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Chapter Text

Desmond - Never 0%

The inside of the grand temple, beyond the barrier he spent so long with Connor working to unlock, feels like a tomb.

Desmond cannot say he's surprised it has come to this. It feels as though it's been inevitable from the start, from back when he woke up in some sci-fi machine kidnapped by templars. Earlier, perhaps. When he was 16 and decided he wasn't going to kill - wasn't going to die - for a cause he couldn't see before ever living himself.

His father had never lied to him, not about the nature of the assassins and not about what a future with them held. It is, perhaps, the only good thing Bill ever did as a father. Gave him truth without shielding him from the worst parts, never sugar coating it to make the world seem a kinder place. He told him he had to solve his own problems because nobody will do it for him.

It meant that he was ready for life, ready to deal with all the shit that was thrown at him when he ran away. It means he's ready here, now. World needs to be saved and there isn't anyone else to step up and do it.

Minerva and Juno are both standing before him, faces lit with the golden glow of their holograms and the blue-white light of the Eye. Arguing.

"If you free her, you'll be destroyed," Minerva says, her gaze fixed on Desmond, leaning in as though the proximity will help convince him. Honestly, Desmond's seen more compelling looks from drunks at 3am. There's no life in Minerva, not truly, and everything she says falls flat.

She explained they had built the Eye to stop the flare and demanded he not use it in the same breath. Let the world burn instead.

Juno claimed he was 'a single spark to save the world.' That all he needed to do was touch it, activate it, and it would protect the planet from the solar flare. It felt too easy, too simple. Minerva, Tinia and Juno set this up for him 75,000 years ago, calculated the future to see this point, for what? The one chance Desmond would be here, now, brain half scrambled from his ancestors and their fragmented puzzle.

It seems infinitesimally unlikely, all things considered. There are any number of events in Desmond's life alone, choices he made, that would have made this moment impossible.

How many possibilities are there, in 75,000 years?

"Only touch the pedestal and the world will be saved," Juno says, imploring. There is a desperation in her, some frantic energy that keeps her pacing around the pedestal as she speaks, gesticulating.

"It will kill me," Desmond says, and doesn't even bother to make it a question.

"It will happen in an instant. There will be no pain," Juno answers, and the words are meant to be comforting, he can tell. There is too much excitement, too much glee in her voice to believe her. Juno isn't cold or hollow like Minerva, no. She is full of fire, full of a rage that will try to burn the world as much as the sun.

She's lying because it helps her, because she thinks his death being painless will sway his choice. It isn't really a choice, though, even if now he knows it's going to hurt. Seemed to him the world was fucked either way.

But Desmond is an assassin, and he knows from lifetimes of experience that as long as there are people, people will fight. He just needs to make sure they're alive to do it.

Desmond steps closer to the Eye, breathing deep.

"You mustn't!" Minerva beseeches, sounding desperate and it's the first sign of true emotion Desmond has seen from her. It makes him wonder.

Desmond has seen the power of their artifacts. The templars and assassins have fought over them for centuries. Humans can use them, barely, and in doing so have built and conquered nations. Desmond is almost afraid to know what Juno can do with an apple, with the power of the temple.

Still...

"It's done Minerva, the decisions made," Desmond says, firm, and puts his hand on the Eye.

Juno lied, Desmond thinks in the split second he has before his hand and arm burns.

The pain is paralysing. Desmond's entire body locks up as it courses through him. The light behind his eyelids is bright white and searing.

It feels like forever, an eternity and it feels like an instant before it stops. The Eye disappears from beneath his senseless fingers and Desmond collapses to the ground as though his string have been cut. Agony shoots out of his arm and lances through him from the movement, and Desmond curls up protectively as his thoughts slowly came back online.

The first thing Desmond registers is shouting in Italian.

He has to cycle that through his head a few times, thoughts slipping like sand through his shaking fingers. The grains slip away no matter how much Desmond tries, pain wracking his frame and making it too hard to concentrate. There is something very wrong about being shouted at in Italian, even if it's a very familiar situation from all the time spent with Ezio...

Desmond frowns, trying to chase that thought-

Something kicks him in the ribs with enough force he rolls onto his back and Desmond forces his eyes open-

There is so much red. Desmond's heart is pounding in his chest before he's even consciously registered what he sees. Within seconds Desmond is forcefully blinking away eagle vision, scrambling to his feet in adrenaline fuelled panic. His right arm screams at him when he moves to get up and he flinches, crashing into the person behind him.

There is more yelling but Desmond's head is spinning, he's burning again he must be it feels like fire and everything is wrong-

He dodges the sword on instinct, stumbling back from the guard as adrenaline finally starts to clear his head. The pain is pushed to the side, away. It is a secondary concern and Desmond doesn't have the luxury of focusing on it. There are enemies attacking him with swords.

When the second swing comes arcing toward his head Desmond steps into it, left hand darting out to take the blade for his own. He doesn't even try to use his right arm. He's too scrambled to remember what happened but the intense pain he's barely ignoring is more than enough to tell him to keep it immobile.

Sword in hand, it is a simple move to turn and run it through his opponent.

Questions about how or when or why fall away in favour of the fight.

Ezio - Never 100%

He wakes to the sound of cannons and Caterina's soft, gentle hands on his chest.

"What is that?" she asks, looking worriedly to the window.

"Probably just a training exercise." Ezio says, gingerly sitting up. The wound on his side does not seem to have bled into the bandages during the night, but it did not appreciate his activities before sleep, either.

"Ezio?" Caterina's hand is warm on his back, not quite supporting but certainly ready to be. He wants to indulge in the comfort of it, wants to lay back down beside her to rest a while longer. Finally, he is finished.

"I am fi-" he doesn't get to complete his statement before the wall is blown open with a cacophonous boom, showering the room in rubble and dust which just barely misses them.

"Merda!" Ezio swears, adrenaline spiking through him and clearing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. Pushing to his feet, Ezio reaches for his discarded clothes and turns to Caterina. "I have to find Mario and rally the troops."

Lifting his arms to pull on his shirt sends stabbing pain through his abdomen, and bending for his breeches and boots is no better.

"My men are in the courtyard," Caterina says, and she too has pulled on her clothes, bearing an air of command he has rarely seen. "I will lead them around back and flank our attackers."

"Stay out of sight." Ezio calls after her, hurrying to the desk on the other side of his room. There are more cannon blasts as he unlocks the drawer, hastily grabbing the velvet bag from inside.

That done, he is free to push himself through the remains of his window, balancing on the roof tiles with practiced ease. When he sees the fight below him - Borgia guards battling his uncle's mercenari, Ezio drops without hesitation and slides his blade easily between a gap in armour.

There is no time for thought after that, only the familiar motions of killing. His wound is slowing him down and Ezio receives far more scratches from barely dodged blades than he would usually. Still, within minutes his enemies are dead and Ezio hurries, limping slightly, to the town.

Hanging from his belt the Apple whispers temptation, but Ezio needs to move and cannot afford the weakness it causes him with use. He resists. He resists and he fights and he directs his people back towards the Villa where they might escape.

He resists until he is panting, chest heaving as he tries to draw breath, side a blaze of agony and fingers too numb to grip his sword. Ezio cannot fight like this and if he tries he will surely die. No, he has no other choice.

Reaching, Ezio pulls the Apple from the pouch, concentrating on the device and the enemies before him. The building beside him explodes in a shower of wood and stone, and Ezio has no time to react, only turning his head in time to see a large piece of masonry sailing towards him.

When it hits the impact is far, far less than he was bracing for - indeed, Ezio was not expecting to live long enough to register the blow.

Still, he doesn't question his good fortune, only turns to face his enemy once more, raising the Apple-

His hand is empty. Why that is the first thing to register and not the lack of pain, Ezio does not know, but his hand is empty.

Someone rushes past him, running towards-

Ezio blinks hard, shakes his head and tries to clear it to no effect. He is in Firenze, on the bridge crossing the Arno.

"What, Auditore, going to hide behind all your friends like a coward?" a semi familiar voice shouts, young and full of scorn.

"Vieri?" he mumbles to himself, studying his surroundings. There is a throbbing pain on his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody when he touches it. Ah, he thinks, the fight when he got the scar upon his lips.

Ezio realises, then, that this must be death or a dream. Either way, if he fights this fight in a few minutes Federico will arrive.

He cannot keep himself from grinning as he throws himself into the brawl with reckless enthusiasm. It is only a minute and maybe four opponents before he reaches the Pazzi hiding at the back.

His fist connects with the satisfying crunch of a broken nose and a squeal of pain more suited to a pig than a man. His second punch lands on Vieri's thick skull and as he goes down Ezio follows, laying blows to his face with no mind for the damage.

Ezio is not grinning anymore, consumed instead by the rage and grief that has not faltered in twenty years. When a hand grips his shoulder and yanks, Ezio reacts on instinct, on reflex, grabbing at the wrist and pulling - throwing the attacker over his shoulder.

Ezio flexes his hand, driving his palm towards the juncture of shoulder and neck, Vieri forgotten.

The attacker rolls out the way onto his knees before lunging and Ezio looks for the blade desperately, trying to see which way he needs to dodge but he is too slow-

The man is on top of him, grabbing at his wrists and using his weight to keep Ezio down.

"Ezio!" the man shouts and suddenly it's not just any man or an enemy or attacker- Federico. It's Federico.

Ezio goes boneless in his brother's hold, chest heaving as he realises he is safe. "Federico," he says, and it is only his laboured breathing that disguises the emotion he cannot keep from his voice.

"Brother, you have caused quite the scene. What is it Vieri said to deserve such a beating?" Federico asks, shuffling back off of Ezio.

"Apologies brother, I lost my head," Ezio answers, climbing to his feet. Around them people are scattering like rats, fleeing now that the entertainment is over.

"Clearly," Federico says, and Ezio tries to ignore the worry in his tone. "No matter. Give me a look at your lip. It's bleeding rather badly."

Ezio dabs at it with his sleeve, wiping away some of the crusted blood without care. It leaves a red stain on the cloth but not a concerning amount.

"It is fine," he says, leaning back when Federico reaches for his face. "You don't need to worry about it."

"It is not fine." Federico takes gentle hold of Ezio's chin, stepping closer as he inspects the cut. "There might be dirt in it and you wouldn't want to get an infection, would you?"

Ezio feels as though he's missed a step, somewhere. He feels he is unmoored and drifting, trying to marry up what he remembers with what is happening.

"Should we not go to a doctor then, to get it treated?" Ezio asks uncertainly, trying to remember the first time and patting blindly at the pockets of his breeches. "Not that I have any money for a doctor."

"Well," Federico says, something mischievous and vicious in his tone, still holding Ezio's face, "I'm sure we can liberate some florins from our Pazzi friends, but honey will be better than whatever concoction the doctor has."

"Honey?" Ezio is completely at a loss now, staring at his brother as he inspects the cut.

"Honey. Though it doesn't look as though there's any dirt in it. Let me just-" Federico cuts off, releasing Ezio and stepping away abruptly. Ezio can only watch, baffled, as Federico walks to the nearest thug and cuts a length of cloth from his shirt.

"Federico?" he asks, looking at his brother. Federico had teased him often and without mercy, he thought, and Ezio is unsettled by how different this man seems compared to his memory.

Still, he stands still as Federico wipes the blood from his face with careful touches, tilting his chin this way and that to be sure it is clean.

"That should be fine," Federico says as he releases him. "We'll worry about the honey if it looks to be getting infected."

Ezio is still very confused and it is only getting worse as time passes, as he comes out of that single mindedness that has carried him through many fights. The more his thoughts clear the less the situation makes sense. At best he is asleep in Monteriggioni, dreaming - but he has never had dreams so clear or so kind. Truly, it seems every night he is haunted by the dead, by the last words of the dying.

At worst, he is dead and this is some strange, strange afterlife. If it is, it is like no heaven or hell Ezio has ever heard of, and in recent years he's favoured Altaïr's view of there being nothing after death anyway.

"Well, this has certainly been an interesting night," Federico's voice breaks Ezio from his thoughts, and he scrambles to recall what he said the first time.

"Indeed, if only they could all be as fun," Ezio says with a levity he does not feel. That is right, right? Brawl's in the street had been fun, once, when the bodies he left behind still drew breath.

"Oh, if only," Federico agrees. "Come, Ezio. I want to show you something."

"What is it?" Ezio asks, curious but willing to go along with this strange, strange dream for a little longer.

"It is a surprise, you'll see," his brother chides.

"Well, lead the way," Ezio says, bowing with a flourish and gesturing down the street. Federico laughs and Ezio is glad his brother is not looking at him at that moment, for surely his grief must be clear on his face. It is the first he has heard Federico laugh in 24 years and Ezio thinks he can be forgiven for being a touch emotional. He had forgotten the sound.

"Try to keep up," Federico says and they take to the rooftops. Ezio recognises the church they are heading towards, remembers climbing the bell tower for the first time with his brother. There is a tightness building in his chest, a lump in throat.

When he takes Federico's offered hand and lets his brother pull him to the top, Ezio has to look to the skyline and the setting sun before he falls apart completely.

"It is a good life we lead, brother," Federico says beside him and Ezio forces himself to meet his eyes.

"The best," he says, repeating what he said all those years ago. "May it never change," he hopes he does not sound as desperate as he feels, half begging; as though his wishes could ever make a difference.

"And may it never change us," Federico answers, just as Ezio knew he would. He has to turn away again, then, before the grief can overwhelm him. Federico also looks out to the city and Ezio would wonder what he sees, what he is thinking, but he is too focused on simply trying to breathe.

"Come, brother," Federico finally says, when the last of the daylight is slipping away. "Let us return home. It is late and I need to speak with Father."

Father.

It hits him like a battering ram. Father would still be alive, as would Petruccio. Mother, too, would be whole and healthy. Oh God. Ezio had not even thought of them, too caught up with having his brother returned.

He does not think he can see them, not now. Not yet. The very thought is making his heart race with panic or fear or joy- Ezio does not know. There are too many complicated emotions crowding his chest and it is making it hard to think.

"Wait," Ezio says, and is surprised his voice comes out even, although he doesn't know what he plans to say next. He can only glance at Federico a moment before he has to look away.

"Ezio," Federico says, and it is exasperated, of all things. "Let Cristina sleep."

Ezio blinks, trying to catch up with the non-sequitur. Cristina? Oh, of course. She too is still alive. He swallows thickly, forcing a practiced smirk onto his lips and ignoring the way it pulls at the recent cut.

"There will be time enough for that - later."

Federico rolls his eyes, stepping easily onto the wooden platform for a leap. "Fine, fine. Have your fun, Ezio."

"You can bet on it," Ezio calls back as his brother goes over the edge, putting a grin into his voice. It slides away as he hears the muffled thump of a body landing in hay, using his Second Sight to watch as Federico heads to the Palazzo.

When the bright blue is just a glimmer in the distance, Ezio takes a deep breath and buries his face in his hands. He does not cry - cannot. Ezio has only ever cried for his family with Claudia, when they'd each swallowed down more than a bottle of wine and he could pretend the intoxication was the cause of his blurred vision.

Still, it takes several deep breaths before his chest loosens and the burning dryness in his eyes eases. He needs to think, and he couldn't have done so earlier with Federico beside him. Not when he was so uncertain.

He is dead or he is dreaming or this is real. Ezio doesn't know which scares him more.

He doesn't want it to be a dream. Truly, it would be the cruellest thing his own mind could concoct. To have this last day again, to see his family happy and healthy once more only to wake up. It would feel like losing them all over again, worse than the nightmares of the hanging he still suffers.

If he is dead then there are a great many questions Ezio feels he must ask. This is like no version of hell he has heard, Catholic or otherwise, and Ezio has no illusions about his fate. By any of the holy texts he is a sinner. He has murdered and stolen and whored his way across Romagna without regret.

Even if he were to go to heaven, this is still a far cry from what he would have expected. Eternal peace and rest? No, this is too painful for that and he is too afraid of what the next few days will bring. Surely, even Purgatory would be kinder than this.

Ezio does not want to consider if it is real. It is a hope he is almost too afraid to allow himself. It would mean the return of his family and everything he has lost. The chance to change things and get rid of the Pazzi threat before they can take his family from him.

If it is real than Ezio has travelled in time, which is an impossibility of the highest degree. He has seen the apple and staff both do a great many incredible things but surely time travel is too much. Illusions, such knowledge as they contained and even controlling the minds of men were- a lot. Fantastical and terrifying in turn, but they would be minor compared to time travel.

No. It cannot be real, Ezio tells himself and wills himself to believe. It cannot be real.

He spends the whole night there, sitting cold on the bell tower and rolling the options through his head. Examines all the pieces and tries and tries to find an answer.

If it is real and he can change things, in two days his family need not hang.

If it is a dream there is nothing he can do. Surely it is a nightmare and either he will see them on the gallows again, or he will wake to find they are still dead.

It cannot be real. The hope is too much. Hope, it seems, is all he has left. Ezio breathes deeply, watching the sky lighten with the dawn.

If he is dead then it is far too late to do anything, and whatever he tries would change nothing. Heaven or hell or purgatory, it will happen as it must with no regard to Ezio. Peace or punishment, it is already decided.

It cannot be real, and there should be nothing he can do. He breathes, flexing his hand in the way that would release his hidden blade were he wearing it.

It cannot be real, he tells himself again, desperate and afraid and utterly unable to take the risk.

