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It had been a rare pleasure for Mr Charles Dickens to find inspiration in the twins, to investigate urban legends with them. Over the course of 1868 and the following two years, he was dedicated to giving his farewell readings, and, escorted by Jacob, successfully visited the slums and opium dens, which had been rooted in the East End of London. That visit became the seedbed for his last novel, Drood, which was also the first newly coined word Jacob acquired after arriving in London with his sister.
"What about making your new story Gothic, Mr Dickens?" Jacob suggested along the way. "Don't you think it'll fit this place very well?"
"A truly good idea, Mr Frye!" said Dickens, gathering all his energy to embrace the darkest side of London. Together, they witnessed the poor, the suffering, the oppressed, and the disenfranchised. And together later they wrote stories of those people to the world. One with pen, the other with blade.
Mr Dickens was so keen on his writing of the story of Drood that he unfortunately suffered another stroke after a full day's work in June, 1870. He rose to Heaven the next day, and was laid to rest in Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey. His passing was a great grief to Jacob and Evie, who then put on their suits and went to the very place where laid the greatest ones in British history. They hid in the sombre crowd, discreet and quiet, mourning the great writer whilst people read the epitaph. They then inconspicuously leaving at the grave a small bouquet of flowers, prepared by Henry.
It was also the year that their loyal friend Alexander Graham Bell relocated to Canada and Evie planned to leave with Henry Green. The situation in India was volatile, with riots increasing. The invisible war between Indian Brotherhood and Templars was exacerbating. Henry had to leave, and so decided Evie. A better future should be also brought to the people in Amritsar. The three discussed it one day, then in the next day Evie and Henry had their tickets booked.
Despite Evie's daily return to their hideout, the almost preternatural connection between the twins left Jacob with the quiet, persistent sense that some faint, unspoken distance had begun to settle between them — a fracture in a bond he'd once thought unshakable. They both felt the shift between them — subtle, undeniable, and left unspoken.
The days blurred into one another, unchanged and quiet, until the day before Evie and Henry were due to leave for India. That evening, for the first time in many evenings, Evie returned early. She spent the fading hours sorting through the weathered notes and scattered papers she had once gathered for her research.
"I thought you were with Henry," Jacob said to his sister, watching her sort out all her research papers about Piece of Eden in their hideout. She was to bring them with her, since they might be useful to the Indian Brotherhood.
"George is here in his shop," Evie replied, still burying herself in those piles. "The Council has new arrangements for London."
Jacob curled a lip. "What a night for a married man."
"You are relentless."
"You won't hear that again anytime soon," Jacob shrugged. "Don't worry about me. I know how to patrol London."
"I'm not worried about you, Jacob," said Evie, "Instead, now I'm worried more about London — especially under your watch."
Jacob jested to push the small argument forward. Normal between them. "Oh. Does it suggest that Evie Frye has changed her mind and is not gonna leave — so she can save London from her dear brother's hands?"
It was the last evening before she and Henry took their leave. Their train was knocking and smoking, clanging as it passed through the misty London night. A steam whistle sounded outside the window, and, without thinking, Jacob was sure that they had arrived at Whitechapel. Noises from the steel wheels suddenly fell into mute, enveloping both Fryes in the carriage.
Evie straightened, trying her best not to throw a punch at Jacob. She turned to find him leaning against a table which was hidden beneath a snarl of their small collections, gazing at her into the eyes, frowning but smiling. He was gazing as though trying to memorize every detail of her. All knowledge about her. Master Assassin. Dame Evie Frye. His four-minute elder sister.
He was concentrating on her face. She had a face mirroring their deceased Mother, according to George, whom they sometimes relied on to communicate with the remote Council. Flourishing in their fight against Starrick, Evie had become tougher and stronger, and more talented in meticulously designing her actions. Her face glinted with confidence, pride, and eagerness for the future, the unknown.
"I am going, Jacob," his sister finally let out a sigh. "Amritsar needs Henry — not to mention there's another Piece of Eden in India."
"You mean that Koh-I-Noor Diamond?"
"Yes. I'm glad you've started to pick up Father's writings."
"Just because I don't like reading doesn't mean I don't read, dear sister."
