Chapter Text
Two weeks before the wedding, Henry's parents arrive from India.
Even if she knew nothing about the Indian Brotherhood, it's impossible to not know the name of Henry's father, Arbaaz Mir. Arbaaz has made a legend for himself in his storied career, enough that even Jacob knows the scattered rumors. (Although, to be fair, Jacob's assessment boils down to more: “That's the Indian bloke that Father was always going on about, wasn't he? Something something diamond something.”)
Henry's spoken about his parents a few times, of course. His mother, Princess Pyara Kaur, is warm and welcoming, supportive of his desire to avoid bloodshed in service to the Brotherhood. He's less effusive about his father, and when he does speak of Arbaaz, which is not often, she can sense the distance that gulfs father and son. She knows that Arbaaz wanted Henry to become a killer, and he was disappointed when that destiny was not realized. Beyond that, Henry has spoken little.
On one hand, she can sympathize. She's had a front ticket often enough to the battles between Jacob and their own father, and more than anyone she can understand the weight of expectations. On the other hand, she's heard the stories from Father. Now those paint a decidedly different picture from the stern parent of Henry's childhood. No, from Father's words, Arbaaz is a headstrong maverick, heady with love and determined to fight all who would stand in the way of his goal. He's spent years of his life searching for the fabled Koh-i-Noor diamond, more in pursuit of his true love, Pyara, and more still in dedication to the Indian Brotherhood and all that it stands for.
It's quite noble, really.
So she's not sure what to expect when she finally meets Henry's parents in person. Of the two, Arbaaz immediately captures the eye. He's not a tall man, but he is very strongly built. He's not bearing an Assassin gauntlet on his arm in their first meeting, but a keen eye can find the calluses where it normally rests. His voice isn't particularly deep, but it's calm and authoritative in a way that reminds her keenly of Father. Ethan Frye and Arbaaz Mir: the adventures they must have had! Oh, if only to be a fly on the wall…
(“Your mouth is open,” Jacob murmurs to her when Henry first introduces them. “Remember, he didn't actually chop off a dozen heads in a single blow.”)
When Arbaaz asks to meet with her in private, Evie's far more nervous than she logically should be. He's only going to be her father-in-law, after all, and if worst comes to worst, well, they'll just elope. Parental approval is such a thing of the past, and Assassins have never held much for those silly things anyway. Right? So no need to worry. She'll just straighten up her table a bit, make sure that every surface is spotless. Oh, and perhaps she'll change into a clean set of clothes, make sure that everything is perfectly presentable before she invites him into her compartment…
(“They're just his parents. You'd think that you were attending the Queen herself. No, you cared a lot less about the Queen, actually, I didn't see you sweeping the floor for her.”
“I'm not about to marry into the royals, thank you very much. Now go away. Wait. Could you toss out the garbage on your way out?”)
He's due to arrive at six in the evening, and there's a knock on the compartment door at that exact time. She swings the door open, and he stands now on the threshhold of her compartment, his hands open in front of him as if in a peace offering. She notes his appearance in a blink of an eye. He's dressed in the clothing of the Indian Brotherhood, his clothing embroidered with the Assassin crest. The gauntlet rests on his arm now, worn with the use of decades. It's a silent declaration of distance and formality, and she straightens, determined to treat the moment with the respect it deserves.
“May I come in?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but much like Father's, it has the power to capture a room.
She smiles at him. “Of course, sir,” she says. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He enters, his steps light and soundless. And why wouldn't they be? He's Arbaaz Mir, Master Assassin of the Indian Brotherhood, and he's been pledged to the Brotherhood for longer than she's even been alive. He doesn't overtly look around, but she's no doubt that he's catalogued every inch and item of their surroundings. His gaze rests on her face, and she tilts her chin up, meeting it with a level gaze of her own. No doubt he's performing his own assessment of her, and she wonders what he sees.
“Ethan showed me a photo of you and your brother a very long time ago,” he says at last. “You were much younger then, of course. I see now that all I needed to do is to recall his face. You remind me much of him.”
“I will take that as a compliment, sir,” she says. “Please, sit.”
He sits, accepting her offer of tea with a nod. She busies herself pouring it, handing a cup to him with hands that decidedly do not shake. He sips it perfunctorily before setting it aside. His eyes roam more freely across her compartment now, resting on the collection of posters that she's acquired. The corner of his lips nudge upward, and she takes it as an encouraging sign.
“When the news reached us that Starrick had been eliminated, I did not believe it at first,” he says, sounding thoughtful. “Ethan spent much of his life fighting the man from the shadows, and it seemed impossible that this would ever come to pass. Before he died, he wrote to me of his frustrations with the Council in Crawley and how they refused to act.”
He had? “Father never mentioned those frustrations to us,” she says carefully. “I know that he met with the Council often, but he abided by their decisions for the most part. They said that London was too dangerous, and so Father insisted that we stay away.”
“Hmm. And yet, here you are.”
His voice is perfectly neutral. “And yet, here we are,” she agrees, keeping her voice just as calm. “Jacob and I decided to come shortly after completing our first solo missions. We felt that we were ready.”
“And were you?” Arbaaz asks.
She considers the question carefully. Is it a test? Probably so, she thinks with just a hint of wryness, and the true question is as to which answer is the best to give. In the end, she settles for honesty. “No,” she says. “We came with a dream and not much of a plan. If not for Henry—Jayadeep's—guidance and contacts, we would have been very much lost and without a place to start.”
“And if Jayadeep had not been here, what would you have done? Would you have left? Or would you have stayed, even though it might mean your death?” he says.
She smiles involuntarily at the question, and more so to the easy, instictive answer. “We would have stayed,” she says, and she knows with absolute certainty that they would have. “It would have been a slower, more arduous path, and yes, we might have died. But death can come at any time. We would have stayed.”