Ezio fears that, should he wake up, it will be this which finally breaks him.

Chapter Text

Claudia - 50/50/90

Claudia would freely admit she was in a mood, and had been for a number of days.

The Pope had left Rome to lead the Papal armies against Perugia and Bologna, throwing her Brotherhood into chaos trying to protect their people, and Cesare was an ever present threat. The man had gone completely mad after the death of his father, and it made him unpredictable. Claudia did not want to think about how many weeks and months she had wasted hunting him. She would follow the rumours of his location, of his plans and activities until she knew where he would be - only to find he had changed his mind entirely. All her efforts made worthless, again and again.

It was infuriating.

Then, when she was finally close enough to strike, he pulled out that infernal device. The Apple.

Suddenly she'd had an army coming at her from both sides of the battle, Papal and Bologna forces attacking without a care for their allies. They had been mindless, faces blank and eyes empty and hollow. The only will they had was that of Cesare, and his only concern was her death.

It was one of the most horrifying things Claudia had ever witnessed - the complete control the Apple had over them.

She laid every life lost that day at Cesare's feet - for all the good it would do, now.

At the end of it, the Apple had caused as much harm to its wielder as it had to anyone. Cesare Borgia had abandoned the thing and fled before she could reach him, looking more than half dead already.

Now here she was, deep beneath the Colosseum and ready to be done with the damned thing. It has not let her rest peacefully in all the days it's been in her possession, only whispered incessantly, trying to tempt her with knowledge of this or that new and terrible thing. The future and the past.

No.

It is a device of slavery first and foremost, of control, and Claudia wants nothing to do with it.

So she is here in this vault, heeding its words this one time if only to get rid of it.

The vault, as she has learned, is a construction by Those That Came Before.

The blue light is otherworldly and sets Claudia's teeth on edge. Her blade is a reassuring weight on her back and she allows herself to take comfort from it.

The Apple shines golden in its bag as she approaches the central pedestal. There is an indent which, she is sure, would perfectly house the Apple.

Well, that is what she is here for.

Claudia doesn't let herself hesitate, doesn't consider what this might do. She upends the bag and lets the Apple tumble out, closing her eyes against the bright flash of gold when it lands.

When she opens them, there is a spectre. A woman formed of golden light, though not the same one as she met previous.

"Good, you are here," she says, and her voice echoes strangely. In Claudia's eagle sense, she feels like a light summer shawl wrapped around her throat; barely there but just as capable of strangling her if things go sour. A very gentle threat. This woman is not one to be trusted, and definitely not one who shares Claudia's ideals.

"I am here." Claudia agrees, flexing her fingers - a nervous tell she developed over the last years and cannot seem to be rid of.

"Long ago, the path was laid down before you, and now you need only to follow, to move forward," the woman says, and anger boils up in Claudia, scalding. The woman does not even have the decency of looking at her as she speaks, staring instead to the side.

"Who are you, to tell me what to do?" Claudia demands, stalking forwards on silent, deadly feet. "Who are you, with your temples and Apples, who dares to control us."

"In the beginning we tried to teach you, to show you, but we created you imperfect. Flawed. Now you need to listen, and trust us, for you are running out of time. The end draws near, Desmond, and you must hurry." The name stops Claudia in her tracks, her initial anger doused to be replaced with an older frustration.

Claudia had long ago decided she did not care for Minerva's words, spoken under the Vatican. It had bothered her, at first, that there was a threat Claudia could do nothing about. It was not in her nature, anymore, to sit by idle.

However, there truly was nothing Claudia could do; she could not control the heavens and Minerva, for all her coldness, had a plan with their best interests at heart. It would not do to waste her time and energy on something she could do nothing about.

So, Claudia had moved on, satisfied that she could focus on her own goals. Only now, Desmond had been mentioned again, and Claudia was far less inclined to trust this new woman.

"I trust you not at all," Claudia says, glaring. "But tell me what must be done, and I will see that it is known."

"You have done your part," the woman says, suddenly turning to Claudia, and the look is intense, challenging. The phantom sensation of gossamer thin fabric tightens around her throat. "You have the message, and you have brought the Apple. The plan is in motion, the future is set."

Oh, how Claudia loathes this woman now. How often in her life has she been dismissed? Told to step aside and sit pretty, someone else will fix it. Now, she is again being pushed aside. Worse than that, she feels she is being threatened. There is the implication in this woman's eyes that she would bear the consequences should she interfere.

"What future is that?" Claudia demands to know. "What path have you prepared for Desmond, and what will he find at the end?"

If Desmond is here, listening as is implied by the woman's speech, Claudia would have him know his fate. He would not be forced to dance to this tune without knowing how the song would end - she has seen enough of people forced into roles they do not want.

"It is none of your concern," the woman says, condescending.

"Then I will take the Apple when I leave." Claudia threatens, for as much as she hates the thing, it is also the only bargaining chip she has.

"You cannot!" the woman near yells, stepping into Claudia's personal space close enough she can see the unnatural gold of her eyes. The expression she wears is desperate - she needs this, somehow. "You-"

Claudia watches, wary, as she steps away. She looks dismayed now. Worried.

"You are not who I expected to see," she says, which doesn't make any sense at all, and the sudden mood swing is startling. Still, she can adapt.

"Not five minutes ago you said it was good that I was here," Claudia says, putting some distance between them. She isn't sure the woman can physically touch her, but she is made of the same light the Apple emits. Claudia isn't going to take any chances.

The woman ignores her, however, only pacing around the room in clearly agitated thought. The plan, it seems, is not set like she had thought. Claudia takes some measure of comfort in this - it means she still has her agency. There has been no influence or control enforced on her unknowingly, pushing her - and in turn, Desmond - on some predetermined path without their knowledge.

Suddenly, the woman spins on her heel, approaching Claudia once more.

"Tell me," she starts, voice demanding, "do you have children, Prophet?"

The question feels like a dagger, sudden and sharp and painful. Claudia smothers her first response, the desire to lash out to make the woman hurt as much as she does. Instead, she leans on the skills she learnt as a child and never forgot, pulling on the guise of the perfect daughter like a second skin.

"I do not," Claudia says, voice still too sharp. "Not that it is any business of yours."

"Will you?" she demands.

"Again, that is none of your concern," Claudia says, glaring.

"You must!" The desperation is back, as well as the feel of threat crawling down Claudia's spine. When she Looks, the woman is a swirling red-gold she feels justified in being so distrustful of. "Or would you rather condemn the world to burn?"

Claudia's tenuous hold on her anger snaps - she would not be made to feel guilty, not over this. Not over something she wants so badly herself but can never have.

"Then give me back my health! Heal me of the scars that render me barren, gained in the course of fulfilling your plan, and I will have as many children as you desire!" Claudia near yells, voice cracking on children as she pushes down her grief. "But you cannot try to guilt me, not for anything but especially not for this."

The woman looks as though she has been slapped, Claudia's outburst startling her into silence.

"You are barren?" she asks, blank. Claudia is still too angry, too hurt to parse whatever emotions might be present in the other woman.

"And you are the Prophet," she states, still blank - even her voice sounds hollow, lacking any of the desperate passion of earlier. Claudia sets her jaw and pulls herself together, nodding once while eyeing this strange new mood.

Suddenly, the phantom sensation of cloth around her throat tightens like a noose in warning. Claudia gasps for breath, reaching for her blade on reflex to defend herself from the threat.

"This ruins everything!" the woman shouts in frenzy, bracing her palms on the Apple's pedestal as it glows bright gold. "Millenia of planning and you have ruined it!"

Claudia doesn't know what to do, now. She feels trapped in this vault, for all that the door is open behind her.

"No. Not like this. I will send you back to the start, and give you one more chance. Make sure you do things right this time." Before Claudia can react - or, indeed, figure out how to react - the entire vault lights up blue, brighter than even the sun.

Something about it makes her head ache, even as she closes her eyes and presses her hand to her temple. She feels she might throw up, the pain causing bile to rise up her throat. She drops her blade in favour of pressing her other hand to her head, hunching over as though it will make a difference.

It doesn't, and for long, long seconds Claudia can only force herself to breathe, barely aware of her own vulnerability in the position.

When, finally, the throbbing in her skull lessens to something tolerable, Claudia blinks the tears from her eyes to assess her surroundings. She's not sure what the woman could have done but she is prepared for anything. She is an Auditore, and she is an assassin. She has trained for decades and is prepared for anyth-

Claudia was not prepared for this.

There is a slightly crumpled piece of paper in her hand; her hand which is small and free of callouses.

The handwriting is familiar, and when she glances to the bottom she sees the letter is signed Duccio. Claudia knows she is fixating, somewhat, on the letter. Buying herself time to breathe, to prepare herself for what she is certain she will see when she looks back up.

I will send you back to the start, the woman had said.

Well. Claudia isn't a coward and no matter the woman's intentions - which Claudia doubts were solely good - this is indeed a second chance.

Yes, she would do things right this time.

The letter flutters to the floor as Claudia stalks from the room. She needs to know the date, and she needs to find her father.

The very fact she is in the Auditore Palazzo in Firenze tells her it is 1476 at the latest. If she remembers correctly, her relationship with Duccio was established in April or May of that year. So, yes, the beginning.

Stretching her awareness, Claudia searches for that feeling of family she lost so long ago. Mother is in the next room, feeling like a blade in her hand - with all the strength and confidence therein. She is strong and vibrant in a way Claudia had nearly forgotten and it is almost enough to halt her in her tracks. She wants to go to her, to bask in her strength and the familiarity of her presence. No, that can wait.

Petruccio is upstairs in his bed - as had often been the case - feeling paradoxically panicked and calm, like his heart wants to race out of his chest but the energy is being smothered under a forced tranquillity. To her Eagle Sense he is a beacon of health, the surgeon she can trust to keep her alive after any injury, no matter how severe. Claudia doesn't have time to wonder about that, but it is enough to know he is there.

Father is in his study and he feels the same as he always had. He feels like her father, who will always protect her. It is only different because now she can feel the sharpness of his steel, can tell it was never a sword but the hidden blade they all wear strapped to their wrist. He feels like family and an assassin both. Claudia turns towards him, still stretching out her sense to find her other two brothers.

Her will is iron-clad. She doesn't have time to be emotional, but she knows she cannot put it off forever.

Federico is out in the city, somewhere. He feels panicked for a moment, searching for someone desperately, but within the few seconds she is focused on him he starts to calm. She can almost feel the keenness of his thoughts as he moves rapidly on from his emotional response to something more analytical. Beneath that he is the comforting weight of a belt of throwing knives, ready to take out any enemy before she must risk the danger of a fight.

Ezio is somewhere in the city, feeling such an intense mix of emotions Claudia doesn't know where to start. There is fear and joy, anger and vindication, a single mindedness she has to attribute to a fight. He shines like her most trusted battle partner, one who has had her back as many times as she has had his, but brighter still. An entire other person next to her in a fight regardless of the fact he is halfway across the city.

She wants to thank the woman who gave her this gift, even knowing it is self-serving. Feeling her family alive feels like being home for the first time in decades, and Claudia just wants to bask in it.

She takes a moment to do so, to spread her awareness across the rest of the city. She finds Paola - a safe place to rest - and her girls. Then La Volpe - eyes in the places she isn't. The Templars and their people spread out across the city like ants crawling on her skin. There is someone else unfamiliar to her, glimmering blue-gold and absolutely radiating pain. They feel like a blade forged of the strongest steel, hammered relentlessly to perfection, only to be used and neglected until dull.

She wants to go to them, to save them and ease their pain. She wants to take a whetstone and sharpen that edge she feels, just to see what they are capable of.

Later, she thinks, and knocks on the study door.

"Come in," Father says, and Claudia realises she had forgotten the sound of his voice. Swallowing down old grief, Claudia steps into the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.

"Claudia," he greets, smiling as he puts down his quill and moves back from his work, giving her all his attention.

"Father," she answers, suddenly unable to speak. There are tears burning hot behind her eyes, and she feels frozen in the doorway.

"Is something the matter, Claudia?" he asks, standing and walking around his desk. If he touches her it will be the end of her self control, Claudia realises. She was already tired and at the end of her rope after having the Apple keep her from rest. The spectre beneath the Colosseum throwing her failings as a woman in her face had worn her thinner still.

She cannot afford to break now.

In spite of herself, Claudia's hand is tight around the door handle, ready to pull it open should she need to leave - to find somewhere to be alone for a while and allow herself to process. She sees Father's eyes dart from her to the door, noticing, and he frowns deeply. Claudia takes a deep, calming breath, forcing herself to release the handle. She can feel his worry now.

"Father," she repeats, not quite sure how to continue. "I need to talk to you."

He smiles encouragingly and leans back against the desk, staying out of reach. He even puts his hands on the wood. It won't slow down a trained Assassin but it does show he won't approach her. He is putting her at ease, even as his worry grows. "Of course, have a seat."

Nodding, Claudia does as she's bid, and Father takes the other seat. Good, that's good. She tries to gather her thoughts, but thinking about all that's happened is making her kind of hysterical.

"What is the date?" She asks, because giving herself a timeframe is - well, it's something. Claudia still feels she could start crying any second, but also like she might start laughing uncontrollably. Perhaps both. She is overtired from the days without rest, the old grief for her family and joy at having them back is combing into a bruising pain in her chest and her experiences sound like lunacy to her, never mind Father.

He raises an eyebrow at the very strange question, but answers easily enough. "December 27th, 1476."

It is a long moment before Claudia feels she can open her mouth without laughing. Back to the start indeed. The quiet "fuck" she utters is better, but not by much. Another long moment passes, in which Father looks equal parts amused and worried, and Claudia tries to get hold of her emotions.

"Fuck," she says again, with feeling this time, and it marginally helps. Part of her wants to leave - to abandon this conversation in favour of action. If she were stronger - and not fifteen once more - it would be a simple matter to rid Firenze of their enemies.

"Claudia?" Father asks, leaning towards her now.

"I'm from the future," she says bluntly, because there really is no way to ease him into it. She sees him blink, startled first by her manner - which had been much less abrupt in her youth - and then by her words. He gives her a considering look, clearly thinking, but Claudia had never been one for jokes of this kind.

"The future," he repeats, carefully neutral. "I assume this is recent?"

"Yes, maybe five, ten minutes ago? If even that; I came straight to you," Claudia says.

"Good to know you still trust me in this future, for it to be your first thought," Father says with levity, but the statement almost punches the breath from her. She wishes her emotions would stop vacillating so wildly, Claudia thinks, somewhat disconnected again.

"You die in two days," she says and Father draws in a sharp breath of surprise. Claudia doesn't give him time to ask questions, just needs to get the rest out - pain is always better done fast. "Along with Federico, Ezio and Petruccio."

"Claudia," Father breathes out, pained. He looks like he's holding himself back from hugging her, which- yes, she remembers that. Father had been very physical with his affections. She almost wants to reach out and accept his embrace, to blurt out the entire sordid tale while held in his arms and let him take care of it.

She offers him a tight smile instead, but can't bring herself to accept the comfort. No, she is not that girl anymore.

"Later," she says, flexing her fingers in that old, nervous tell. Just enough to feel the blade's mechanism readied to engage but not thrust out. There's a moment where she doesn't meet the expected resistance and automatically tries to catalogue what other weapons are at her disposal.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Father asks, still trying to be a Father to her, kind and comforting and reminding her she doesn't need a weapon, not here. Claudia needs less kindness, less of the easy comfort Father so readily offers, no matter how much she wants it. Right now she needs Giovanni the assassin and to be an assassin herself.

"It is quite a long story. I do not think we have the time for all of it presently," Claudia says, thinking quickly and finally getting control of her emotions, relaxing back into the chair.

"Then tell me how we died, so I might know how to prevent it," Father says, more serious now.

"Uberto Alberti betrays you to the Templar order and you and my brothers are hanged for treason in the Piazza. Kill him, or lend me your blade and I will kill him," Claudia says and shrugs, faux casual. "Without the authority of the Gonfaloniere they have no power in Firenze - it was only Medici's absence that gave them the opportunity the first time."

"You are an assassin," Father observes, bypassing the information she's provided to favour her with an assessing gaze. Claudia wonders what he sees - does he see the way she holds herself, alert and ready even while relaxed? Or does he see the young girl she currently embodies, wearing a fine dress with hands too soft and clean for all the blood she has spilt.

"Yes," she confirms, "and that is why I came immediately. Not because you are my Father, but because you are the only assassin in Firenze who wears the hood. You are a brother, and that is what I trust."

Father looks somewhat stunned at her declaration before his features harden and she can see him mentally changing tracks. Truly, she hadn't been sure what kind of person Giovanni had been, as an assassin. It was a side of him she had never seen, so it is good to see him falling into that mindset.

"Then give me your report and we will see where we go from there," Giovanni says, and Claudia begins to outline the conspiracy.

Chapter Text

Petruccio - 50/50/90

Petruccio takes a deep breath of the cold mountain air, fixing his gaze on the castle just beyond the village. Masyaf. The history of his Brotherhood.

His curiosity has carried him here, as it has carried him many other places besides. Father had told him of Altaïr in quiet tones, reverent, standing before the statue under the Villa. Of all that he built, and all he had achieved.

Then, quieter still, he had spoken of the Apple. Now it is answers he seeks - knowledge for its own sake. He wonders what Altaïr may have learnt in all the years he possessed the artefact. If his was inclined to reveal more than the one Petruccio held.