Evie looked at him in the same manner, memorizing his charisma and eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and resolve — traits inherited from their father. His edges were still rough, but somewhat polished and softened in their venture.
"You know you'd age without me," she added.
Jacob gave her a triumphant smile. "I had a feeling you'd say that. Ain't you still a youth yourself, Evie Frye?"
"Do you forget I'm four minutes older than you?"
"Aye, aye, Sister," Jacob grinned, then nodded to the other end of the carriage. "Anyway, I'm off. Would you like to share the last night together with your four-minutes-younger brother — here in Whitechapel, your first stop in London?"
Evie folded her arms across her breast and rose to her brother's challenge. "Why not, dear brother? I'm certain that you can never defeat me in climbing."
"Let's see," Jacob laughed.
Then they jumped down onto the rail together. Fortunately, there was moonlight, only to be dimmed by the grey fogs over the city. In the pale moonlight they started their race, across Whitechapel on rooftops. Jacob competed with his sister, calling and joking, sometimes climbing up and sometimes leaping down. And Evie, who were never afraid to respond to her brother's word, enjoyed this unscheduled exploration as well.
They ran with grace and perfect balance — swift and light — their robes fluttering in night wind, gauntlet-blades glittering like the claws of predatory wildcats.
They ran in silent care for each other, hearts galloping with excitement and fulfillment.
And that was Jacob's last memory of Evie in London until she returned eighteen years later. She left by noon the next day, accompanied by Henry — a pair of newlyweds who were going to India for some business: a curio shopkeeper and his young wife, the daughter of a deceased schoolmaster in Crawley. Perfect guise, but true fact.
Jacob and George saw them off at a dock in the port of London. And, if Jacob hadn't been in haste to check on Lambeth Asylum, he'd like to stow away on the ship and travel with them as far as Margate.
"It's definitely not because of your promise to take good care of Evie," Jacob whispered to Henry, seizing the opportunity while Evie spoke to George, only to find he replied with laugh.
"Yes, definitely," Henry said, laughing.
Jacob rolled his eyes as Evie strode over, following George.
"What are you two talking about?" she asked.
"Nothing special," Jacob spread his arms in an exaggerated gesture of embrace. "Just wondering if our dear Greenie's up for a brother-in-law cuddle. He's family now, isn't he?"
Henry raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I suppose there's no escaping it now, is there?" he said dryly, before stepping forward and clapping Jacob on the shoulder. "Do you also expect me to start calling you ‘brother'?"
Jacob chuckled, pulling him into a brief, firm hug anyway.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Greenie."
Evie, watching from the side, only rolled her eyes — though a faint, fond smile betrayed her.
"If you two are quite finished," she remarked, deadpan, "some of us still have a city to repair and a Brotherhood to rebuild."
Jacob turned to her, keeping his arms open.
"Oh, don't be jealous, Sister. There's another hug with your name on it too."
Evie smirked.
"Save it for the Rooks. They're the only ones artless enough to want it."
The sun hung high over the Thames, glinting off the water and the masts of ships docked along the bustling port. The air smelled of salt, coal smoke, and hot iron.
Evie tightened the strap of her satchel, eyes scanning the ship's deck where Henry was already speaking with the quartermaster. Around them, workers shouted, crates thudded onto planks, and gulls wheeled overhead.
"Ethan would be proud of you. You didn't fail him."
The words came from George, offered to all three of them. He was glad and relieved to see the two — now three — finally reaching the summit of their efforts.
"Who'd say we did?" Jacob winked at Evie.
Evie caught his eye.
"Try not to burn the city down while I'm gone."
Jacob's mouth twitched into a crooked grin.
"Not making any promises."
Henry gave Jacob a nod sharper than usual — the kind that carried weight.
"London's yours for now."
"It always was," Jacob shot back with a glint in his eye.
The ship's whistle sounded. Crewmen called out last boarding.
Evie stepped onto the gangplank without hesitation, the afternoon sun catching the edges of her coat. At the top step, she paused, one hand on the rail.
"Take care of them, Jacob."
"I'll take care of everyone, Evie."
A final glance — hers steady, his irreverent as ever — and then she was gone, the ship pulling away from the dock, leaving the Rooks' leader standing alone by the riverside, the city stretching endlessly behind him.
