The city of consuls (AssassinsCreedCrossover)

Chp. 1 - For family

Visual image of Shay's hair updo while present at the Embassy

. . .

Da, sredbats e zakazana za cetvrtok (yes the meeting is set for Thursday). Yes, goodbye.

Just as the phone clicks back into its charger, for the first time that afternoon the office has been quiet. Not a sound to be heard between its stone walls and black marble flooring. I close the webpage that connects to MyAncestory.com, beginning to get fed up with the lack of information I have found. Nothing but immigrant papers and birth certificates.

Looking around this fairly large room, walls adorned by trophies of the embassy. Golden shields with the engraving of the vergin sun, and two identical daggers crossing over each other close by. A golden helmet, shielded by glass walls, which dates to the time of 300BC and above it, a landscape masterpiece. A sea of red, an army lead by the king of kings on his black stallion. Pointing with his sword towards victory, another city claimed and named by no other than a true hero within the Balkan regions of Europe and legend spreads as far as Egypt to south Asia.

A voice drags me out of my own little world

"Shay Ili-an-ov?"

I'll give him points for trying to pronounce my name. Typical though, still not right. I drag myself out of my chair and walk towards the doors of the office to collect my package.

"Ilianov. thank you, that is mine"

"Sign here ma'am"

With a sharp swish of my middle finger across the Ipad, my signature is recorded.

I collect the boxes of files that have been mailed to me from my home country Macedonia.

I go by Shay Ilianov; I work for the Macedonian Embassy in Sydney Australia, London United Kingdom and Skopje, Macedonia as a translator and humanitarian. My job consists of casual meeting people of influence and constant jetlag from travelling to Europe and back. What I know of my family is I am the granddaughter of immigrants which fled for life from the Yugoslavian Revolution in Macedonia. There was nothing left, so they left. I find myself being very passionate of my roots and have devoted it to freedom for my people. I get it from my mother's side of the family, I'm told. Constant stories from my grandparents about my lineage of freedom fighters. Never have I taken into consideration the stories or my bloodline. But that's all i thought they were...stories.

My questions we're answered when I was told the truth of my last name. 'Ilianov'

"Ilianovski, your name, changed by your great grandfather as asylum from the invaders. If people had known we were who we are, we would not be here. You're grandfather 'Caravil' had no other choice, putting his pride aside and leaving everything behind, like our ancestors did once before"
Before? ...

By adopting a more Slavic name by ending it in 'nov' instead of 'ski', a slight change in spelling would define a person from a Macedonian to a Yugoslavian. I have been told when in times of war, if the people did not change their name to the name preferred by the army which ruled he land at the time, they would be killed. Sons turned into soldiers for the army and daughters stolen and sold as slaves.

"The birthmark faded on your lip"

Referring to the faded birthmark that can only be recognized close up.

"Just as your great great GREAT-" alot of greats, about 5 generations back as my grandma tries to fit all the 'greats' in one breath, god love the woman. "Great grandfather Pare"

"Baba, you missed a 'great'" I've always been a smart ass.

I have been told stories of my ancestors, especially pare. He was someone very special to the family tree. I've been told how the people of our village praised him and his enemies feared him.

"You have his eyes, piercing determination able to create fear into anyones soul who passes him" My grandmother would say to me.

Now I find the answers through his story.

Or its letter?

The great fire –  1777

I remember the last time i visited home. The land on which my ancestors once walked on, the dirt I stand on holds so many moments, battles, disasters. The soil is fine and thin, like ash. Ash of a great fire. This is not dirt from the earth but mixed with cinders of wood, bone and flesh of the fallen.

The sky is quite breathtaking, stars come out of hiding. The same stars from which over looked my family for 600 years, what I am soon to find out, the same stars which viewed tragedy. These letters, letters from a member of my family. The paper is stained and rough, not as advanced and bleached white as today's, although letters are extinct in this era. I carefully pull the envelope to reveal the letter. Eger to read, I find myself slightly tearing the age old paper.

"dammed...more fragile than it looks."

History written in paper... written in Macedonian of course. Luckily able to translate and under stand

1783 march 21st  

"Elise,

My dear sister. I find myself once again slaving away in the bazar for another piece of bread. Little do the people know who I am, little do the empire as well. The ottoman janissaries showing no mercy. Nothing has changed since that fateful day. Still the city is rebuilding itself, what's left of ground is ash and cinders, the air still haunts us with the stench of black smoke as they continue to burn down whatever we try to rebuild. All that stands left of our pride is out skeletons of our once standing homes. Black and hollow...much like the cities hope. The god forsaken "order" failing to save the city, they speak of liberty and justice, but for whom. I see neither freedom fighters nor freedom. I watch the clock tower built by our people who slaves for the empire 150 years before us. On the hour it chimes, on the hour is time running out.

I still miss mother and father, do you? I think of how things would have been different, if I tried harder. But things are different, safe in Paris you are. A fine city I'm told. They are holding a revolution of their own, are they not? I pray for your safety, soon the Ottoman Empire will leave and you will come home sister. I don't know when but soon.

Till I hear from you again. Bog bide so vas (god be with you)

Your little brother, Pare."