Minerva had been more forthcoming but even she gave half answers at best.

Well, that is why he is here, is it not? To sate his curiosity. Although, perhaps he could have chosen a warmer time of year.

The thin snow and gravel crunches softly under his feet as Petruccio walks up the mountain. The air is sharp with chill and he forces himself to take calm, slow breaths. Around him, the land would appear deserted - if not for the sound of deep bells he can hear.

Petruccio draws in another cold lungful of air and considers his options. He has made a mistake. There is nowhere to go before he is seen and he has no chance in a fight against this many men. Currently, he would struggle against even one should they have any skill.

Another thin breath. Options. Petruccio pulls down his hood and holds his empty hands out in clear view.

The first soldiers approach in a group of four with swords already drawn, wary, and are quick to bind his unresisting hands. Perhaps there will be something to help him in the castle. If this brings him closer to the library, well, that's simply good fortune.

"Petruccio Auditore da Firenze." A man - the Captain, judging by his armour - says with a self satisfied smile made twisted by the scarred remains of his lip. The room Petruccio has been pushed and prodded into is nearing the top of the castle, built with only open air for the north wall. "For so many years your family has fought against us, killed us and worked to undermine all that we have achieved."

Beneath the talking, Petruccio can hear a familiar humming, only now there is an echo resonating from far below. It is somewhat distracting when he needs to be focusing on the enemy in front of him.

"Now there is only one left and here you are, bound and defeated."

"Defeated?" Petruccio asks, raising an eyebrow because oh, it would be so easy to escape. Petruccio breathes again, calming, and ignores the familiar temptation. The humming only seems to get louder.

There are ten men in the room, including Petruccio himself. Too many for an outright assault. One of the guards hands a thick length of rope to the Captain, the end of which has been tied in a noose. Ah, he is to be hung.

"The legends have much to say about you and yours, Assassin, but it has been proven that you can die like any other. You already know you are defeated, or you would not have surrendered at the gates." The Captain sneers, approaching with the rope. Petruccio shifts on his feet, using the movement to slip a small sphere from his pocket without notice.

"How many of you had to die for every one of us?" Petruccio asks mildly, and lets the ball fall from his fingers. The delicate ceramic shell shatters on impact with the stone floor, black smoke exploding into the air around them. The Captain lunges for him but Petruccio is already moving, hidden blade sliding free of its sheath to cut through the ropes at his wrist.

The world is bathed in red and grey as he blinks on his second sight and the Captain is illuminated by his very nature. Petruccio trips him into the open air behind him with casual ease.

The phosphorous clings to the back of his throat when he breathes and, as always, Petruccio struggles between taking deep breaths as he trained to or not breathing at all.

The eight remaining guards are shouting, waving around their swords like drunkards in the dark. He kills three of them on his way to the door but leaves the others, only locking them in the room and hurrying back to the stairs.

Half way down he starts to wheeze, breath growing shorter. He pauses a moment to try to breathe through the fit, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough stone of the castle, strength drained from him. Hyperaware of the presence of enemies, Petruccio does not allow himself to get so absorbed in his weakness that he doesn't hear the swearing.

Through an arrow slit he sees the Captain hanging from the noose with a white-knuckled grip. He is twisting wildly, either trying to pull himself up or swing closer to the wall - Petruccio cannot tell. It would seem he survived being pushed from the castle tower. Well, that is both unfortunate and easily solved, Petruccio thinks, flicking a poison dart at the man.

He doesn't wait to see the effect, only whispering a soft 'requiescat en pace' before forcing himself to keep moving even as his chest tightens.

The castle is a warren of rooms and corridors and Petruccio focuses and listens as he tries to find the way out. The warning bell of enemies echoes from all corners, offset by the humming. When he picks up the faint ringing of a windchime Petruccio sets his course.

He knows he should focus on escape but that sound has drawn his attention since he was but a boy. He remembers fondly all the feathers Ezio had gathered for him because they made that noise. Later, the pages of the codex rung the same notes, along with a great many interesting items. It is an allure he cannot resist.

Still, there are dozens of stairs between them and by the time he reaches the library doors he is coughing weakly, tasting copper on his tongue.

Petruccio leans his forehead against the cool stone and tries to breathe. The lines on the door light familiar gold and he fumbles to get his Apple from the pouch at his waist.

For all that it had offered to control his enemies and help him escape, there is nothing it can do when his lungs refuse to function.

He cannot even get the breath to cough, now. The Apple whispers visions into his mind of the future - of the sun and the planet and the great fire that will burn it all. He has seen it before. This time it shows him a shield, and there is an insistence to the image which he has never felt.

Petruccio blinks at the Apple, too tired to properly think and somewhat disappointed in himself for it. Finally it is offering information, giving him the answers he seeks and he is unable to focus sufficiently to learn.

The humming gets louder, climbing in pitch and into a whine. Fuzzily, Petruccio understands that Altaïr must have locked his Apple inside. Well, he'd figured.

Petruccio tries to pull in another breath but where usually he manages with effort now there is nothing. He chokes. Black spots across his vision and Petruccio can only lean heavily against the old stone doors as the last of his strength leaves him. The smoke bomb had been another mistake.

There is a measure of irony in the fact it is his childhood illness which is to be the death of him, after everything else he has survived. Petruccio closes his eyes to the inevitable, past panicking, feeling his chest shudder uselessly, desperately for air.

The Apple's hum cuts off abruptly and Petruccio startles, gasping in a breath. It catches in that familiar way and he automatically tamps down his panic, falling into his breathing exercises without a conscious thought. Eyes closed, his hearing sharpens as he pulls in another breath and listens for the deep bell of an enemy. Nothing.

Releasing the breath Petruccio allows himself to relax, knowing he is safe for the moment. Listening still, he next picks up on the thumping sound of drums. His next inhale is too fast so he concentrates only on his breaths for the next 5 counts of 8.

Like this, between each breath, Petruccio processes.

The panic he did not feel outside the library rises abruptly, pressing down on him as though a weight on his chest. Long practice keeps his breathing even and steady, but Petruccio's thoughts race.

He died, surely. He walked into a situation unprepared and underinformed and died for his carelessness; and Petruccio knows it was carelessness.

Fighting off the fit for so long - trying to breathe through the constricting sensation in his lungs - had made him rash. It was always harder to think clearly and keep his head at such times, but Petruccio knows better than to use a smoke bomb in those circumstances. Surely. Surely.

He pulls in another breath, carefully controlled despite the way his thoughts spiral.

Options.

Petruccio considers, again, the situation he had been in. Find his mistake, find the alternatives and do something different in the future.

First, he did not take into sufficient consideration his ailing health. While he had not known the cold would be a trigger, the incidents of coughing blood had been more frequent of late. With enough time they would ease and he would have a reprieve for some months - if not years. The Assassins throughout the region would have given him shelter, in Acre or Damas perhaps. There was no reason he could not have waited until he was in better health.

Petruccio's next breath wheezes out thinly and he viciously smothers the reflex to gasp in the next.

Second, he did not gather enough information on Masyaf before making his journey. Forces such that he found within the castle do not go unnoticed in remote areas. If he had made some enquiries he might have better prepared for his enemies. Certainly, he would not have approached by way of the open road.

Petruccio considers if his surrender was a mistake but no, if he had fought there he would have been killed or injured. Better he be unharmed and wait for an opportunity more to his advantage.

Perhaps he should have fought his guards on the stairs. Four against one was not precisely favourable odds, but in the cramped quarters of the stairwell his daggers would have given him the greater maneuverability. Additionally, they could not have attacked him all at once and Petruccio knows that - at his best - four opponents are well within his abilities to kill.

Only he had been riding the edge of a fit before his surrender and the fight may have been enough to push it the rest of the way. If he had lost his breath in the midst of combat then he risked losing, injury and death.

Hindsight shows him it did not matter, that he should have taken the chance in the stairwell, but Petruccio had hoped it would pass.

His third mistake, then, had been the smokebomb; or it had been the lack of alternatives. Underprepared, Petruccio had not replaced his supply of flashbombs, which would not have affected his lungs quite so badly while still providing a sufficient distraction.

The only options remaining to him by that stage were hanging, a leap of faith or the Apple. Knowing there was no safe landing below meant the first two choices amounted to the same thing, and Petruccio had long ago sworn not to use the Apple as a means for control.

No, the smokebomb had been the only course of action left to him. It is aggravating beyond anything else, that this is what had killed him.

Petruccio's hands shake.

How many situations has he walked away from only because he made sure he was sufficiently prepared? How many traps had the Templars set for him with little chance for escape. 34 years they had been hunting him, and he had seen the rest of his family fall. Whittled down one by one and he had made sure to always be ready. It seems nine years alone had made him forget.

Petruccio forces away the bitterness and irritation at himself, dismissing them as unhelpful and breathes, calming his mind. He died, yes, but he is not dead. He is safe for now but he lacks all other information on the current situation. He breathes.

His chest has eased and he is no longer wheezing with every inhale or exhale. The ache he's come to associate with the bloody coughing seems to have disappeared entirely.

There are other things, then, which Petruccio notices about his body which feel different, strange. Smaller and weaker.

Continuing with the breathing exercise, Petruccio clenches and releases his muscles in a meditative practice he learnt from an Eastern text. It is useful in assessing the state of his body without moving. There is less of the stiffness he's felt setting in as he ages but none of the muscles he's built up either. Further, there is no pull of recent scars on his thigh.

Petruccio feels as though his body is that of his childhood, sickly and untrained.

Satisfied he knows all there is of himself without opening his eyes, Petruccio turns his attention outward.

The air is warmer, chill no longer biting at his face. His clothes are lighter as well, entirely without armour. The surface he is sitting on is soft - a bed, likely, with pillows at his back to rest against.

Petruccio registers a faint breeze to his left and guesses there to be an open window.

The odour of any city is a distinct, unpleasant combination created by so many people living so close together. He is not in Monteriggioni, or any of the dozens of small towns he's stayed.

The air is warm but doesn't smell of the sand or dust Petruccio associates with the Levantine countries. Venice - and to a lesser degree Forli - stank from the semi-stagnant water and all the waste thrown into it.

Swallowing down his building conclusion, Petruccio takes another breath, focusing on his other senses.

Voices from outside are floating in through the window, speaking in the Firenze dialect.

When he opens his eyes Petruccio is not surprised to see his old room in the Auditore Palazzo.

He could not say with certainty what had happened, but he could theorise. The Apple had always been preoccupied with time, past and future both. For all it had to say of technology and inventions unknown to him, it had twice as much to share about time. Yet, it held back more still.

Some hereto unknown function of the Apple sent him back in mind at the moment of his death to when he was a child - before his family had fled Firenze.

Looking around his room, Petruccio sees the many books and odd items he used to collect. On the bedside table there is an engraved box, and he reaches over to grab it. The last he had seen this had been Monteriggioni and Petruccio had been quite upset when it was lost to him.

To lose the collection was surprisingly painful, although it paled in comparison to the other losses suffered that day. For so long he had kept all his most treasured items inside - those which called to him through his gift.

Opening it, Petruccio examines the meagre contents. Some foreign coins, colourful rocks and a number of paper scraps. More importantly, there are three feathers he can now identify from a Bonelli Eagle among the more common pigeon feathers, which he'd only started collecting in December of 1476. He remembers having six or seven when they had left.

The Apple has sent him very far back indeed.

Petruccio considers. He is early enough to escape Firenze again, and they could better prepare for the Templars to hunt them. Likely, December would be too late to stay. They had found evidence of the conspiracy going back years, and the arrest had only been the first move against them.

By now, Uberto Alberti would have long ago betrayed the Medici in favour of the Pazzi and Templars. Motivated by a desire for revenge against the current rulers of Firenze for his family's eviction from the Medici bank, rather than a higher goal of the Templar Order. Rodrigo Borgia had only taken advantage of Alberti's existing grievance and high standing within society to further the Templar cause.

Father said they had only learnt of his nature as an Asssassin on the 26th - when he tried to prevent the assassination of the Duke of Milan, Galeazzo Maria Sforza. Depending on the exact date, Rodrigo may not know they are his enemies aside from their connection to the Medici.

God willing, they would be yet to learn and Petruccio could inform Father of the events to come. The Duke had been an ally to the Medici prior to his death, and having him alive could be of benefit to them. Although, Petruccio is much more inclined to let the assassination proceed without interference. He learnt much about the Duke in the years following their move to Monteriggioni, and never heard anything good said of the man's character.

He was reported to be cruel to even his friends, to say nothing of the things he did to his enemies. No, Ludovico Sforza was a kinder ruler for Milan than his nephew. Even if he would not be an ally to them Petruccio would prefer to have him lead the city.

It would weaken the Medici's rule in Firenze, but he knew from prior experience it would not be crippling. Further, Father would not risk notice by the Templar's in Milan. Without the knowledge they are Assassins, Rodrigo would have no reason to order Alberti have them arrested, hunted down and eventually killed.

The Auditore could remain in Firenze and dismantle the conspiracy before it got off the ground.

Of course this all relies on it not yet being the 26th, of which Petruccio has no proof.

In the event it is too late to protect Fathers identity, then events may well have to play out as they did originally. None of Petruccio's knowledge gives them the advantage they would need to remain in the city.

Perhaps, with enough time to prepare - although two days is never enough time to prepare, in Petruccio's opinion - they could eliminate Uberto Alberti and Rodrigo Borgia before leaving. Without the Grand Master, the Roman Rite of Templars would be weakened for a time. The Pazzi are too strong to be dealt with immediately and would undoubtedly seek retribution against them.

It is difficult to say how intertwined Borgia's maneuvering and the Pazzi's conspiracy were or what effects eliminating only one of the two would have. Still, with Petruccio's knowledge - the identities of the Templar spies most importantly - they would have the advantage in planning for the future, so long as he did not hold onto any expectations based on the past.

The sun is halfway to setting and Petruccio knows he must speak with Father now. There is no way for him to move forward alone from his bed, and he cannot plan further without knowing the date.

His bare feet are silent on the wooden floors when he steps from his room, listening intently. Still no Apple hum and no warning bells. Good.

Heading to the stairs, Petruccio keeps listening for the sound he ignored earlier, not quite ready to face it. Drumming.

Family had always been a constant, calming beat. Never changing or stopping, Petruccio could relax when he heard the drums and knew support was near.

It had not been the same when he first travelled from Italy and could no longer hear them. Then, later, when they were truly gone and not simply far away Petruccio had mourned the sound and all it represented. Once, he had tried to learn to use a drum in an attempt to replace the silence, but it had never brought him any peace until eventually he gave up.

Now he can hear drumming again - three within his range. Likely Father, Mother and Claudia; Federico and Ezio were more often making trouble in the city when they were young.

Following the noise through the familiar corridors of the Palazzo, Petruccio allows it to bring him a greater sense of calm.

Claudia rounds the last corner before Fathers office, moving towards him. She almost seems to be hurrying, barely glancing at him as she passes by on silent feet. Petruccio would be concerned, but Claudia had put on a very melodramatic charade as a girl and was likely exaggerating whatever she was feeling. Although, he cannot recall seeing such a stone faced expression on her - it used to be she would hide her anger with an act of tears.

Whatever the case may be, it was unlikely to be more important than the discussion he was about to have with Father. It was good to see her well, though. Petruccio had missed her.

Father's office door is closed when he reaches it, so Petruccio knocks as he enters.

"Father," he greets, sitting in one of the chairs available for guests. When Father looks up and smiles at him it is brittle, too tight around his eyes. Petruccio watches as he straightens the various papers scattered across his desk, and takes note that his quill has had time to dry since he last used it. He is looking for something, perhaps, or maybe Claudia had been here.

"Petruccio," Father returns in a warm voice. He never did allow outside stress to impact his ability to be a father, Petruccio recalls, not until life had made them children no longer.

"I need to talk to you," Petruccio says, then considers the office and Fathers obvious stress. "It is somewhat urgent, unfortunately."

"I always have time for you, Petruccio," Father says, relaxing back into his chair as Petruccio sits down. He can see Father compartmentalising - shelving his current concerns in favour of his son.

"First, can you tell me what the current date is?" Petruccio asks and is surprised when Father sits up straighter, clearly startled.

"December 27th, 1476," he says, looking at Petruccio carefully. The stress he'd packed away for Petruccio has been pulled back out, drawing tightness into the line of his shoulders. It is very far from the reaction Petruccio expected - confusion, amusement and perhaps exasperation. Instead Father is clearly bracing himself for bad news, looking wary and unsettled.

Petruccio wishes he had good news for him, something to set his Father at ease; however the 27th is too late, and Father would adapt eventually. He would be better served with all the information.

"I have gone back in time 34 years and, while there is much I have learned and will share with you, most immediately pressing is the Templar's in Firenze," Petruccio says, mentally dismissing the plans reliant on it being before the 26th.

"34 years?" Father repeats faintly and wide eyed, gaze darting over Petruccio's small, tense body. Admittedly, it must be quite the sight, to see him claim to be so old with his feet only barely touching the floor.

Petruccio offers up a wry smile, shrugging tightly.

"Right," Father says, visibly attempting to collect himself, "back in time."

He hesitates, looking over Petruccio critically with warm, worried eyes. "Are you okay?" he eventually asks.

Petruccio blinks, swallows dryly and breathes. "I am alive," he answers a beat too late, "and so is my family. "

"Petruccio," Father trails off, walking around the desk to crouch in front of him and place a hand on his knee, "tell me what happened?"