Jacob let out a short breath, rolled his shoulders, then leaned against a stack of cargo, arms crossed. He made no move to close the distance between them — they'd said what needed saying last night.
George was by his side. They watched the ship carrying Evie and Henry vanish into the distant haze, their gazes fixed until the vessel slipped entirely beyond the reach of their Eagle Vision. Then, suddenly, Jacob spoke.
"Time to make sure this city knows we're still here," he said, giving a slight tilt to his top hat with the poise expected of a gentleman. "You said we need to strengthen the Brotherhood's influence in London?"
"Right."
"The fun never stops."
"The Templars hide deep. They've been on their own tracks for centuries, but now you are shaking them and breaking them down," George explained in patience. “I'll help you sift through the lot and find the right ones for Assassin apprentices. The Council thinks it's about time we shook things up with some fresh blood."
"Let me save you the trouble," Jacob said, turning to take his leave. "I think I know exactly the place to start."
Jacob had, since that day, focused to restoring the Assassins' reach and drawing new allies to their cause. He carried forward the connections established by Henry, which in fact had never ended, even though Henry was no longer in London.
The most important one for Jacob to consult was Frederick Abberline. Jacob became a habitue of Green Man pub where Abberline had often shared drinks with his old mate Aubrey. Since Aubrey started his new life as a butcher after the Metropolitan dig incident, Jacob had taken partly his place of being Abberline's partner — a partner from shadow and underworld.
Jacob had caught bits of Aubrey's story from Henry, hearing that Aubrey was in a way the casualty of this thousand-year feud. A creed that staying your blades from the flesh of the innocent, as far as Jacob remembered, didn't much apply to Templars and their lackeys.
"How about me dropping by the butcher shop, Freddie?" said Jacob one night in Green Man while he and Abberline were having a very short meeting. He respected Aubrey for his sacrifice and blood he'd shed in Assassins' action. Brotherhood always paid the debt.
He raised his beer mug in a warm pool of gaslight. "You know that I like making friends."
Abberline took a puff and exhaled slowly. After several years of working with the twins, he had developed sharp intuations for the recognizing seriousness of Jacob's words.
"You'd better not, Jacob. Aubrey Shaw should have been a normal officer having a peaceful life with his family. Just let him have it now. Let the past be the past."
"I suppose everyone involved in this career would hardly end up leading a normal life," said Jacob, in a low, deep but firm voice. "We owe you one."
Then he pushed a piece of paper over to Abberline. "One criminal as requested," he said.
Abberline examined the information carefully, his brow furrowing.
"Hm, a gang leader. Should I withdraw the patrol in that region?"
"Why?" Jacob grinned. "I'll leave him to you. You can take your men and nab him in his residence at midnight. And I promise you there won't be any conflicts — my lads will barely ruffle a hair on his head."
"Ain't you an enthusiast for havoc?" Abberline rolled his eyes.
Jacob feigned shock. "Where did you get it from, Freddie?"
"The places where you started a gang fight and left a damn bloody mess, dear Jacob," sighed Abberline, staring at Jacob. They fell slient for several seconds, then suddenly burst into laughter.
"Another pint? It's on me," offered Abberline.
"You're such a good sort, Sergeant Abberline," Jacob joked, putting down the empty mug. "I've had enough. Now it's time back to work," he nodded to Abberline, then turned around and strode into the shadows outside. Swift in his dark coat as a rook, as though riding the air without any sounds of his footsteps.
Abberline, whom were left by the bar, watched Jacob disappear into the very night. He ordered a bottle, and decided to enjoy it after tonight's hunting.
Like this they cooperated, and more or less, so did the others.
Jacob also drew close to Clara, the girl sharp as a knife and quicker to judge a man than most twice her age. London, in those days, was a labyrinth of alleyways and hidden courtyards, and it was through Clara's command of the urchins — those sharp-eyed, fleet-footed children who slipped through the city like shadows — that Jacob came into possession of his most reliable intelligence. He found eyes and ears in every crooked street and darkened place. In turn, Jacob and his Rooks became a shield for the children who laboured and toiled beneath the grey skies of the metropolis, a rough but certain promise that someone would see them.