His expression is unreadable. Does he consider her reckless? Perhaps he thinks her suicidal worst, far too stubborn at best. She braces herself for his response, raising her chin to meet his eyes. It's with equinamity that he blinks, breaking the held gaze, and it doesn't feel like a concession like it would have with any other person. “I see,” he says, and she wonders what exactly he sees. “And you have killed, of course, in the service of your city.”
She frowns a little, confused at the unspoken question. “Yes,” she says cautiously. “I am an Assassin. I do what I must.”
“As do we all,” he murmurs, and there's something considering in his gaze now. “I spoke at length with my son yesterday. He told me some about how you uprooted Starrick from the city. You began with the gangs, correct?”
“Yes,” she says. “Well, one gang. The Blighters were the main Templar-controlled gang when we arrived, and the Clinkers were the last patch of resistance. It was Jacob's idea to take them in, train them, and grow them into the Rooks. They've proven to be very useful when it comes to freeing the districts.”
“That is one approach that Ethan did not consider,” he says. “He preferred to keep his work secret, as is the nature of the Brotherhood. Assassins work in the dark, after all, and it is an unspoken rule to keep as many in the light as we can. But now you and your brother are leaders of the largest criminal stronghold in London. Not quite what your father proposed.”
It's hard to tell if he approves or disapproves of their methods. His expression still gives nothing away, and his voice is free of judgment either for or against. The words, though, carry a subtle condemnation. And it's true that they could have been more subtle. If she'd been alone, certainly she would've been more subtle. But then again, if she'd been alone, she likely would never have come to London in the first place. She would have obeyed the Council and simmered with frustration all the while, but obedience nonetheless. Irritated though she's been with him, Jacob was the driving factor in both those life-changing decisions.
Interesting.
Arbaaz is watching her still, and she realizes that it's been quite a few minutes since he last spoke. Enough with the games, she decides suddenly. If he approves, all the better. If he doesn't, well, welcome to the London Brotherhood, and this is how things are done here. This is who she and Jacob are, and she won't apologize for that.
The ferocity of the thought surprises her just a little.
“We are indeed the leaders of the Rooks,” she says as calmly as she can. “And it's the culmination of quite a lot of hard work. We made mistakes along the way, certainly, and perhaps advice from an elder could have steered us away from the most obvious. But given a chance to do it again, I would say yes in a heartbeat. This is our city, Mr. Mir, and we have fought and bled for every last inch of it.”
Unexpectedly, Arbaaz laughs. It's a deep, full sound, and she blinks in surprise. “Very much like your father,” he says, and the stone mask is cracked. “It is the mark, it seems, of all young Assassins to aspire to lofty, impossible goals. 'Experience is both aid and shackle.' I remember he wrote that to me, many years after we parted. It seems the destiny of the young to charge headfirst into where the old have failed.”
He settles back into his chair, and for the first time, she realizes just how rigidly he's held himself all this while. So, then. Has she passed the test? Was there a test to begin with? More importantly, would the outcome have mattered either way? “Yes,” she says, and she's not entirely sure what she's saying yes to. “We did what we could, and eventually the pieces fell into place.” She hesitates, and then adds quietly, “I would like to think that we have honored Father's memory, doing what we did.”
She's aware of his eyes on her, his gaze somber. “I was sorry to hear about Ethan's passing. We had our disagreements, but he was a true friend and a good Assassin.” A pause. “London was a dream for Ethan. He had his greatest battles in his city, and I am sorry to say, his greatest failures. To see it now liberated from Templar hands—yes. I am certain that he would be proud.”
She swallows. The words, spoken in his quiet, authoritative voice, seem to almost be an echo from beyond the grave. She looks down, flexing her hands in her lap as the words scramble in her mind. Arbaaz seems to understand, and a moment trickles by in silence. Strangely, it's not uncomfortable.
“Did he ever tell you how he and I met?” he asks at last, breaking the silence.
She takes a breath, casting her memory back over the stories: how Arbaaz stole the Koh-i-Noor, how he fought Alexander Burnes in single combat, how the two of them fought together against the East India Company. But how they met? “I don't think so,” she says slowly. “Much else, but not that.”
“He did not have his Council's approval to leave, either,” Arbaaz says, and there's a hint of rueful amusement in his voice now. “But he wanted to see India, and so from what I am told he simply strolled onto a boat and stowed away for the journey with none the wiser. But—as you may have discovered—dreaming of a land is far different from actually being there, and the man was nearly overwhelmed on his first day. But Ethan was stubborn, and he persisted instead of turning tail and fleeing for home. He found work as a clerk for a trading company. They eventually sent him, amongst a delegation of others, to Amritsar, where the heart of the Indian Brotherhood lies. There, I was assigned to assassinate his master.”
The words paint a picture in her head as the story unfolds. Ethan, young and indignant; Arbaaz, equally young and hot-headed. As it turned out, Ethan already had had his suspicions about said master, but there was a fiery disagreement about timing (“I need the full ledgers! You can't kill him yet!”) and jurisdiction (“Who are you, Englishman? Why are you even here?”), which ended in both of them nearly getting caught and a hasty escape necessary. After extricating themselves from a pile of trash and manure, they decided to put aside their differences just long enough to compromise on the kill, and then for many missions thereafter…
She's known that Father was an Assassin with a career and legacy of his own, but just like Henry's image of Arbaaz, it's always been filtered through the lens of fatherhood. As Ethan's done for Arbaaz, though, so now his old friend repays the favor, telling the stories that make him human. Jacob might even find these interesting, she thinks, and she resolves to share them later.
But for now—she listens, she laughs, she asks, and the stories unfold.