Petruccio grips Fathers wrist, taking comfort in the feel of his pulse under his fingers. "The Templars saw us as an obstacle, an enemy, and hunted us down for it," Petruccio says, maintaining his calm, "It need not happen again."

"When?" Father prompts gently, taking Petruccio's small hand carefully and cradling it in his own callused hand. Petruccio lets him, seeing the way Father relaxes to be allowed to provide him this comfort.

"Not for a few years," Petruccio says softly, "but we need to leave Firenze as soon as possible - before we are arrested."

"Arrested?" Father asks sharply, fingers tightening momentarily around Petruccio's hand.

"Rodrigo Borgia already knows you are an Assassin," Petruccio begins to elaborate, "and he wants to make sure we are not able to stop him and his plans. He will have Uberto Alberti - the Gonfaloniere is a Templar spy - take advantage of Lorenzo Medici's absence from the city to have us arrested on charges of treason."

"You wish to avoid arrest by leaving," Giovanni says and Petruccio frowns in thought, considering his options.

"If we allow ourselves to be imprisoned again there may be an opportunity to kill Rodrigo Borgia when he visits the cells, but not without it implicating us, and then we'd be on trial for murder instead. A slow acting poison could disguise us as the killers, but by the time it works Alberti would have carried out our sentence. "

Petruccio thinks it over, considering all he has said. It barely covers even a fraction of what he needs to share, but the whole thing gets so convoluted it's difficult to know where to start or what he best change. Options.

"Killing Alberti before we leave should be possible, and it will weaken the Pazzi when they make their attempt to take over Firenze. He had the ear of the Medici for so long and had such power in the city, the amount of information he shared with the Templars was substantial."

"Is that an immediate threat?" Father asks and it's a surprising relief to hear him ask - the confirmation he is taking Petruccio seriously and thinking of their safety.

"Not directly and not immediately," Petruccio answers, shaking his head, "but they target Lorenzo and Giuliano in a few years and defending them puts us at risk."

Father hums, standing, "Do you have a plan?" He asks, sitting on the seat opposite Petruccio and still cradling his much smaller hand.

"A couple, yes," Petruccio confirms, "for Alberti."

"Tell me, and I'll see what I can do." Father says, solemn, and Petruccio does.

Chapter Text

Federico - 50/50/90

"It's marvellous, isn't it?" Leonardo says, studying the blue lines glowing within the stone around them, "I wonder how it is achieved."

"Sorcery," Federico answers, grinning at the look of outrage directed back at him. It is always a joy to see the passion his love has for his work, and it makes him look a man half his age.

"Absolutely not! It is some form of technology, I am sure of it." Another glowing line is inspected by critical eyes, paint stained fingers twitching with the need to create a sketch for later reference; Federico is well familiar with that particular tell.

"It looks like witchcraft to me," Federico says casually, leaning down to give Leonardo a hand up to the landing, avoiding the crumbling stairs in the corner. "Glowing stone, objects of inconceivable power, forbidden knowledge and strange whispering voices. Surely the evidence is in favour."

Now Leonardo looks scandalised, as though the mere suggestion of all these things as 'evidence' in a proper scientific study is as inappropriate as a priest running unclothed through the church. Federico grins at him until the look transforms into something both fond and exasperated.

"You make it too easy, my love," Federico says, wrapping his arm around Leonardo's waist and steering him further down the path, "but yes, I think we both know by now that there is no more than technology here, only it is so advanced as to be beyond our understanding."

"If only the Apple would teach us more," Leonardo sighs, and Federico sighs with him. This obsession the Apple created greatly troubled Federico, and for a moment he’d managed to distract his love from thoughts of the device.

"We got rid of the first one for a reason, and now we are to get rid of this one for the same reason, Leonardo. They will not teach us anything more, and we are only wasting our time trying to force it - losing precious sleep in the meanwhile."

"It told us of this place," Leonardo argues, but it is weak at best; the bags under his eyes are dark, and the exhaustion runs too deep.

"Somewhere secure to leave it behind," Federico agrees, "come now, my love, we have discovered many wondrous things without an Apple. We do not need it."

"You do not need to convince me, caro. I am here, am I not?" Leonardo points out, leading the way forward. "Now if I am correct, this should be the final doorway into the chamber. Hmm."

Federico watches fondly as Leonardo examines the stone in front of them, tracing the glowing lines with bright, curious eyes framed by crows feat.

"I think," he begins, laying his hand flat against the doorway, "this is another one of those situations where you must activate it, Federico."

"Is it?" Federico asks, stepping up beside him.

"It does seem to be the way of these things," Leonardo hums, "it's fascinating. I wonder how all these devices and mechanisms determine who might activate them - what might they be detecting within you?"

"You've asked these questions before," Federico says, smiling as he replaces Leonardo's hand with his own upon the door, "we have not found the answer, and I doubt now we ever will."

The scraping of stone against stone cuts off any response Leonardo might have made, the door dropping into the floor as it opens for them. The whole room glows with the same ethereal blue, lighting up the wall and stairs. In the centre there is a pedestal and Federico is almost certain that is where he needs to place the Apple.

"Well," he says, looking back at Leonardo with a grin, "this all looks very mystical."

"Sometimes I must wonder why I put up with you," Leonardo says, looking exceedingly exasperated as he brushes past Federico to walk down the stairs.

"Because I'm pretty," Federico answers with a teasing grin, "and you can't get rid of me."

“That is unfortunately true,” Leonardo agrees, nodding faux seriously, “I distinctly recall leaving you behind in a small village halfway to China.”

“Oh, is that what that was about? Here I thought I was rescuing you from a company of heartless mercenari.” Grinning, Federico vaults over the banister, rolling as he hits the floor and popping back up, finishing it off by throwing his arms out grandiosely and ignoring the flash of pain in his knees. “What do you think - is your saviour still handsome? Do you want to make paintings of his likeness?”

Leonardo makes a face at him. "My back hurts just watching you, and I can hardly admire your face with your hood up."

"Admire the hood, then," he says, tugging at his clothing to straighten it, "and the lovely set of robes a very skilled artisan I know made for me. They are quite nice, don't you think?"

"Hmm," Leonardo hums, and Federico enjoys the appreciative gaze of his lover as it travels over his form, "I rather want to take them off of you."

Federico grins, pulling Leonardo closer with an arm around his waist, murmuring into his ear. "When we are home, I will remove everything but the hood before spreading you out on our bed."

Leonardo shivers in his hold and Federico grins wider even as he steps back; it seems that even after so many years he can still have quite the effect on his love. "But first," he says, hopping up the last few stairs to the pedestal, "we get rid of the Apple."

"You are cruel, Federico." Leonardo complains, and Federico knows he's succeeded; his love is now more focused on their future activities, rather than the loss of the Apple glowing golden in his palm.

"Then we ought to hurry." Federico says, setting it down on the stand with a sense of finality.

Immediately the room lights up blue and gold, blinding them. Federico notices, suddenly, that the room itself carries that off-copper smell of the Apples. Not quite blood but something very close.

"Good, you are here," a voice calls, echoing through the space with strange resonance. Blinking the spots from his eyes Federico looks around, scanning the room for the source.

"Is that Minerva?" Leonardo asks just as Federico sees the woman made of golden light.

"No." Federico answers, and notices the spectre is not looking at them at all, but rather somewhere behind them.

"Long ago, the path was laid down before you, and now you need only to follow, to move forward," she intones with gravitas. From the corner of his eye Federico can see Leonardo moving closer to her, studying the light with fascinated delight. There is a feeling of dread settling in Federico's chest and he can smell too much blood.

"Who are you talking to?" Leonardo asks the spectre, and garners no reaction from the question, nor when he reaches out to put his hand through the light of her form. Federico tenses, wary, and steps silently over to Leonardo's side.

"In the beginning we tried to teach you, to show you, but we created you imperfect. Flawed." The woman continues, and he hears the quiet, confused mutter of "created us?" repeated by Leonardo.

"Now you need to listen, and trust us, for you are running out of time. The end draws near, Desmond, and you must hurry."

"Desmond," Federico echoes, wondering if now they might find their answers; all these years later.

"What does he need to do? Surely we can help, if you are willing to tell us." Leonardo says and Federico almost smiles. His love would always seek knowledge, and would always search for ways to help.

"You have done your part," the woman says, turning to face them abruptly. Her expression is severe, demanding obedience. "You have the message, and you have brought the Apple. The plan is in motion, the future is set."

"You know the future?" Leonardo asks, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air. Federico lays a quelling hand on his shoulder, reaching for his dagger with the other.

"It is none of your concern," the woman says, condescending.

"Wouldn't it be better if we could work towards this goal, help you and help Desmond? Any guidance you can give us - and us him - would surely make things easier. Especially if he is running out of time." Leonardo says, laying out the logic of the situation as they know it.

"He has all the information he needs," she says, agitated now, "you only need to leave the Apple and-" She freezes suddenly, staring at them. Her eyes flick between them - looking now, rather than merely facing them.

The woman focuses on Federico. "Who is he, Prophet?" she asks, gesturing angrily at Leonardo.

"Maestro Leonardo da Vinci," Federico answers, stepping protectively in front of his love and ignoring his own apparent moniker.

"Why did you bring him here?"

Federico doesn't trust the look in her eyes - like that of a Lord who is displeased with the actions of a dog, she thinks them so far below her notice. "I'm starting to think I shouldn't have."

Her eyes narrow. "You are lovers," she says flatly, displeased but not disgusted.

"The things we do in our bed are not your concern." Federico says harshly, defensive. Surely, sodomy is the least of his sins.

"Do you have children, Prophet?" she asks next and he feels Leonardo go tense behind him. They had discussed the possibility of a family early in their relationship and Federico does not regret his decision.
"No," Federico says shortly, "and I will not."

"You must!" The woman yells, looking suddenly desperate. "Or would you rather condemn the world to burn?"

Federico levels her with an unimpressed look. "I'm not going to betray Leonardo on orders from you, because it is somehow critical to your plan that I have a child," he says. Leonardo stays quiet at his side, offering a tight smile when Federico glances at him.

"Millenia of planning and you would ruin it for one man?!" she demands, bracing her hands on the pedestal and leaning towards them. "You would let everyone die in the flare for this? For nothing?"

“You cannot guilt me into betraying him.” Federico says calmly.

“Billions will burn due to your inaction; even I would not allow such atrocities to occur,” the woman snarls at him, none of the horror of her words visible in her expression.

“All of the worst things I have done in my life I have done for this man.” Federico says with deadly calm. “ I have crossed every line and broken every law. There is no length I will not go to and nothing I would not do for him.” Not precisely true, but Leonardo would never ask him to break his Creed.

“I will not betray him. Make another plan.” He finishes, voice firm.

The Apple is glowing, lines of golden power radiating from where it sits and Federico watches it warily, uncomfortable with such a clear sign the device is active.

"No, this is the only way," the woman says abruptly, and her gaze is cutting, "You will go back to the start, Prophet, and you will not seek out your lover - he will not remember you - and you will do things right this time."

Faster than he can react the room around them lights up blue-gold and blinding. His head pounds with sudden, intense pain and Federico gropes at the air beside him, searching for Leonardo. Nothing. He smells blood, but the scent of paints and charcoal are gone.

Federico takes a step to where Leonardo must be but the pain in head spikes and he collapses to his knees before getting any further. He can only grit his teeth and bear it for long, long moments.

It vanishes as abruptly as it appeared, and Federico almost falls over for the mere shock, feeling lightheaded.

"Leonardo?" He asks, looking up for his love and ignoring the way his voice shakes. The light is still too bright and it takes a second for his eyes to adjust but when they do-

Federico's heart pounds.

"Leonardo?" He calls again, looking around the vaguely familiar rooftops and waiting for an answer that doesn't come.

There is yelling coming from below him, and when Federico looks he sees a brawl is starting in the street, on a bridge. This, too, is familiar.

Swallowing, Federico studies the area he's found himself, raising his hand to block the sun and looking for a landmark. The Basilica di Santa Trinita stands tall against the skyline. Firenze, then.

Looking back to the fight one man takes down a single opponent in a clean, efficient move as Federico watches. He has been moved from the chamber beneath the Colosseum to the rooftops of Firenze; is that the only thing which has changed?

Below him another opponent falls to the young man, victim of a well aimed punch to the head. Checking his arms, Federico finds only a small knife tucked away on his belt and feels almost naked without his usual weaponry.

The third opponent challenges the young man, swinging wildly. The man ducks first, grabs the outstretched arm before pulling and tripping the opponent. A negligent boot to the head ends that fight. Federico wonders what the point was; what purpose the spectre has in sending him here, alone and unarmed.

Another contender rushes Federico's fighter but barely earns himself a passing glance. The young man sidesteps before spinning around do deliver a truly vicious blow to the back of the head. Federico must admit to being impressed.

It is at that point the young man reaches who he must have been aiming for from the start. Federico sees him punch the other man once in the face, a second time on the head but when Federico expects him to move on he instead follows the man down. The next blow to the face feels different even from this distance and Federico knows the young man will kill the other if he is not stopped.

Scrambling, Federico rushes to his feet. This is a fight in the streets, nothing more. People should not be killing in mere brawls while consumed by a fleeting rage. Dropping down to the ground he almost doesn't notice the ease with which he moves, the lack of stiffness or aches. As it is, he does not have time to consider it in full, but the words 'you will go back to the start' flash through his mind.

Reaching the young man, Federico grabs his shoulder in preparation to pull him off the other, but in a move so fast he nearly misses it Federico's wrist is grabbed and he is thrown clean over the man's shoulder.

Quickly, Federico rolls away from the follow up palm strike - a curious move aimed near his throat - and finally sees the face of the young man even as plans his next move.

His heart feels as though it freezes in his chest even as he lunges, shoving Ezio onto his back and pinning his wrist.

"Ezio!" he calls, trying to get his brother's attention, shifting so he is near lying on him to try keep him still.

"Ezio!" he shouts again, pushing down the panic as he draws the inevitable conclusion from the facts in front of him. Below him, Ezio stills, amber eyes locking on his face for a moment before he goes completely limp in Federico's hold.

"Federico," he says between gulps of air, clearly trying to calm down. Federico swallows, looking at him, and tries to calm his own racing heartbeat as he assesses the situation. Beside them, Vieri de Pazzi is being helped to his feet, blood dripping from an obviously broken nose.

"Brother," he starts, moving back off of Ezio, "you have caused quite the scene. What is it Vieri said to deserve such a beating?

"I'm sorry brother, I lost my head." Ezio says, which only makes Federico worry.

"Clearly." He does not remember Ezio being so angry, though, not to the point of murder. "No matter. Give me a look at your lip. It's bleeding rather badly," he says, and nearly winces when Ezio wipes off the blood with his sleeve.

"It is fine," Ezio says, but Federico is already reaching for his chin in order to inspect it. "You don't need to worry about it."

"It is not fine. There might be dirt in it and you wouldn't want to get an infection, would you?" Medicine was one of the few things they could get the Apples to show them and while much of it was beyond their understanding, this much he understood.

"Should we not go to a doctor then, to get it treated?" Ezio asks even as Federico tilts his face from side to side, standing close enough to be indecent as he looks at the cut. "Not that I have any money for a doctor."

"Well, I'm sure we can liberate some florins from our Pazzi friends," Federico says, knowing the theft would be a petty revenge but enjoying the idea all the same, "but honey will be better than whatever concoction the doctor has."

"Honey?" Ezio repeats, as though he has never before heard the word.

"Honey, though it doesn't look as though there's any dirt in it," he answers, finally giving up on getting a proper look through the blood. "Let me just-" releasing Ezio Federico looks around for the nearest unconscious man, using his knife to cut free a strip of cloth to clear the blood.

Taking Ezio's chin in hand, Federico carefully clears away the blood, wiping away any visible dirt around the area.

He remembers this, now. The fight, the cut, climbing the bell tower afterwards in one of the many disguised training exercises of his youth. Years later, when Leonardo had made a portrait of each of the Auditore, he'd painted Ezio with that same cut. Federico had gotten drunk and tried not to wonder if it would have healed clean or scarred.

"This should be fine," Federico says, clearing his head and stepping away from his brother. "We'll worry about the honey if it looks to be getting infected."

Perhaps it won't scar, then.

"Well, this has certainly been an interesting night," he says, tired and wondering what comes next. Does he move forward? Climb the church as they did last time? What of the future he came from, Leonardo, the spectre and Desmond?"

"Indeed, if only they could all be as fun," Ezio responds, laughter in his voice.

"Oh, if only," he says, and means it not at all. "Come, Ezio. I want to show you something." He's going to keep this for a little while longer.

"What is it?"

"It is a surprise, you'll see." Federico says, grinning. He's not able to bring himself to make it a race, not quite willing to let Ezio out of his sight.

"Well, lead the way." Ezio says, stepping to the side and bowing with the most dramatic flourish Federico has ever witnessed. He looks ridiculous - clothes askew, blood staining the sleeve of his outstretched arm and hair barely held back by a ribbon - Federico cannot help but laugh.

"Try to keep up," he calls down, hoisting himself up to the roof. Leading the way to the church, Federico recalls the conversation they had here the first time. He wonders how much of the boy he was remains in the man he is today, even as he reaches down to pull Ezio up the last ledge.

"It is a good life we lead, brother." He says, watching Ezio as he looks out to the skyline, remembering all the things he took for granted in his youth.

