internally did [Y/N] groan as she bows her head in hopes to conceal her own frustration with their mother’s stubborn attitude; something she regrettably inherited. Her brother, who was still next to the two of them, obnoxiously grins at his older sister’s annoyance; who in return, glares at him. “Mother, with all due respect, I don’t think they would call for me if they could.”
Unfortunately, to Countess William’s ears, [Y/N]’s choice of words added only more salt to the wound. She snaps her attention towards her daughter, who instantly averts her eyes at the room’s ceiling. [Y/N] bites her lip as her gloved hands fiddled with one another. She mentally prepares herself for the older woman’s barking. Instead, she grabs her hand. She tenderly caresses it as she stared at her daughter right in the eye, a wave of concern flashes in her expression.
“Love,” She starts, almost sounding like a whisper. “I believe in your skills and intelligence. You are gifted, don’t doubt my sincerity.”
“Then I don’t see why you’re so keen on not letting me leave?” [Y/N] sneers, a tone in which her mother decided to ignore completely.
“You know why.” Her mother turns back to her momentarily-neglected cup of tea, taking another delicate sip from it. “Precautions must be taken, especially with what happened with your father.”
A wave of unpleasant tranquility passes as those last words left their mother’s mouth. It was still a sensitive subject to openly speak of, but their mother enjoys using it as a last resort to scold her children. Although, the Countess gives out another sigh and straightens her posture soon after. “Let Marshall take your stead.”
Immediately, Caelan scoffs and walks out of the room; heading into the kitchen. [Y/N], on the other hand, bluntly replies, “No.”
Their mother dearest lets out a hearty laugh, placing a hand on her chest as she did so. Soon after, [Y/N] joins in the fits of giggles. “I knew you’d deny the proposition.” she says to her, taking refilling her cup of tea while she composes herself once more. [Y/N] jeers, “Marshall wouldn’t be able to handle whatever the council has to offer-”
“I heard that!”
Marshall begrudgingly enters the dining hall, Damian in tow. In the butler’s hands was a intricately crafted wooden box with the assassin insignia carved on the lid, [Y/N] knew well what was inside the chest- something she found useful throughout her career as an assassin. As her brother and Damien reached the two of them, Marshall greats their mother with a kiss on the forehead and raises his brows at his sister’s direction.
“I’m assuming she gave you her blessing?” Marshall eyes her, then at their mother who sat contented whilst she drank. [Y/N] nods at him in response, he took it as a signal- turning around to face Damien and opens the chest before them.
“Then you’ll be needing this again.”
There it lay, the assassin gauntlet- [Y/N]’s assassin gauntlet. Timidly, she reaches out to hold it. She carefully inspects it, finding the gauntlet to be in pristine condition like usual. She slips in on her right forearm, hasting the belts in place. She adjusts it’s placement upon her sleeve and flicks her wrist, triggering the concealed, thin blade out. Satisfied, she flicks her wrist once more to sheathe it. A smile unconsciously spreads out on [Y/N]’s lips as she gawks at her hidden blade.
Marshall chuckles at her reaction. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re sadistic, dear sister.” His teasing visibly irritates her, but his sister acknowledges his buffoonery by playfully pushing his shoulder. “Perhaps I am, dear brother. Shall we test the blade on you then?”
“Children please,” Their mother scolds. “No blood spilling inside the house. Have mercy on the maids.”
The both of them quickly closed their mouths shut and uttering a quiet apology towards their mother, smirking at one another after. Countess Williams pushes herself away from the table and Marshall instinctively helps her stand, their mother smoothens out her ridiculously large dress as she faced her only daughter. As she did with Caelan, she places a warm hand on [Y/N]’s cheek; her thumb brushes on her still-fresh wound on the lip. Her gaze looked distant and [Y/N] notices. She wonders what was running through her mother’s complicated mind, perhaps it was a mother’s concern?
“Promise me you’ll return as soon as you’re done?” Their mother frets, quickly adding. “And do visit Mister Frye’s grave, give him our regards.”
[Y/N] simply nods at her mother’s request. “I plan to, and don’t worry about me. I can handle it.”
She gives her daughter a long, and tight embrace. She gladly returns the gesture and felt her mother kiss her cheek while doing so. At their release, Marshall places a hand on his sister’s shoulder. He offers her a genuine smile and hugs her as well. Unbeknownst to any of them, Caelan rushes back into the room and rams himself into his older siblings’ hug. A chorus of grunts came from the older Williams, followed by fits of laughter.
“You can’t leave without giving me a hug as well!” Caelan exclaims at his older sister. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me with- with him!”
He accusingly points at Marshall, who stares at him in disbelief. Marshall ruffles his brother’s dark locks, in which he responds with a whine. “You’ll be fine, it’s not the end of the world.” [Y/N] reasons with her youngest brother, he childishly pouts at her but tightens his embrace around her.
“Bring me home something shiny, will you?” Caelan requests, smiling widely at his sister. “Something fit for my collection!”
“You mean those rocks you decorate all over your bedroom?” Marshall mockingly questions, as if disgusted at his brother’s interests. “Surely you can find something more exciting than dull rocks.”
“They are not rocks-!”
“Boys, enough.”
The Countess scolds her sons as she straightens the collar of [Y/N]’s coat, she smiles at her again and gently pushes her towards the door. “Now, off you go. Damien and a few maids had already prepared the carriage for your departure.” She announces, “You have a long journey ahead of you.”
“I’ll see you soon, mother. Brothers.” [Y/N] bids them farewell, her family waving at her as she walks out the manor. Damien, being the loyal man he was, follows her out and opens up the carriage door for her. [Y/N] thanks him for his hospitality just before he closes the door. She hears a rapid rapping against the carriage’s structure, obviously Damien notifying the coachman to start their departure.
The horses neighed as the carriage jolts to a move. The young woman stares out of the carriage window, unsure of what the following days will unfold for her.
Onward to Crawley.