As for Clara, she stepped into a life that suited her, entrusted with a venture most curious, though she had not asked for it. At Henry's urging, she took charge of his curio shop, the strange little establishment of oddments and relics and secrets which he left behind when he and Miss Frye withdrew from London's treacherous embrace. Clara knew little of the paticulars of Henry's entanglements with the Fryes, nor did she ask. But something in her — a sharp, clear shrewdness uncommon in anyone so young — told her it was a game worth playing. The kind of arrangement where, if you moved carefully, both hands could come away full.
The duty of safeguarding the shop naturally fell to Jacob. For while Henry Green, by virtue of careful training to be an Assassin, could deal with some thugs when the need arose, Clara remained but a girl — though even the most careless eye could see there was a storm inside her, a fierce defiance that did not shout, but settled silent and steady in the marrow. Beholding the potential power those urchins seized, Jacob was delighted to appoint himself and his Rooks as their protectors. They worked together rather well.
But Jacob found it no easy thing to grow accustomed to his sister's absence — and harder still when he allowed his mind to dwell upon it. Despite all this — the running, the chasing, the endless affairs of London's underworld — there were moments when Jacob felt too free. Free in a way that was not peace, but unease. He would dash forward without thought, and then, as sudden as a breath caught in the throat, he would find himself wondering what Evie might have said, or done, had she been there beside him. Now and again, mid-stride or at the end of some blind chase through rain-slick streets, he would halt, turn his head, and glance behind him.
In those moments, it struck him — he was like a kite cut loose from its string. Adrift, weightless, and for the first time in his life, unbound. There was no gaze lingering there to follow him. There was no steady hand to tug him back, no voice to steady him when the wind carried him too far, and it left him not freer, but lost.
Yet he knew he would have to overcome it — this heaviness, this aimless drifting. She had gone far away, so far that he could hardly receive her advice — or, more likely, her reproach — but overcome it by himself.
"Seems Father wasn't all-knowing after all," Jacob thought, recalling something Evie had once said, half in jest. Their father, for all his foresight, could never have predicted how differently his twin children would come to walk the same path. One precise, methodical; the other impulsive, brash. Two sides of a coin, perhaps — but never the same face.
Still, Jacob was certain of one thing. There must have been something shared between them, something unspoken and deep-rooted. A quality that marked them both — however differently — as Assassins. Their father must have seen it too. Why else would he have trained them both? He might easily have chosen otherwise: raised one as his heir in the Brotherhood, and the other as a proper gentleman or lady — maybe another future schoolmaster in Crawley — like Giovanni Auditore da Firenze, the father of Mentor Ezio had once chosen to do.
Jacob remembered George saying something like that once. His father's old friend now remained perhaps the only man left in Britain that Jacob could speak to without pretence.
So Jacob clung to the thought, let it settle like a stone in his chest. It comforted him, in a way. A quiet reassurance that, in spite of everything — the silence, the distance, the doubts — he and Evie had both been meant for this. Just not in the same way.
It was one of the reasons, though not the only one, that drove Jacob to set out for India in 1873, taking with him several initiates. The other reason was that there came moments when a clean, silent blade was no longer the wisest path. London had begun to stir again; the long shadow of Starrick's syndicate, broken by the efforts he and Evie once undertook, had started to lift. Its old engines of commerce, industry, and politics turned once more — and even the matter of law and order, began to right itself. Most important to Jacob, so had the police system.
Out of respect for his ally, Abberline, and a wary recognition of the Metropolitan Police's growing reach, Jacob had realized that the methods of the Brotherhood should change. It was then, just as he found himself wrestling with these shifts, that a letter arrived in London — sent by Evie herself. She had kept up their correspondence since her departure, though each letter took long, wearisome months to reach him.
In that letter, Evie spoke of the Brotherhood's tactics in India, of strange and startling methods meant to strike fear into Templar ranks. She called them "fear tactics". And so, not long after, Jacob made a quiet journey back to Crawley. There, in the house that had once belonged to their father, he told George of his decision: he would lead a small company of initiates to India.
It felt inevitable, somehow. A thing long coming. A thing he had been waiting for years. And so it was, in that stretch of his life, that Jacob reunited with Evie.