"The best. May it never change," Ezio says, and Federico swallows, forcing down the pain because he knows how this ends.

"And may it never change us," he answers anyway, staring at Ezio and trying to memorise his features. When Ezio turns away to look at the city, Federico turns also, barely even seeing the skyline as he finally lets himself stop reacting and think.

The spectre has sent him back in time, to the 27th of December, two days before the hanging. Leonardo had been with him, but considering her words, he did not come back as well. For a second, Federico feels loneliness hollow out his chest and steal the breath from him.

Leonardo has been with him through everything, right from the start. To lose that connection and all of those experiences together-

But no. Federico knows Leonardo better than himself. He is alive - in Firenze even - and there is no reason they cannot be close again, no matter what the spectre said. It would be strange for Leonardo to be so young, and it would hurt, but Federico cannot simply not try.

Besides, his love has always been fascinated by interesting things - what is more interesting than a man from the future?

As the sun falls below the skyline, Federico turns his mind to the more immediate problem. His family is alive and whole, and he is in such a position as to prevent it. His family is alive and whole, and he is in such a position as to prevent it. His next move is not a difficult one, truly.

"Come, brother. Let us return home." Federico says. "It is late and I need to speak with Father."

Ezio startles beside him, having clearly been deep in thought. "Wait," Ezio says, glancing his way and then again out at the city. It takes Federico a long moment of staring, confused, before he remembers Cristina - and Ezio's infatuation with her.

"Ezio," he sighs, exasperated and amused both, "Let Cristina sleep."

Curiously, Ezio looks startled at his words, stilling almost imperceptibly as his eyes go wide - did he think Federico didn't know? - but quickly the expression disappears behind a smirk.

"There will be time enough for that - later."

Federico rolls his eyes as he steps onto the wooden outcrop, remembering the days he had been so addled by lust in his youth. "Fine, fine. Have your fun, Ezio." That said he leaps, hearing Ezio's voice following him but unable to make out the words over the wind.

The hay catches him easily, not even winding him as he's grown used to. Rolling out of the pile, Federico turns east and scales the nearest building. Beneath his feet the roof tiles feel like the first solid ground he's stepped on since finding himself in Firenze, and he lets himself fall into the rhythm of climbing.

He should do as he said to Ezio, head south to the Palazzo and speak with Father but-

But.

Instead, he ducks past a couple of guards, leaps and rolls and runs until he is stopped on a familiar building. Selfishly, he needs to be sure of this one thing before moving forward.

Silently, he drops to the ground, stepping up to the doorway. Swallowing thickly, he raps his knuckles sharply on the door - three times - before leaping up the wall and out of view to wait. Below him the door clicks open and he sees Leonardo step out.

"Hello?" he calls, questioning and confused, "did somebody knock?"

When no answer came Leonardo stepped back inside, closing the door firmly. Federico waited a moment longer, listening closely but-

Silence.

Federico blows out a silent breath, dropping his head. It had only taken two or three instances of the knocking and sneaking in through the window for Leonard to expect him, and these days he'd be calling for Federico before even seeing him there.

The confirmation hurts like a physical wound, but it is also somewhat freeing. His love does not remember him but he is alive, and safe, and now Federico has an opportunity to save his family as well. He can worry about his love later.

Still, he sits there another minute looking around for any threats before climbing back to his feet.

The run to the Palazzo clears the last of grief and loneliness from his mind, and he's even managed to work up a measure of excitement to be seeing Father again. In the morning, he'll give Petruccio a hug and be as obnoxious about it as he can - draw some emotion out of the quiet boy.

So it is with this in mind that Federico drops into the chair opposite Father, grinning already at the sight of him - even if he looks rather stressed.

"It is the 27th of December." Federico says, relaxing gracelessly back into the seat.

"Yes, that is correct," Father says slowly, placing his hands flat on the desk. Federico thinks, idly, that he looks as though he's bracing himself.

"We have about 18 hours to kill Uberto Alberti before you and my brothers are arrested and subsequently hanged on the morning of the 29th."

"How do you know this, Federico?" Father asks, looking at him through eyes that show nothing. Perhaps Federico could have gone about this better; he's become rather used to Leonardo's ability to adapt to anything, hasn't he?

"I'm from the future, and that is my past." Federico says, sitting up straighter and dropping the carelessness. "Alberti betrayed us for the Templars and eliminating the Assassin's was the first step in a plan to take control of Firenze and, later, the neighbouring cities."

"Ezio, Petruccio and I are hanged on the 29th?" Father asks, seeking confirmation.

"Were." Federico says, voice hard. "I have the means now to prevent your deaths, Father. Only you know more of the current situation in Firenze, and it is always better to get up to date information before taking action."

Father says nothing for a moment, closing his eyes instead and rubbing at his temples. Federico sits, waiting patiently until eventually Father sighs.

"Tell me what you know, first, then we will see what our options are."

Chapter Text

Giovanni

"I know it is hard to believe, but it is the truth," Ezio says, and his shrug looks less like a carless gesture and more an attempt to roll the tension from his shoulders. Giovanni resists the urge to do likewise, wanting nothing more than to press his palms into his aching eyes until this whole mess proves to be a dream.

"I know," he says instead, and sees at least some of the stress leave his son's frame. There is a long moment of silence, during which Giovanni takes the opportunity to really look at Ezio. The boy - or man, he supposes - had been waiting in his office with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, looking wrung out even before starting to speak.

"Are you okay, Ezio?" he asks gently, worried.

Ezio rolls his shoulders again, uncomfortable. "Ask me again tomorrow, when things have changed," Ezio answers, and the smile he pulls on holds no trace of real joy.

"We will change it," Giovanni reassures, thinking quickly. Ezio had not brought him much new information, so the plan he settled on last night after Federico retired would still be viable. Simpler even, now that Ezio also knows all that is happening. There will be no need for secrets or subtlety in their home.

"Would you wake your siblings and meet me in the lounge?" he asks, "there is a conversation I think we need to have before anything else."

"You are going to tell them of this?" Ezio asks, "even Petruccio? He is only 13."

"I'm not quite sure what I'm going to say, Ezio, but I know something needs to be said - to all of you."

"If you're sure," Ezio says, standing. Giovanni can see he still wishes to protest, and under normal circumstances Giovanni would agree. These are, unfortunately, not normal circumstances, and things would be much less complicated once everyone was properly informed.

"Thank you, Ezio," he says, also standing, "I'll be with you shortly."

Ezio nods as he exits and Giovanni turns to the hidden door at the back of the room. His Assassin robes are a comfortable weight on his shoulders, and they help to settle him even without the hidden blade.

He hopes the sight will be a comfort to his children, a tangible sign he is taking their words seriously and intending to act on their information. Giovanni has worked for years, decades, to ensure the safety of the city. To think his failure in Milan could be the catalyst to undo it all.

Giovanni is too heartsore to be angry or disappointed with himself, only filled with abject grief for his children. They are all too young, and the knowledge of what each of them has been through makes his chest ache and throat go tight. It is a pain that he could not have been prepared for yesterday, and expects now will always linger.

'Yesterday,' he thinks, as though the single word could somehow encompass everything which has since changed. Yesterday, and how many years between?

Before leaving the room, Giovanni carefully selects two of his best knives, and two of the swords he's kept but does not use. Thus equipped, it is a short walk up to the third story and to the lounge, although it feels as though every step brings him closer to- well.

It is the build up to every Leap of Faith; approaching a ledge, planning to jump and trusting that there would be safety below. He's made countless leaps but still his heart races before every one in jittery, anxious exhilaration. Giovanni fears the fall as much as he loves it.

Now he feels that same anticipatory tension. He is rapidly approaching the edge and doesn't know where he would land. Still, he has no choice but to leap and trust.

When he steps into the lounge Giovanni can feel the tension in the room. His children have arranged themselves on the cushioned chairs and lounges with eyes clearly set on their exits. They are all silent, waiting and uncertain - even Petruccio is tense, perched on the edge of his seat with his feet barely touching the floor. Lord, to think he is a man grown...

It is Federico who appears the most at ease, his chair balanced back on two legs and resting against the wall, wearing blasé relaxation like a cloak.

Giovanni ignores their silence, sitting in the remaining seat facing them before pausing, trying to think of what to say.

"There really is no easy way to do this, is there?" he eventually says, and can't help but chuckle. It was no wonder they had each told him in the manner they had. Abruptly.

"Father?" Petruccio asks when the silence has dragged on.

"Ah, sorry," Giovanni says, forcing himself back on track. Might as well be out with it. "You have all informed me that, in the last day, each of you have time travelled."

The stillness that grips the room is sudden and unnatural in its intensity - it feels dangerous in a way almost wholly unfamiliar to him - almost. Distantly, it reminds him of the early days partnered with Mario, the assessing moments before deciding to strike. He relaxes into readiness by unconscious habit rather than choice, but that minor movement breaks the tension like a ripple in still water.

"Oh Lord," Claudia breathes at his left, fingers flexing in that same telling motion he noticed earlier; he can almost feel an echo of the mechanism when it clicks before release. "You remember being hanged?" she asks, horrified gaze flickering between her brothers. Giovanni curses himself - he should have considered what future they would think their sibling's came from.

"Did you and mother escape Monteriggioni?" Ezio is asking her, desperate and afraid.

"Different future's," Giovanni says, quickly interrupting, "you've each told me about different futures."

Claudia and Ezio both look at him wide-eyed and startled while between them Petruccio's face is pulled into a tight expression that does not suit his young features. Conversely, Federico has relaxed back into his chair, and Giovanni is not at all sure what the action hides.

"There are a lot of similarities in what I've been told of this... Conspiracy," Giovanni continues, "but also a lot of differences in how things go from here. The h-" he cuts off, swallowing back the word hanging he cannot quite accept, "the 28th, 29th seems to be when things change."

"What is different?" Petruccio asks and Giovanni is again struck by how controlled he sounds, as though there is a distance he's placed between himself and the situation. Giovanni sets the disquieting observation aside for later.

"Mainly it is who escapes, and the actions taken as a result," Giovanni answers him, before realising how little that truly reveals.

"Petruccio's future had us all escaping to Monteriggioni," he starts, and Petruccio's reaction is noticeable only in its lack, though he must have realised the implications in his words.

"In Federico's future only he, Claudia and Maria escaped. Ezio went about the same, with Federico taking his place." The boys glance at each other briefly, but their attention remains set on him.

"Claudia and Maria are the only ones who escaped in her future." Giovanni finishes lowly, avoiding saying everyone else is killed outright, for surely he would choke on the words. The silence that follows is familiar to Giovanni. He, too, had needed to take a moment to think at the news when it was first shared with him. He is unsure if it is better or worse to have heard each tale separately, or if he would have rather they tell him all at once.

Giving them time to think, Giovanni removes the weapons collected from his office, laying them on the table at the edge of the room.

"Nobody died?" he hears Claudia ask with steel in her voice. When he glances over she's looking at Petruccio, sitting straight and tense in her chair. Her feet, he notices, are planted firmly on the floor shoulder width apart, rather than the more demure posture women are taught.

"We all survived past the 29th," Petruccio agrees with a nod, "and we will again."

"Of course we will," Claudia says sharply, hard gaze moving between her brothers and himself, "we are Assassins."

"You all became Assassins?" Federico asks, chair legs thumping heavily against the carpet as he leans into the conversation. His gaze is flickering between Claudia and Petruccio, sharp eyes curious for all he still appears relaxed.

"Eventually," Ezio answers first with a bitter twist to his wounded lips and all attention shifts to him in surprise, though he only shrugs in response.

"I didn't give Uncle Mario much of a choice." Claudia's answer is a challenge, daring them to argue. Giovanni will not fight her on this - he has heard enough from her to know the confidence is not empty boasting.

"I come from a family of Assassins, I was hardly going to remain untrained. Even if Father tried to keep me out of it for fear of my health, our brothers in Constantinople saw the folly in that," Petruccio says, glancing at Giovanni with the slightest grin, the kind shared over an inside joke.

Giovanni raises an eyebrow in return, somewhat surprised and pleased by the good humour from his youngest. Seeing all attention returned to him, Giovanni leans back against the table as he regards his children seriously, the wood smooth beneath his palms.

"I'm going to go and kill Uberto Alberti this morning," Giovanni says, watching for their reactions. They don't straighten, precisely, but the feel of their attention sharpening on him is near palpable. "I will attempt to make it look an accident, to not arouse suspicion. Unfortunately Borgia already knows my identity, otherwise the anonymity of an assassination would be enough."

"Borgia knows who you are?" Ezio asks, frowning, and Giovanni grimaces.

"There was an incident in Milan during the Templar's assassination of the Duke Galeazzo Sforza a few days ago."

"Galeazzo Sforza?" Claudia asks, "Caterina's father?"

"Wonderful woman, Caterina," Ezio comments, smirking, "very courageous and... passionate."

"Oh God," Claudia says, looking at Ezio in horror, "I did not want to know that."

"What?" Ezio asks, taking in his sister's expression, "there is nothing wrong with a shared night of passion, Claudia."

"That is not it," Claudia denies, shaking her head, "I did not want to know that I have slept with the same woman as my brother."

There is a moment of stunned, uncomprehending silence before Claudia stills, panic overtaking her features. Mentally, Giovanni scrambles for an appropriate response to any of the information in those short sentences.

"What?" Ezio is asking, voice thin, right before Federico starts howling with laughter, head thrown back in mirth.

"I-" Claudia starts, staring at Federico in apparent bewilderment. Giovanni is feeling much the same, truly.

"A very strong, capable woman, to be sure," Petruccio says calmly, "you both could have done a lot worse for your fun."

Giovanni stares at the boy in rising horror as he speaks, all of thirteen without even the first cracks in his voice and-

Federico keeps laughing. Giovanni is not ready to deal with this.

"For the sake of my sanity as your father," he cuts in, staring at his children, "can we please refrain from discussion of your sex lives until you are of a reasonable age?" He does not know what expression he wears, but if it is anything accurate to what he is feeling- well. He's feeling like he cannot deal with thinking of his fifteen your old daughter and thirteen year old son having sex.

"Well I, for one, did not enjoy the company of dear Caterina," Federico says, having gotten hold of his laughter, "so you needn't worry about that." Giovanni gives him a dubious look, trying to decide if he trusts that grin.

Clearing his throat, Giovanni continues with the original conversation, "I am going to kill Uberto-" and it has been a long time since he agreed to kill with only a brother's word as proof of guilt, "-and attempt to hunt down Rodrigo Borgia."

The declaration is met with grim silence and flinty eyes.

"I would like you to prepare to leave for Monteriggioni as soon as I return. I do not wish to linger here if I cannot find Borgia, and you cannot train properly in the confines of the city."

"We are leaving today, then?" Petruccio asks, with a hint of relief in his tone. He had wanted to leave Firenze as soon as possible, favouring expediency over the chance to rid them of their enemies.

"Only if necessary," Giovanni says and the boy's lips press together in a thin, dissatisfied line. "If it is safe, I would stay another few days to speak with La Volpe and Paola. They deserve to know of the dangers in Firenze."

Federico sighs heavily, a dejected slump in his shoulders.

"Federico?" Giovanni asks, concerned. So far his eldest has been the happiest of his children, his smiles and laughter coming with ease. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Federico says, shaking his head even as it hangs in clear sorrow. "Moving to Monteriggioni for a few years is the safest move, I am only upset because I will be leaving my love behind."

"Federico," Petruccio says, quiet and hesitant, "your past together-" he cuts off, but Giovanni knows what he isn't quite saying. Federico's love will not remember their history together.

Federico shakes his head, leaning back in his chair until it is again balanced on only two legs. "Ah, we will work it out, I'm sure," he's smirking as he meets Petruccio's sympathetic gaze. "It can wait a few years if it must, to make sure I do not paint a target on the door, yes?"

Giovanni pushes aside his curiosity - none of his children told him much of their lives during their initial conversation, sharing only information relative to the conspiracy. In the few minutes since he entered the lounge he has learnt much about who they grew to be outside of their careers as Assassins. While he would love nothing more than to sit down and speak with them properly, time is against him.

"Before I go, I have something for each of you," he says, drawing their attention back to him. Tilting his head towards the table behind him, Giovanni continues, "blades, so you might have the means to defend yourself."

Immediately Federico rocks forward on his chair, following the momentum in a casual, silent and graceful motion as he stands. "Oh?" he hums, interested.

"Swords and knives only, I'm afraid." Giovanni says, stepping aside so his eldest may look at the table. "If there is something else you prefer we will need to visit the blacksmith."

Claudia gets there first, hesitating briefly before selecting the longer of the two swords Giovanni had brought. "It is unwieldy," she says, frowning even as she expertly twists her wrist to flip the blade, testing the grip.

By rights, the sword is far too big for Claudia - a girl of fifteen - yet despite her claim of it being unwieldy she looks more than comfortable holding it.

"Knife is fine," Federico answers, selecting the narrow, straight dagger from the table and weighing it critically in his hands. Giovanni watches as he throws it casually into the air, spinning, and snatches it up in his other hand.

"Thank you, Father," Ezio says as he picks up the other sword and Giovanni watches as some of the tension seems to fall from his shoulders. Petruccio merely hums as he takes the remaining knife, the leather wrapped handle looking out of place in his soft hands.

"You are all too young for this," Giovanni mutters to himself, but cannot help but notice the differences in his children, compared to a mere two days prior. They do not stand the same as they did, they do not speak as children do. He cannot hear their footsteps.

