•Discombobulate• |An Assassin's Creed Syndicate Fanfiction|

•I |Of hope and help|

London, 1868

Silence reigned supreme in the small shop, where the slightest sound was caused by the feather that slipped, quickly and precisely, over the piece of paper that was colored by the black ink of the tip of the feather.
The atmosphere was of utter calmness and peace, while inside that little shop a young man was writing with a stern and worried expression on a slightly yellowed piece of paper.

Around him danced, gracefully and slowly and lazily, the dust that was illuminated by small beams of light that managed to go beyond the opaque windows of the shop.
The weight of the hundreds of objects was dangerously cracking the shelves on which they were placed, frightening, every time, the poor boy who suddenly raised his head from the son of paper and then turn his gaze towards the noises: praying and hoping that those tall and large bookcases did not fall into pieces.

He looked away for a few seconds, then returned to look, with eyes veiled with concern and severity, what he had written on the sheet of paper.
It had been more than an hour for Henry to find himself bent over the long wooden desk, the faint light of an oil lamp standing beside him.
For once again he read what he had written on that piece of paper.

'Brother George.
It is as I feared.London has fallen.Thrice I have written to you,begging your aid.Thrice you've respondend-with silence.And yet I write again,so desperate my need,so few my options.I need you.London needs you.
You would say it is too great of a task.Or that it is not yet time to strike.Patience,you would counset.
But whilst you wait,the Templars consolidate their power.They have chosen a Grand Master so ruthless,so thorough,one might think Reginald Birch,himself,had returned.
His name is Crawford Starrick.And he intends to rule the world.There is no aspect of society he does not control.No industry that escape his grim touch.By day it is corrupt merchants and venal politicians who hold court.
Come night,a vicious street gang known as the Blighters strikes terror in the hearts of all.
There is no business untainted by his poison.No person unexploited-be it by duplicity or force.
Our anemy has designs on the highest office of them all.And so as you look inward-and dare I say it-afraid-Crawford Starrick's ambition is fixed on the beyond:to kingdoms and continents as yet unconquered...though not for long...
For he knows-as I have warned you-time and time again whosoever controls London,controls the world'

He sighed for the umpteenth time: every time he reread those words, which he himself wrote that same day, the imaginary weight he had on his shoulders only increased more and more.
The knighst Templar's powerful grip on London was growing with the passing of time, and every second lost was a long and distant step back in being able to steal the English city from the fierce hands of the Order.
It could be said, clearly, that London was now under Templar control and that nothing could be done against their power ... but there was resistance, albeit very small, that acted silently and discreetly in the streets of the English capital.
But this would not have been enough to stop the Grand Master of the Templars in his eager desire to have London, as well as the whole world, in the palm of his hand.

And that little resistance, was none other than Henry and another young Assassin: the two collaborated for many years, trying to change something, but in vain: all their movements were vain and useless and could not do much, if do not put an end to the life of some Blighters who threatened Londoners, sabotage some small factory and devise plans that would never have been implemented.

They just kept hidden in the shadows of their little den, watching London being dominated by the Templars; staying still but with the desire to do something, to act.
And, after years of being hidden in the shadows and acting stealthily, the time had come to overturn, to upset the facts.
It was time for this heavy oppression to end.