Henry welcomed him with his usual warmth — unhurried, always polite, though the flicker of quiet pleasure in his eyes hadn't changed. And Evie... she was the same, in all the ways that mattered. The sun had darkened her skin a shade or two, the heat of India leaving its mark, but the incisiveness in her eyes, the steel beneath the softness, was still there. It always had been.
The moment Jacob saw her, something in him — that unease he hadn't been able to name — settled. Just like that.
They stayed together at the Indian Brotherhood for a long time. Most days were spent training the initiates. And sometimes, watching the fierce, continuous actions of the Assassins here, Jacob felt a familiar longing stir in him. A longing for the fight. The old thrill of it.
Whenever it showed, Evie always noticed. And she'd open it up, shaking her head like a sister who'd seen this a thousand times before.
"If you're so eager to throw yourself back into the fray, why not join us properly, Jacob Frye?" she'd tease. "Or has recruiting bright-eyed boys back in London made you forget how to sneak through shadows?"
"Come now, Evie," Jacob would retort, tipping his hat at that same rakish angle he always had when they were in London. "You're only twenty-six, not sixty. Don't sound like some old lady with too many cats."
And Henry would smile at the pair of them and play peacemaker as ever. "Perhaps it's time," he would say, "for Amritsar to meet the unstoppable Frye twins."
Then he would be very pleased to fold Jacob into his plans, like no time had passed at all.
Unfortunately, time always passed. Good moments never seemed to last. Months later, as Jacob prepared to board the ship back to Britain, Evie reached out and gave his shoulder a light tap — the way she used to when they were younger, when words weren't needed. Her voice was calm, a little softer than usual.
"Remember I love you, brother."
Jacob didn't know those were the words that had crossed her mind when she'd faced Starrick years before. He only knew they struck something in him then, sudden and sharp. He stared at her, caught off guard, and blurted the only thing that came to him.
"Dammit, Evie. Did some snake bite you and poison your brain while I wasn't looking?"
She laughed, and just like that, the moment passed — but it stayed with him, all the same.
In the end, Jacob parted ways with Evie again. But this time, it was different. He was full and complete both physically and mentally, knowing — truly knowing — that neither of them was left behind. That wherever they went, whatever came, they were still watching out for one another, in all the ways that counted.
They left India with new assassin tactics and skills — and a few modest souvenirs. A photograph taken in front of a shrine to the goddess Kali, of the three of them as well as Jacob's favored Initiate, a boy the others in the Rooks called Jack the Lad. A small statue of Kali gifted by Evie. A symbol of time, power, death, and rebirth. Some plant fossils entrusted by Henry — they had been intercepted from the Templars in the British East India Company — and needed to be delivered to Mr Charles Darwin upon his return to London.
And Jacob did it. He and Mr Darwin maintained an occasional, discreet, yet sincere correspondence. Both men shared an affection for change — and a quiet willingness to alter certain things when it was required.
Then, in 1882, before Mr Darwin breathed his last in Down House, Jacob just finished the challenge of sending Darwin's last treatises for publication. Indeed it was a challenge, since his theory was a challenge to God, The Almighty, and Creationism. And a challenge to the Templars in religious sphere, too. Mr Darwin's enemies kept sniping at his papers and books and fame and dignity, for this old man broke their control over people's beliefs and minds about this world. They had held the reins of this giant societal carriage for the past centuries, and they must hold them in the very next.
"But, my boy," Mr. Darwin had said to Jacob, "it's an age of evolution. An age when we can have people open their eyes and see the evolution. Biology, botany, the true nature of animals and human beings. No one can stop us, Mr Frye. No one can stop the evolution." His tone had been virtually the same as that in their first meet at Starrick's brewery, decisive and uncompromising, with light glowing in his eyes. "Now we have colleagues, comrades, and other biologists who are against me but working for the same, ultimate goal of exploration and science. You see, Mr Frye, we are freeing future generations."