Irrationally, he is afraid that when he leaves they will be gone. He has heard too many versions of the same story - of betrayal, of arrest and death shortly after - that he cannot help but wonder if it is fated, somehow. If he leaves will it happen again?

It is Claudia who notices his hesitation and she turns towards him sharply. "Go, Father," she says, voice sharp as any blade. "We will be ready when you return."

Giovanni nods at her grimly, sweeping his gaze through the room one last time.

"Your mother is packing with Annetta. Speak with her when you're ready." He says and knows he is stalling. Claudia levels him with a hard glare, and Giovanni meets her gaze for a moment before spinning on his heel. He cannot afford distraction or hesitation.
Still, he cannot help but seek out Maria before he leaves. She too feels his pain and sorrow for their children, and sharing their grief makes it bearable - at least until they are safe. As much as Giovanni would like to linger however, he knows he cannot. Therefore, after updating Maria on the situation he makes to leave.

His family will be safe in the Palazzo while he takes care of the traitor in Firenze.

The city greets him with the usual crowds milling about and enjoying a clear winter morning. It is easy to fall into step with a passing group, blending with them as they walk. Moving through the crowds Giovanni catches snippets of conversation, various remarks on fashion, work, politics or personal anecdotes bearing little relevance.

One cadre of men is discussing the increased guard presence, with a pair at seemingly every corner. Giovanni smothers a grimace as he steps away from the men and into another small cell heading in the correct direction; he'd noticed the patrols when he went for a walk last night, trying to clear his head. He had hoped the Templars would be less overt in their actions, but it seems they have indeed given up the pretence of subtlety.

He is perhaps a quarter of the way to his destination when he joins another cluster of young men and finds himself studying the crowd; one of the figures in white looked familiar-

No. There is no-one.

Slipping easily into yet another group, Giovanni moves on. It nags at him even after he's dismissed it; again and again Giovanni thinks he sees someone familiar in the crowd - not someone he knows, only that he's already passed them this morning - but on closer inspection nobody stands out.

Giovanni moves on, stepping into the circle of another group of young men, all laughing openly at something one of them must have said. Chuckles trailing away, the man to his right turns to Giovanni and the déjà vu hits him again - he has definitely seen those white clothes already, and the hood is hardly subtle.

"I need to talk to you," the man says, false levity sliding off his startlingly familiar features as Giovanni's blood runs cold. The man is stepping out of the group and into a shadowed ally in the next few seconds, and Giovanni is following without thought. The last three people to utter those half dozen words to him had changed everything, and Federico had simply started talking.

"You're probably not going to believe me," the man is saying, stopping when they're far enough to not be overhead, "but I need you to listen."

The man pauses as he waits for a response, and Giovanni takes the opportunity to study his features; he is a tall man, looking to be in his twenties. His face is narrow and his skin a shade darker than is common, but his cheekbones, eyes, brow- it is all too familiar to deny.

Giovanni gives in to the urge to rub at his temples, cursing himself for a careless youth.

"Giovanni?" the man asks, voice wary and concerned. Giovanni sighs, opening his eyes and looking at the man again, just to be sure.

"Let me guess," Giovanni says, because he's been through this four times already and the truth is obvious and undeniable, "you're my bastard son from the future."

The man - his son - startles in the way of Assassins, that is, by going almost completely still. It is perhaps petty of him, but Giovanni takes some satisfaction from the reaction, enjoying being the person surprising someone for once.

The silence draws itself out for a long minute, until Giovanni's raising of an eyebrow prompts a response.

"How the fuck did you come to that conclusion?" His son asks, sounding incredulous.

"Am I wrong?" Giovanni returns, because that wasn't a denial.

"You realise the implication is that at least one of your children has time travelled, right?" his son continues, not answering Giovanni's question. Giovanni holds his silence, waiting.

His son says a word - ‘fuck’ - that Giovanni does not recognise, left hand flexing in a nervous gesture. When he continues, Giovanni gathers he is swearing viciously by the tone, for all that he doesn’t understand a word. The outburst makes him seem the age he appears - unlike his other children who were all much more confident when they came to speak with him.

Humming, Giovanni waits him out, gives him the time he needs to think.

"Okay, essentials first," his son says, focusing back on Giovanni, "you need to get your family out of Firenze. Uberto Alberti was a traitor, and has ordered the arrest and execution of you and your sons. With Lorenzo Medici out of the city there's nobody with the authority to counteract the command."

"The order’s already gone out?" Giovanni demands, heartbeat picking up.

"Yeah, just before I arrived, I think. There was a copy of it on Alberti's desk- uh, here," reaching into his pocket with his left hand, his son pulls out a folded piece of parchment. Giovanni accepts it, though his attention is instead on the strange clothes the man is wearing; he's honestly unsure how he hadn't noticed earlier, but they're unlike anything he's seen before.

"Thank you," Giovanni says, trying to decide if he takes his son with him to Alberti or sends him back to the Palazzo with a message for the others, "I'm on my way to kill Alberti now, then I'll try to hunt down Rodrigo Borgia."

His son stills again, briefly, before shifting on his feet in apparent discomfort.

"I couldn't find Borgia last night - he's probably already left," he shifts again, awkward, left hand rising to grip his right forearm, "and Alberti's dead. I uh, killed him yesterday."

"You killed him," Giovanni says flatly, suddenly immeasurably glad his legitimate children had the forethought to speak with him first. Although, hearing the man is dead is a relief, and he cannot find it in himself to be upset.

"Yeah, not really sorry about it," his son says, shrugging, "but it was also unintentional on my part, mostly."

"Unintentional," Giovanni repeats, "we are Assassins. We do not kill unintentionally. That is not our way."

"It wasn't-" the man cuts off, "look, I was attacked practically upon waking and it was instinct to defend myself. I was basically on Alberti's fucking doorstep, so yeah, he got caught in the crossfire," he pauses for a moment, grimacing and squeezing his right forearm. "Hell, I didn't even recognise him as anything more than enemy red until after everyone was dead."

"Enemy red?" Giovanni asks, finding the phase strange. 'Crossfire' is another word unfamiliar to him, though he could guess at the meaning easily enough.

"Eagle Vision," his son says, shrugging, "enemies are red to my sight. Ezio should be able to confirm."

"You have the Gift?" Giovanni asks rhetorically, somewhat surprised. Ezio was the first since Giovanni's own Grandfather to have it, and the Assassins noticed it becoming rarer over the generations.

"Yeah," his son smiles grimly, the expression bitter and pained, "more than enough Isu in me for that."

"Isu?" Giovanni is starting to feel somewhat behind, every sentence raising new questions.

"Not important right now," his son says, squeezing his arm again, "Uberto Alberti is dead, Rodrigo Borgia has skipped town and the guard has orders for your arrest. You need to get your family and leave, Giovanni."

The young man looks paler than when they began, sweat beading on his forehead. Giovanni frowns in concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks, stepping closer.

"Fine," the man says, swaying back out of reach and still clasping his forearm tightly. It is an obvious lie but Giovanni doesn't argue with him about it, instead quickly considering his prior plans and this new information.

"Do you have anything in Firenze you need before we leave?" he asks, taking a step closer to the exit of the ally.

"No," his son answers, stumbling slightly as he makes to follow. "Fuck," Giovanni hears him breath out quietly, before he drops his arm and seems to forcibly loosen himself. Giovanni hadn't noticed quite how tense he'd gotten from whatever pain is ailing him, but the difference is marked.

"Then we'll go straight back to the Palazzo, I'll introduce - or reintroduce - you to your half-siblings, and we'll leave for Firenze as soon as everybody is packed." Giovanni says, then frowns, realizing- "You haven't told me your name."

"Desmond," Desmond says, which is such a strange name, Giovanni doesn't think he's ever heard it before, "but uh, I'm not your son."

Giovanni turns just enough to level him with the most unimpressed look he can manage, and Desmond shifts uncomfortably at his right. "I'm not," he says, but it sounds weak.

"You're what, 20-odd? That would have been shortly before I married Maria, and I know well what I was doing in those years." Giovanni steps to the edge of a small group of people, falling in beside them. They're absorbed in their own conversation so he's not too concerned about them listening in on his own.

"You've got my cheekbones, the same eyes as Ezio, and half a dozen other shared features I can see. Either you're my bastard or you're Mario's bastard, and it's my children who've all come to tell me of time travel."

"Wait, all?" Desmond asks, "Federico and Petruccio as well?"

"Mmm," Giovanni hums in agreement, "though they each experienced a different future."

Desmond presses his lips together into a tight line that is mirrored in his shoulders for a moment, before relaxing back into his previous, loose walk. Giovanni can barely keep track of him as they weave through the crowd, separating to better blend when there are guards nearby. It is almost unsettling how easily the man can disappear, when by all means the strange clothes and hood should make him stand out.

"At best, I'm from the same future as Ezio and he should know of me, but you'll need to do introductions," Desmond says, glancing at him. "Unless this isn't the first time I've travelled back it's quite literally impossible for us to have met." There is a strain barely visible in the tightness around his eyes.

"And why is it impossible?" Giovanni asks, watching him, "you've clearly met Ezio at least, by the way you speak of him."

"Uh, no," Desmond denies, shaking his head, "my familiarity with Ezio is complicated, and I'd rather only explain it once if you don't mind but-" he cuts off, looking again at Giovanni, "Christ. You're not going to believe me, but I'm from about 500 years in the future. This is before my lifetime."

It's Giovanni's turn to momentarily still in surprise, mind tripping over the words even as he resumes walking. It doesn't make sense, far less so than Giovanni's first assumption; especially considering how familiar Desmond is with Firenze, with their enemies and with Giovanni himself.

Which is all to say nothing of the familial resemblance - and the longer Giovanni has spent looking at Desmond, the more he thinks he recognises the features that are not inherited from him; the narrow face, the straight nose and darker skin tone. Further, how would Ezio know of him, if he's from so far in the future?

Beside him, Desmond has his lips pressed together in another tight, stressed line. Giovanni can see sweat beading under his hood.

Abruptly, he decides it doesn't matter right now. Desmond is clearly in some amount of pain and has been for a while, yet took the time and effort to find Giovanni in order to warn him of the impending danger. He can set aside his questions for now to simply be grateful for the aid, and return the favour as best he is able.

"We're almost there," Giovanni tells him, and receives a pained smile before Desmond almost vanishes into the crowd once more. Only- Giovanni can keep track of him now, the pain clearly too much of a distraction for the man to continue blending with the same level of skill he's displayed so far.

When they make it back to the Palazzo a long five minutes later, it is clear Desmond is struggling. Giovanni steps up beside him as soon as they're both through the door, reaching out to offer his support. Desmond grabs onto him tight enough to bruise, and only now can Giovanni feel how badly the man is shaking.

"Desmond?" he asks, alarmed, and reaches out with his left hand as well. Desmond jerks back, keeping his right side well out of Giovanni's hold.

"Don't- don't touch my arm. Please," he gasps out, and Giovanni nods in acknowledgement. Whatever force of will Desmond had been using to keep going is clearly nearing its limit. Carefully, Giovanni moves closer again, getting his own right arm under Desmond's left and around his back, supporting as much of his weight as he can.

"Come on, this way," Giovanni says, guiding him towards the downstairs lounge in short, stumbling steps, "there's a chaise you can rest on, and then I'll have a look and see if I have anything to help."

"Nothing- nothing the doctors would prescribe," Desmond says, shaking his head haltingly, "aloe or honey. It should be clean but if not I need to use properly boiled water- boiled in copper, preferably."

The amount of effort speaking requires is obvious, so Giovanni hurries them the last few steps rather than answer, lowering Desmond onto the lounge.

"What's the injury?" he asks, even as he starts trying to figure out the strange fastening on the white doublet.

"Burn, kind of," Desmond chokes out, using his left hand to pull down on a piece of metal which somehow opens the garment. "Couldn't ignore the pain any longer, sorry."

"It's okay," Giovanni reassures, only half paying attention as he helps Desmond out of doublet to reveal the injury, easing the material over the wounded arm, "you got your warning to me and we're home safe. You made it far enough." The burn that is revealed is strange, blackening the skin of Desmond's hand and arm in precise, straight lines.

"Yeah," Desmond breathes out faintly, listing to the side, "wake me when we need to leave, yeah?"

So said, Desmond falls unconscious between one breath and the next. Giovanni barely manages to catch him, and then has to stare at him a moment in pure envy. He, too, would like to sleep off the last 24hours.

Instead, he sighs and stands up, deciding first to put the kettle on before finding his kids. Hopefully Ezio has indeed heard of Desmond - that would make things clearer at least.

Chapter Text

Petruccio

Petruccio studies the small, sharp blade Father had given him; admiring the glint of sharpened steel and twisting his wrist to test the way it moves. Federico is doing likewise in the corner, moving through blade stances with unfamiliar skill while Ezio stands motionless, fingers curled firmly around the hilt of his sword.

"Claudia," Petruccio calls, drawing her attention from the open doorway, "he will be alright."

"Of course he will," Claudia says sharply, stalking back to the chair she'd just vacated for the nth time. "Uberto Alberti is an easy target."

Petruccio hums in agreement, retaking his own seat beside her. "I packed my things for Monteriggioni last night," he says, "only Federico or Ezio may need to move my trunk downstairs - I don't have the strength at the moment."

Ezio is visibly pulled from his thoughts at his name, startling slightly and looking over to them as Claudia scrunches her nose in distaste.

"It took so long to build up the muscle the first time," she bemoans, "but we are all alive to do it now, so I will not complain."

"We are all alive," Petruccio repeats quietly, thinking. He knows it was the Apple which somehow sent him back, saving his life in the process. The opportunity to save his family is nothing short of a miracle, and Petruccio would accept it easily for the gift it is, were it only himself.

Twice is a coincidence, three times a pattern but four? Petruccio cannot take his unprecedented time travel at face value when each of his siblings have experienced similar. Even if he does yet know the precise circumstances.

Frowning, Petruccio turns to his brothers.

"Are you both ready to leave?" he asks. "I think we need to further discuss everything, but we should be packed first."

"I threw everything into my trunk last night," Federico says, sheathing his sword while Ezio shrugs.

"I am used to travelling light. It will only take me a few minutes to gather some clothes - it can wait."

"Right," Petruccio says, and then realises he's been given the lead of the conversation. While it felt natural to him to take the role - after so many years focused on disseminating information for his Brother's missions it was near automatic - he is surprised that his siblings so easily allow it.

Federico is completely at ease, having once more sat in his chair and pushed it back onto two legs; Claudia is straight backed and attentive while Ezio is clearly tense but also listening. Perhaps they see more than the thirteen year old before them, the same way he can see the trained Assassins in them, hidden beneath a thin veneer of youth.

"Right," he says again, clearing his head. "Did any of you kill Alberti or Rodrigo Borgia this early?"

"I did," Ezio offers. "I killed Alberti on the 31st before we left for Monteriggioni."

"As did I," Federico adds, nodding. "Claudia?"

"No, it was years before I killed him."

"Father killed him in June 1477," Petruccio concludes, breathing slowly as he thinks. If they all escape, would Borgia react as they did in Petruccio's future, or would he react to the death of Alberti the same way as in either Federico or Ezio's?

Killing Alberti may delay the Pazzi conspiracy and buy them some years of safety, or it would force their enemies onto the offensive. Without the restrictions of subtlety, and knowing the Assassins are no longer in Firenze, the Templars and their allies may feel secure enough to move on with their plans.

Only, Father would not allow Lorenzo to be completely undefended. Things would be better this time; his family had an advantage in skill and knowledge, the Pazzi and Templars would underestimate their abilities for a while and they could use it to their benefit. Petruccio would make sure Federico and Ezio are well prepared for the traps which killed them in the past.

Considering, Petruccio takes another slow breath, running through previous events.

Alberti had discovered Paola and La Volpe as Assassins prior to his death. They had never figured out if he learnt of them only after the arrest, or if it was something he knew earlier but waited to act upon, biding his time. The string of arrests, injuries, 'accidents' and outright murders that befell the thieves and courtesans had decimated the information network in Firenze - to say nothing of the people.

Petruccio isn't sure if there is anything they can do for the thieves and courtesans, however. If the Templars already know they are allies then their options are to either abandon them or risk their own lives, remaining in Firenze to protect them. Both options feel like mistakes.

Another deep breath cycles through Petruccio's lungs as he thinks.

If Father can kill Rodrigo Borgia today, this early, then there is no predicting what may follow. The man had been the Grand Master of the Templars for so long, and his son Cesare had taken over leadership afterwards - his son who is now but a babe.

Petruccio has little indication of who in the current Rite may step up, and what actions he may take to further their goals.

Petruccio's mind spins in an attempt to consider every possibility, even as he breathes deep and slow. There are too many variables, no room for error and not nearly enough information. Petruccio is unwilling to risk mistakes - not with his family's lives at stake.

"Petruccio?" Federico asks gently and Petruccio blinks to full awareness, focusing quickly on Federico crouched in front of him. Glancing around, he sees Ezio and Claudia are wearing twin looks of concern.

"Sorry, brother," he says, "I was lost in thought."

"Right," Federico says, stepping back, "and what were you thinking about so fiercely?"

"What comes next," Petruccio answers. "A lot happened over the next 6 months which I hope can be prevented, but there is a lot to consider, and things didn't even begin to improve until Rome."

He takes another calm breath.