Yes, we are freeing future generations, Jacob thought, since he had already had his own next generation. He had stepped into his thirties, married, having an adorable and clever little boy. With all those active immortals in every branch of the society, he had seen real progresses and changes. Workers, proletariats, and bourgeoisie. Class confrontation. Science ethics. Nursing and medical regulations. He wasn't much for those deep thoughts, but he had no doubt that he would continue helping friends, fighting to free people who built this city but were chained and never owned it. For a better and fairer and less sophisticated future for his, and others' children.
Among those immortals there was another friend of the twins. Mr Karl Heinrich Marx, the revolutionary teacher of the world's proletariat and the spiritual leader of the working masses, passed away as well in 1883. He was laid to rest in Highgate Cemetery, where Jacob led his disciple Jack to his blooding. Talented but ruthless with his fear tactics, Jack successfully made headlines on the front page of the Daily newspaper.
"Vampyres in Highgate," Jacob read to Jack in one of the Rooks' lobbies. "Should I be happy that they use the plural right?"
Jack stared at the newspaper in Jacob's hand. "No, mentor," he answered, plain and dry.
"Relax, Jack. All in all, a successful mission last night. But do remember, Jack, times have changed. People aren't as blind as before. There's no bebefit in putting yourself — as an Assassin — under the spotlight."
"Yes, mentor," Jack said, lips curved in a barely perceptible smile.
"Go and get some rest," said his mentor. "I'll fix this."
Jack left, hearing Jacob murmuring behind him.
"'Vampyre...nightmares for the departed...' Well, trust them to come up with something like that."
It's right, Jacob. Deep down, Jack jeered to himself. It's right. I'll be your vampyre. Your nightmare.
And so he did, in a severe frenzy fueled by hatred for his mentor. Jacob's friends were falling — some gone, others soon to follow. Soon enough, Jack sneered. Where is your strength, Jacob? Where is your brashness, your confidence and haste that lead to my mother being gutted, and me in madhouse? Why do you fear for attention from others, since you had drawn enough attention when you were storming through London?
After all your backing is gone, you'll be the last. The masterpiece of my work.
In these thoughts Jack raised his knife years later, raging and wild, and pierced it into Jacob's left eye.
How does it taste, Jacob? I could kill you for what you did — but I won't.
This eye... this one's for your ignorance of me and my mother.
But I'll leave you the other, so you can watch the future I build from the ashes of your failures — a future for my cause.
You can't fix me.
I am the solution.
The last thing Jacob saw before slipping into unconsciousness was Jack the Ripper's twisted, hooded mask and the gleam of a flashing dagger descended toward him.
Then — nothing.
Extreme pain swallowed Jacob whole. In an instant, darkness shrouded him.
He drifted in a haze of fractured memories, one wave after another crashing over him, threatening to pull him under. Faces of every target he'd ever assassinated blurred and bled together. Then, Starrick appeared, draped in the Shroud, one hand clenching Jacob's throat and draining the very life from him, the other gesturing in that same pompous, theatrical flourish — delivering some long-forgotten, mocking sermon. The face of the former Grand Master flickered, twisted, warping grotesquely... and now and then, it shifted — became Jack's.
Again, and again.
Jacob could do little but grit his teeth and endure the suffocating, skin-peeling torment, struggling not against death, but against the suffocating hold over him — a hold forged by the nightmare of the past, the dead, and the monster he helped create.
And when the hold itself was applying more pressure to complete the death grip, his consciousness receding and mind dying, somewhere in the dreadful dark, a voice broke through.
Faint at first.
Distant.
A thread of sound in a sea of death, accompanied by a flicker of a hidden blade.
"Jacob, resist!"
It drifted toward him, soft and insistent, like the memory of sunlight on a long-forgotten afternoon. He couldn't see it. Couldn't move. But it was there.
A surge of instinct broke through the mire — not reason, not memory, just instinct.
He managed to rasp out fragmented words, hoarse and fractured.
"Evie... stay back..."
It wasn't conscious.
It was the same old reflex, the same battered shield raised against whatever nightmare was hunting him in the dark.
The words tore from his throat, barely audible.
But Evie heard them.
And in that moment, everything else fell away — the howling storm beyond the windows of Jacob's bedroom, the stench of blood and sweat under Lambeth Asylum, the ache of old battles.
There was only a brother, clinging to the last thread of himself.
And a sister who refused to let him fall.
End