"There will be consequences to killing Alberti now, and larger ones if Father kills Borgia as well. We need a plan."

"Then we should start from the top, yes?" Federico asks easily. "Start with what we know to be true, then what might be true, and then you can make your hypothesis." There is a sense of familiarity in his brother's manner - as though he is used to this, used to coaching someone as they work through a problem.

"Nothing is true," Ezio says quietly, eyes flickering between them. "How are you all so calm?" he then murmurs, soft voice contrasting with the white knuckled clasp of his hands.

"You seem rather calm as well, brother," Federico points out.

"If you hadn't pulled me off of Vieri I would have killed him," Ezio responds flatly, meeting Federico's gaze as though challenging him to deny it.

"You should have," Claudia says viciously.

"He is 17, Claudia," Ezio answers, rolling his shoulders as he leans back, "with only his family for role models. Lord knows I hate the boy, but he is not yet guilty of the crimes I would kill him for. Stay your blade."

Claudia frowns in obvious dissatisfaction but doesn't argue with Ezio's words. "Christ," Ezio mutters, rubbing his palms harshly over his face and then staying there, head bowed.

"Ezio?" Federico asks, reaching out to lay a hand cautiously on his shoulder, "is everything okay?"

Ezio huffs out a laugh as he lifts his head, expression openly pained, "When I came home this morning, I thought I was ready to see you again - you, Father and Petruccio. I thought-" he cuts off, shaking his head.

"You saw me yesterday," Federico says, squeezing Ezio's shoulder.

"Yes, and yesterday I was mostly convinced this was- I don't know. Death, maybe. Or a dream. I was not quite willing to believe it real until Father revealed we have all travelled back." Ezio shakes his head.

"Why would it be death?" Claudia asks, confused. "The woman was very clear about her intentions."

"Woman?" Ezio repeats, equally uncertain.

"Ezio," Federico interrupts, shifting closer to him, "why did you think this could be death.”

"Right before I came back I was in Monteriggioni, and we were under siege. A canon had hit the building next to me. A large portion of the stone wall was hurtling towards me and I was already injured." Ezio rolls his shoulders again, tense. "Next thing I know Vieri's hurling insults at me - a man I killed over two decades ago."

"Two decades? And the siege of Monteriggioni?" Petruccio murmurs, thinking, lining events up in his mind. "Ezio, what was the date?"

"January 2nd, 1500," Ezio answers promptly.

"Right," Petruccio says, frowning; for all the differences which must have occurred, it is the same date as in his own past. However, Petruccio lived past that date, and both Claudia and Federico were confused about Ezio's death. They hadn't died before travelling, it seems, as Petruccio had initially thought.

Perhaps there was another common factor?

"I remember. It was my 39th birthday," Claudia adds, nodding, "the day of the siege."

Petruccio hums; if it is the same for both he and Claudia, then- "Federico?"

"Yes, I think that is right," Federico agrees and then grins, "although I was in Venice at the time."

"Ah, Venice," Claudia sighs, a fond smile on her lips. Ezio looks between the two of them, clearly judging their expressions. Petruccio can almost read his conclusion off the grin stretching his lips.

"Claudia," Ezio says in a tone full of teasing suggestion while his gaze darts over to Federico for a moment, "were you and dear Leonardo together?"

Chair legs thump heavily against the floor to his left as Federico chokes - either on a laugh or his surprise, Petruccio cannot tell. Ezio's grin widens triumphantly, though his focus remains on Claudia.

"I proposed, once," Claudia says, ignoring the scene Federico is making, "but we were strictly friends. Not even carnal relations."

"He wouldn't have been interested," Federico interjects, having recovered some of his composure. He has not pushed back on the chair, though.

"Not in anything more than a marriage of convenience," Petruccio agrees, "but could we perhaps get back on topic?"

"No no, I'm curious now, please," Ezio says, "who among the people of Venice lured my sister into their bed?"

"Oh, a real thief. Tried to make off with half of everything I owned in the night," Claudia answers with a grin. "Not that it worked. Better, I can be sure you've never been between those sheets."

"Ah, I am not to everyone's taste, I know," Ezio sighs dramatically, "but come now, Claudia, give me a name."

Claudia raises an eyebrow at him in response, smug, but stays otherwise silent.

"You already know of Caterina, and we know Federico and Leonardo enjoyed the pleasure of each other's company," Ezio cajoles, "It would only be fair."

"Wait, when did you-" Federico starts, startled.

"Rosa, of the thieves guild." Claudia cuts him off and Ezio grins at her. Petruccio silently laments as the conversation spirals away from him. He had forgotten their family's predisposition for merciless teasing, but is glad to have been reminded.

"Ah, a fierce woman, Rosa," Ezio is saying, nodding. "Well, I guess I should not be surprised she was so inclined. For all that we flirted, she never did take it further."

"When did you figure out Leonardo and I are together?" Federico interjects, physically leaning into the conversation in an endeavour to not be ignored.

"Federico, you are not subtle," Ezio says in a tone so thick with mockery the eyeroll is implicit.

"I haven't even said his name," Federico argues, incredulous.

"Sorry, brother," Claudia says, sounding not sorry at all, "I agree with Ezio; you aren't subtle."

Federico stares at the pair, speechless for a moment before turning to Petruccio. "You'll back me up, won't you Petruccio?" he asks, plaintive, "I haven't been that obvious, have I?"

Petruccio sighs heavily, deciding he might as well give in - and the light-hearted bickering was... it was good to have his family back.

"Federico," Petruccio says, leaning into the high notes of his young voice, "when I was sixteen I found you and Leonardo defiling the floor of the Villa sanctuary, your mouth on his cock."

To Petruccio's everlasting satisfaction Federico goes bright red, staring at him in wordless horror. Ezio and Claudia are favouring him with similar looks.

"Please never say that again," Ezio says weakly, "not while you still look thirteen."

"Can we move on, then," Petruccio says dryly, and is rewarded with a rather desperate sounding 'please' from Federico. "Thank you." Petruccio sighs, casting back to their original discussion. Ezio died prior to time travel, as did Petruccio, but...

"Claudia," he begins, turning to her, "you said there was a woman who sent you back?"

"Yes," Claudia hisses in sudden fury, "but I wouldn't trust her for a second. Not for a fuck in the hay."

"Were you in the Chamber under the Colosseum?" Federico asks, ignoring their sister's anger. "The woman, she was one of Those Who Came Before, yes?"

"Like those Altaïr wrote of in his codex, who made the Apple?" Ezio questions, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Those infernal devices," Claudia spits out. "I only wanted to be rid of the thing."

That catches Petruccio's attention - hadn't he first attributed his own time travel to the Apple?

"Did you have the Apple on you when you were sent back?" he asks, glancing at Ezio and Federico to include them in the question.

"I'd put it on the pedestal, then that bitch showed up," Claudia says acidly. "It was glowing, though, and lit up brighter than I've ever seen right before."

"That is similar enough to my experience," Federico agrees from where he's sprawled out in his chair. "We were there to leave behind the Apple. A spectre appeared - the same as she who Claudia saw, I'd assume - and started on a speech about saving the world from a solar flare."

"And she sent you back?" Petruccio asks slowly, frowning. "Why? Do you know what her name was?"

"No," Federico says, shaking his head, "not Minerva, though. She seemed to think the plan - Minerva's plan - was ruined, and sending me back in time was supposed to give me the opportunity to fix it."

Claudia nods in clear agreement while Ezio sits quietly, elbows braced on his knees as he frowns.

"Ezio?" Petruccio prompts, and watches as his brother's frown deepens before he speaks.

"Who is Minerva?" he asks, and Petruccio pauses for a moment.

“Did you not enter the vault beneath the Vatican?" he asks. He had assumed - between mention of the Apple, the siege of Monteriggioni, Altaïr's Codex and the things he himself had learnt from the Apple - that the Prophecy would be an event that remained unchanged for all of them. There were already more than enough similarities.

Quickly, he glances at Claudia and Federico, trying to judge if they saw the message or not. Federico likely had, having been the one to mention Minerva and her plan.

"I am not sure, perhaps," Ezio says, still frowning. "Would you elaborate?"

"A few days before the siege, did you fight Rodrigo Borgia in the Vatican?" Claudia asks, continuing at Ezio's nod, "and after you defeated him, the Apple and Staff should have opened a Vault."

"Ah," Ezio says, grimacing. One of his hands moves to press against his side, Petruccio notes, as though he is protecting an injury. "There was a secret chamber, with some very strange engravings, yes, but no woman. It was not opened with the Apple, though, only a mechanism in the wall."

"Yes, after that," Claudia says.

"After that I mostly tried not to pass out from being stabbed while keeping Borgia distracted enough for Mario to finish the job," he rolls his shoulders again. "Borgia had much more experience with the Staff than I do with the Apple," he offers up in explanation.

"And then?" Claudia presses.

"Then Uncle Mario grabbed the Apple and Staff and we left," Ezio says shortly.

"You did not activate them? Uncle Mario didn't?" Claudia asks.

"Uncle Mario likely couldn't," Federico cuts in, shrugging when they all look over to him. "The things built by Those Who Came Before are very particular about who can use them; the Apples and temples especially. Even if Uncle could use an Apple, there's no guarantee he could do so well enough to open the Vault."

"Truly?" Claudia asks, looking interested.

"That is what Leonardo and I discovered," Federico confirms.

"It isn't something I ever thought to measure," Petruccio chimes in, thinking back, "Father definitely had more difficulty with the Apple than I did."

"If I could only get the thing to be silent, it would have been more than enough for me," Claudia says with a scowl, "but no, it had to keep me from rest for days on end, whispering of the Vault."

"Yes, that is the same. It wanted to be left there," Federico says. "What of you, Petruccio? What happened just before you travelled?"

Petruccio quirks a half smile, wry. "My experience was more akin to Ezio's. I was dying - my own fault, making the journey up the mountains to Masyaf while already poorly. I suspected the Apple I was in possession of is the cause."

All three of his siblings exclaim at the same time, voices crashing over each other. It is difficult, but he manages to parse out their words.

"Yes I died, but it's not important currently. We need to figure this out," Petruccio says, trying to brush past it - he is not particularly keen on recalling how it felt, choking on his own breath with the taste of blood coating his tongue.

"Later, brother," Claudia says, firm. "Later we will talk about it."

"Fine, fine," Petruccio agrees, eager to move on. His siblings exchange long looks and even after decades without each other, they are easy to read. Petruccio is not going to get out of it this easily, he knows.

It is Ezio who breaks the ensuing silence. "I was holding the Apple when I was hit," he says, pensive.

"So that is the common factor?" Petruccio says, voicing his thoughts, "we all had the Apple? Would it have sent Claudia and Federico back had they died in possession of it?"

"I suppose which Apple isn't too important," Federico murmurs.

"There's more than one?" Claudia demands, tone somewhere between anger and horror.

"Unfortunately," Federico says, sighing heavily, "I had Altaïr's, not the one from Cyprus. They didn't seem any different to me."

"You got into Altaïr's library?" Petruccio asks, interested. "That is the reason I was in Masyaf."

"I think you would be disappointed, brother," Federico says, shaking his head, "not much of a library, in the end. A tomb, more like."

"A tomb?" Petruccio repeats, "the Apple was in there at least - I could hear it."

"That, and Altaïr," Federico agrees, "and nothing else."

"I see why you called it a tomb, then," Petruccio says softly. "I suppose I understand, though. I imagine I, too, would have sought out a way to secure the Apple. Lord knows I could never have left it behind."

Federico tilts his head, humming as he thinks. "The keys were interesting, though. They were worth collecting."

"What do you mean, that you could hear the Apple?" Ezio interrupts, looking at Petruccio.

"Ah-" Petruccio says, a little thrown off by the question. Ezio had been the one to teach him, after all. "It's my Eagle Vision; I can hear things."

"Not to point out the obvious, but I thought it was called Eagle Vision for a reason?" Federico says.

"No," Claudia interrupts, shaking her head, "it is not only vision. Mine was a feeling - a combined touch and empathy sensation - rather than visual."

Petruccio hums in interest, "how does that work? What kind of detail does it give you?"

"Depends on the person, though I think it is based on my perceptions rather than the people themselves," Claudia answers, shrugging. "There are generalisations - enemies, the courtesans and thieves for example - and more distinct signatures for important individuals. You are all unique."

"We are?" Ezio asks, sounding intrigued, "that would be very helpful."

"It is," Claudia agrees easily, "I can pick you out from half way across the city. Even more useful for finding my targets."

"Well, some of us aren't so fortunate to be blessed with supernatural gifts," Federico says with a dramatic sigh. "I had to do everything the normal way."

"Oh, like it's so difficult," Claudia says, rolling her eyes. "Even knowing where my target was, I still needed to work just as hard to get to them, and it was no advantage at all when they would flee across half the country."

"Who ran that far?" Ezio asks, curious.

"Cesare Borgia," Claudia answers, scowling. "Rodrigo's son."

"Rodrigo has a son?" Father asks from the doorway, and Petruccio very nearly startles; he is not the only one, judging by the expressions on his siblings' faces. Father grins at them, clearly pleased.

"Not anymore," Claudia says, grinning sharply. Petruccio is almost sorry to have to correct her.

"He is a child currently, sister," he says. "We don't need to worry about him for the moment - hopefully never."

"Alberti?" Ezio asks solemnly, directing the question to Father. At a quick glance Petruccio cannot see any blood, and his clothes are unruffled, though that's hardly an indication of anything.

"Dead," Father answers, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, "though not by my hand."

The room seems to freeze, all four of them staring at Father in surprise.

"That doesn't make any sense," Petruccio says eventually, brow furrowing.

"It does if there's another time traveller," Father says, voice flat. Petruccio blinks at him, nonplussed. Surely there is only the four of them; even that seems unlikely. Petruccio doesn't expect what Father says next.

"Is the name Desmond familiar to any of you?"

"Desmond?" Claudia says sharply, jumping to her feet. "Desmond is here?"

"Oh, good," Father says with forced calm, "then you can tell me if I'm right and he's my bastard, or if he wasn't lying when he claimed to be from 500 years in the future."

"Your bastard?" Federico repeats with surprise, just as Claudia loudly exclaims- "500 years?"

"Ezio?" Father asks, turning to him. "Do you know who Desmond is?"

"No?" Ezio answers, confused.

"Hmm," Father hums, "he seemed to think you would."

"He wouldn't," Petruccio interrupts, figuring it out. "Minerva left a message for him - or for us, to give to him - under the Vatican. Ezio didn't see it, but Federico, Claudia and I all did."

"I think," Federico says slowly, clearly thinking as he speaks, "Desmond is my descendant- or, no," he pauses, and they all wait for him to finish his thought, "he's the descendant of the Prophet, which is whoever received Minerva's message."

"That makes sense," Claudia says, and Petruccio tries to figure out what they mean. Nothing he's learnt indicates anything similar. "The bitch was very interested in whether or not I had children, said it ruined everything when I told her I didn't."

"How does that make sense?" Ezio asks, "the more you speak of Those Who Came Before, the less sense it makes."

"I feel as though I've missed quite a bit while I was out," Father chimes in, raising a brow at them. "Those Who Came Before?"

"It is... Complicated," Petruccio says, sighing, "and a long story. To answer your initial questions, yes, we know of Desmond, and he well might be from 500 years in the future. He killed Alberti?"

"And is now injured and unconscious on the lounge downstairs."

"Injured?" Claudia gasps, and then sharply- "what did she do to him?"

Petruccio wonders if Claudia means Minerva or this other woman in her accusation.

"He has the strangest burn on his right arm, but nothing else that I could see," Father says. "Before he passed out, he said to treat it with aloe and honey."

"Honey?" Ezio repeats with raised brows, glancing at Federico. "That is what you said to use on my lip, brother."

"That is because it works," Federico replies with a shrug.

"Okay," Father says, nodding, "then if someone is willing to attend to that, I need to get my things together. The order for our arrest had already been sent, so we don't have a lot of time."

"I can take care of Desmond," Petruccio offers, "I studied medicine for a while, but first-" he turns to Ezio and Federico, "-in my past, Alberti told the Templars of our alliance with La Volpe and Paola. I don't know if that happened before or after today.

"Did they suffer any attacks by the Pazzi in your timelines, or did Alberti only find out or reveal the connection later?"

"No, our allies were safe," Ezio answers, "I do not think we need to be concerned."

"I would like to speak with them before we leave anyway," Father says, frowning. "Claudia, do you think you could get a message to them? It is too dangerous for the rest of us, I think."

"Of course," Claudia nods, "but Ezio, I may need to borrow some clothes."

Ezio blinks at her, startled. "Clothes, sister?"

She gestures broadly down at herself, at the layered fabric of her dress, artfully embroidered. "Does this look appropriate for running around in to you?" Judging by the tightness of the material around her shoulders, it is restricting her range of motion, and the skirts would likely get in the way.

"It would be too conspicuous - the Auditore heiress, wandering into a whore house while the city guards move to arrest her family. No, I will dress in your clothes and let people assume what they will; a young thief, the child of a whore, one of the many children living on the streets. It does not matter what people see, as long as it is wrong."

"Ah, you are right, of course," Ezio agrees, nodding. "Though I'm not sure what I have which may-"

"The navy doublet you grew out of last year fits me, and the grey hose. I can tuck in any undershirt, and Mother kept your shoes for Petruccio. Oh, and a hat," Claudia says easily.

"Cannot forget the hat," Ezio scoffs.

"It is not as though I can wear a hood," Claudia returns with a huff.

"Come with me, then," Ezio says, standing, "and then I'll pack to leave."

Petruccio watches the pair of them as they go, observing the easy grace of their movements and silence of their footsteps.

"I can go and secure us safe passage out of the city, if you would like," Federico offers, tipping his chair forward to roll easily onto his feet. "It will get more difficult the longer we wait. Nobody will recognise me if I wear my greys, and I'll keep to the rooftops as much as possible."

"That would be good, thank you Federico," Father says, smiling tiredly. "Come, Petruccio. I'll take you to Desmond."

Turning on his heel, Father exits the lounge and Petruccio quickly gets up to follow, Federico right behind.

"You said he has a burn?" Petruccio asks.

"Not one like I've ever seen," Father admits, "but that is what he said."

"What else did he say?"

"That it should be clean, but if not use water boiled in copper to clean it," Father says. "Otherwise, only to treat it with aloe and honey, and specifically not what the doctors would prescribe."

"Hopefully it does not need to be cleaned, then," Petruccio says, frowning. "It is always better to try to cool a burn as much as possible, in my experience. Though that was easier in the regions that saw snow."

Father hums at that but doesn't otherwise respond, so Petruccio follows him down the stairs to the other lounge in silence.

Desmond, when they arrive, is indeed unconscious. Judging by the way he is half sitting, half leaning into the arm of the chaise, Father's earlier description of 'passed out' was entirely literal.

Studying him, Petruccio takes note of the strange clothing he wears. Even from a distance it is obvious they are foreign, both in style and material. After that, it is his features which capture Petruccio's attention.

"... I see why you thought him your bastard, Father," he says eventually,

"I've been trying to remember his mother," Father admits with a sigh. "I recognise his features from somewhere."

"Perhaps we can ask when he wakes," Petruccio says, finally moving his attention to the man's injured arm.

The burn is indeed very strange. Unlike what Petruccio had expected to see - one or multiple places where it would be obvious he had come into contact with something very hot - there are lines seared black into his skin. Carefully touching only the undamaged skin near his elbow, Petruccio straightens the arm to see the inner side.

Desmond twitches at his touch, expression tightening in pain, but doesn't wake.

The damage appears to have originated from his palm, spreading out and up through the skin. Where not charred black there is, bafflingly, absolutely no damage. Petruccio would almost think it only ink, if not for the cracks at the edges that have oozed clear pus.

The burned lines get thinner and lesser the higher up the forearm, stopping completely just below the inner elbow. Petruccio has no idea what to make of it, or what might have been the cause.

Still, that does not mean he cannot treat it.

"I think it is clean enough," he says, noting there is no dirt or fabric stuck to the injury. "Honey and clean bandages should be enough."

"I can get some, if you would like to wait here," Father offers, already at the door.

"Yes, thank you Father," Petruccio says, nodding. While waiting, Petruccio tries to look for any other obvious injuries, but without waking the man or removing his clothing he does not have a lot of success. Ultimately he concludes that, at the very least, Desmond is not actively bleeding.

"Petruccio," Father calls softly, getting his attention and holding out the jar of honey and a spoon.

"Ah, perfect," Petruccio says, accepting them quickly. "Would you be able to..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely to the bandages, hands full now with the jar of honey.

"Hmm?" Father hums a question, but moves up beside him easily. Petruccio spoons out a heaping of the honey, dropping it and a couple more onto the burnt palm. Then, after handing the jar back to Father, he uses the spoon to spread it up along the charred skin.

Desmond barely stirs despite the pain it must cause, and Petruccio cannot tell if it is that or exhaustion which is keeping him unconscious. Either way, in short order they have slathered the burns in honey, wrapping them after in the linen bandages.

"Well," Petruccio sighs, falling into one of the spare chairs, "I suppose all there is to do is wait for him to wake."

"Aside from flee the city, you mean?" Father asks dryly, and Petruccio huffs a laugh.

"Aside from that, yes."

Chapter Text

Claudia

Once all the laces and buttons are fastened Claudia is pleased to find she had been correct about the doublet and hose fitting - mostly. Ezio tugs at the collar, pulling the loose material up as high as the lacings will allow.

"You look ridiculous, Claudia," he says, grinning.

"Just hand me the hat, Ezio," she sighs, tying her hair back in the low tail she's grown to favour. Truthfully, Claudia feels almost pathetic, dressed in these clothes. Her body is young and untrained; soft, weak and altogether too vulnerable. She could not even outrun danger, never mind fight.

The knowledge has driven a rod of tension down her spine, instilled a wariness in her very bones. It has been decades since she has been so weak, so uncertain in her own abilities. In fact, Claudia is sure she has never felt as such. Hindsight shows her how little she knew, how unskilled she truly was in her early years as an Assassin. Somehow she'd survived on bullheaded overconfidence and luck.

Time and experience had been her greatest teachers, but now she is all too aware of what she had gained over the years - and what she now lacks.

Still, there is nothing to be done about it now, and she has a mission.

"Ezio," Claudia says, pushing her discomfort from her mind, "could you tell everyone to meet me down by the Ponte alle Grazie in two hours? There's a cellar built into the side of the bridge La Volpe uses; it should be secure as a meeting place."

"There is?" Ezio asks, looking surprised.

"Ah, yes," Claudia says, sheepish, "it's something of a secret I wasn't meant to discover."

Ezio raises a curious eyebrow at her. "So you're telling me?"

"It is the only place I can think of which will not put anyone at risk; us, the courtesans or the thieves. La Volpe will forgive me," Claudia answers, only half as sure as she sounds. The La Volpe who trained her, who helped her grow would have forgiven her. She's hoping she remembers the man from her youth correctly, and that in light of the information they have and the situation they are in he will be just as understanding.

Knowledge of the cellar would lend credence to her tale, at the very least.

"We will meet you there," Ezio agrees, accepting the folded dress she hands him.

"Good," Claudia says, nodding once before turning for the door.

Federico is in the foyer when she arrives, adjusting the hood of the grey novice robes he has donned. It is unexpected, and the sight is equally joyous and painful. Claudia remembers those robes, remembers training in them and to now see Federico wearing them is-

Having her family alive is going to take some getting used to, she expects.

"Claudia," Federico greets, appraising her outfit.

"Brother," she returns and slows as she nears him, "where are you going?"

"I'm finding a way out of the city, but first I thought I would escort you from the rooftops," he answers, moving to walk beside her. Claudia grimaces, almost offended he thinks she needs an escort, but- well. Was she not lamenting her own weakness? He is a comforting presence in her Eagle Sense, and Claudia allows it to soothe her ire instead.

"Thank you, Federico," she says, and then is struck with a thought. "Wait a second." Stopping where she stands, Claudia unhooks the sword from her side and holds it out to him. “Take this, and give me your second dagger. This disguise doesn't work with the sword, but I can hide the knife."

"Ah, of course," Federico says as he removes the blade, replacing it with the sword. Claudia is similarly fixing the new knife into place beneath the too loose material of her doublet.

“How did you know I had another blade?” he asks.

“You are wearing the novice robes, and I remember them being stored in the same chest under your bed,” Claudia answers. She had been intentionally ignoring the fact she would need to leave the Palazzo without the sword, the very idea sending a fission of fear down her spine. While Federico's dagger is not her preferred weapon, it is at least one she used for many years.

With their exchange complete, Claudia nods in thanks before Federico scrambles up the interior courtyard wall to the roof. Shifting her attention from him Claudia steps out onto the street, turning left to slide into the flow of traffic.

She does not know where she is going, only choosing a direction and starting to move. Spreading her perception as she walks is a skill long honed to perfection, and soon enough she can feel the populace rippling across her senses.

The Templars are sharp points of focus, needles prickling along her skin. It makes her want to itch, to scratch until the sensation is gone. The city's forces are abuzz with activity and Claudia takes notice of the patrols; there are three in her immediate vicinity alone, and the rest crawl like ants across the city.

None of them are aware of her, Claudia is sure, and Federico is staying out of view up above. She is safe enough.

Paola is identifiable by the impression of safety and rest she has always embodied, located in the vaguely eastward direction of La Rosa Colta. She is not who Claudia wishes to speak with first. Continuing her search, Claudia looks for the place which feels watched.

La Volpe could be anywhere is Firenze, she knows, but that is no obstacle to her.

She turns west.

True blending is unnecessary with her disguise, so Claudia only dedicates enough of her attention to the art to ensure she doesn't stand out. Instead, she focuses on Federico and his progress across the rooftops, keeping careful track of the guards he deftly avoids.

It gets more difficult the further they travel, she can tell, as the guard presence steadily increases. Claudia hums to herself in thought.

Considering the news Father had brought this morning, La Volpe is likely to be loitering near to where Alberti was killed. Claudia knows he prefers to witness the subsequent events of such Assassinations himself, to learn who is involved and how through personal observation.

He trusts nothing he has not seen for himself, that man.

Although, Claudia has long suspected it is also a matter of protection. Over the years she has noticed La Volpe assigns reconnaissance to the children and apprentices within his number, with difficulty increasing to suit their age and skill. However when there is a murder, or a post that poses true danger La Volpe is quick to take over.

Alberti's murder is exactly the right combination of critically important and dangerous to see him there.

Stepping to the side, Claudia slips easily into the shadows of an alley, following the winding turns until she is away from the traffic of the streets and alone. Almost.

Federico drops to the ground beside her after a minute, only slightly winded from the more arduous rooftop path.

"La Volpe is nearby, yes?" Federico asks, peering at her from beneath the shadows of his hood.

"A couple of streets over," Claudia confirms, "but you cannot follow me, Federico, there are too many guards."

Federico gives her an uncertain look, hand resting on the hilt of his borrowed sword and Claudia huffs. "I will be fine, brother. I appreciate the concern but I am a Master Assassin."

"Ah, my apologies," he says, relaxing against the wall, "I meant no offense, only more often than not my travelling companion is not so skilled. It is something of a habit now, I am afraid." He is referring to Leonardo, Claudia is sure. For all the weapons the genius had created for her, he'd staunchly refused any amount of training in their use. The man was a pacifist, despite being friends with near every Assassin in her Brotherhood. It is a good coverup - likely even true, but Claudia doubts it is the real cause of his overprotectiveness.

Claudia wonders about the woman she must have been in his timeline - she doubts she would have trained half as hard as she did, with any of her brothers still alive. She would have pushed down her rage and taken her satisfaction from the death her brother doled out. Had it not been necessary, had her anger not burned so hot, she may not have taken up a blade at all.That woman would have needed some degree of protection, should her relation to the Assassins not have remained a secret.

"It is fine," Claudia settles on saying, "if you circle around to the east I'll walk past you with La Volpe, if that will ease your mind."

"That would be appreciated, thank you Claudia," Federico says, smiling.

"Good, then you will see me shortly." That said, Claudia nods sharply, adjusts her hat and turns back to the alley's exit. The crowd outside is thin as people are mostly redirected by the guards. It is an effort to keep out of their sight, ducking her head and hurrying past.

La Volpe has taken up his watch from a balcony, hidden by the vines climbing the trellis. Claudia scales the ladder around the corner, catching only a brief glimpse of what must be the crime scene - judging by the puddles of dried blood. There is too much for it to have all been from Alberti.

Setting her thoughts aside for the moment, Claudia races silently across the roof, turning as she reaches the edge. In a manoeuvre she's done a hundred times she steps out into the open air, prepared to catch herself with her hands so she can slow her fall and land silently-

Claudia's grip slips as soon as her weight drops onto her fingers, the slim digits refusing to support her. The fall to the balcony floor is graceless, with Claudia half-losing her balance at the rough landing and half-collapsing to the ground intentionally in an attempt to stay quiet.

The end result is her, sprawled on the deck, trying not to blush in shame under La Volpe's startled, judgemental gaze.

A long moment passes in which he examines her critically and neither of them move. "What is Claudia Auditore doing, dressed in her brother's clothes and falling off of rooftops?" he eventually asks, crouching down and examining her reprovingly. The look hides his worry, she knows, and lets him check her for injuries. Claudia is tempted to roll her eyes at his concern, but it would hardly be appropriate. The comment about her fall is ignored in favour of her dignity.

"Looking for you," Claudia huffs, pushing herself up into a crouch, "Father would like to speak with you, and we have information you need to know."

La Volpe stares at her levelly, unimpressed. "A banker sent his fifteen year old daughter, dressed as a boy, to find a known thief at the site of a massacre, because he has information?" he asks, emphasising every other word and highlighting how ridiculous the scenario sounds. "Information he thinks I do not have."

"Information you need to know, La Volpe," Claudia says, "which I am not sharing while in the vicinity of over a dozen guards." The ants crawl across her skin incessantly, so close it is near impossible to ignore the sensation.

The man considers her for long enough that Claudia grows impatient - resolutely refusing to acknowledge the pain his lack of trust brings her. Consciously, she reminds herself that he does not know her. Not yet.

"Come or don't," she finally snaps, frustrated, "but this is our only chance to speak before we leave for Monteriggioni and I can't waste any more time waiting for you. I need to get to Paola first, and if you're not coming I need to find somewhere else to meet."

"Paola? I have no earthly idea what needs the attention of both myself and a courtesan," he muses with confusion Claudia would almost believe, only she already knows he and Paola are well acquainted. Instead of answering Claudia stands, steps past him and begins to haul herself unsteadily up the trellis.

Impatient and frustrated at her own weakness, she doesn't bother to stop and check if the man is following her, only moving quickly back to the ladder. The lure of information should be enough to override his caution, though not his suspicion.

Federico, when she checks, has followed her instructions and made his way east to an area devoid of guards. Focusing on him - on the comforting weight of throwing knives she isn't actually wearing - Claudia ignores the eyes burning into the back of her head.

She practically stalks down the streets, feet silent on the cobbles even when she wants to stomp in displeasure. The few people she sees in the alleys give her uncertain looks and allow her to pass by without a word.

Her brother only raises a curious eyebrow at her from where he is reclining on a stack of crates, somehow making the uneven wood look as comfortable as any well stuffed lounge.

"Things didn't go well, sister?" he asks casually. "I don't see La Volpe with you." La Volpe is on the rooftop above them, eavesdropping just out of view.

"La Volpe," she hisses, hoping he hears, "is a suspicious, paranoid man so concerned with listening to whispers and rumours he wouldn't hear the herald's cries from right beside his ear." Federico's other eyebrow goes up. "The man thinks he's omniscient, at least within Firenze."

"I've bribed a herald or two in my time, you know. Theirs is an easy narrative to change," he points out with infuriating calm. "That time with the bulls in Venice was fun."

"Go, Federico," Claudia snaps, glaring. Her brother doesn't even have the decency to hold his laughter until out of earshot, and Claudia scowls at him as he climbs back up to the roof. With a huff - and ignoring the eyes still watching her - Claudia continues east.

The crowds are out in force as it nears the middle of the day, and it is easy for Claudia to walk unseen among them. La Volpe is tailing her from the rooftops and Claudia, like the mature woman she is, tries to make it as difficult as possible.

She thinks she even manages to lose him once or twice, but the knowledge of where she's going gives him enough of an advantage to find her again.

By the time she reaches La Rosa Colta a stitch has formed in her side and Claudia again curses the young body she now has. It seems an impossibility she was ever this weak, truly. Burying her frustration and trying to bank the last of her anger at La Volpe's continued, distant watching, Claudia steps into the parlour of La Rosa Colta.

Immediately a young woman sashay's over to her, looking her up and down and giggling in the patented way of flirting women everywhere.

"Good morning, bello," she greets with a coy smile, fidgeting in a way designed to give Claudia a very nice view of her breasts. "The house is closed right now, but come back later and I'm sure I can make it worth both our while."

Claudia smiles at the woman and lets her gaze linger a beat more than appropriate. "I need to speak to Madame Paola. It is rather urgent," she says politely. Claudia can see the courtesan register her high, young voice and mentally frown.

"Madame is not in the business of entertaining boys, and we are still closed," the courtesan says, straightening up and dropping the vapid look. She has a spine, this girl, and Claudia loves to see it.

"I really must," Claudia insists. "I have information for her. The Gonfaloniere is dead, murdered only yesterday."

"I see," she muses, something hardening in her face. "Madame Paola is in her office, if you'd wait a moment?" The woman flounces off without stopping for an answer. Claudia does not mind, making her way to the back wall to study the art as she waits. La Volpe, she can tell, is standing on the rooftop above them.

"What can I do for you, signore?" Madam Paola asks, appearing at the top of the stairs. Her expression is a cool, unreadable mask at this distance. Claudia steps away from the artwork, hesitating a moment before removing her hat to better reveal her features.

"I'm here on behalf of my Father; he would like to speak with you," Claudia says, debating if she should say more where others will hear. At this time of the day most of the courtesans are sleeping off a night of work, but there are a couple of the girls lingering in the parlour.

Madam Paola hums, making her way down the stairs. Claudia can see when she's been recognised in the subtle straightening of Madam Paola's shoulders, going from mildly interested to attentive.

"Your Father is Giovanni?" Madam Paola asks and Claudia nods in confirmation. "And this is relating to the murder of the Gonfaloniere?" Claudia nods again, giving the other woman time to think.

Madam Paola hums, looking at Claudia with some consideration as she thinks. "Serena," she eventually says, half turning but not taking her eyes off of Claudia, "I need to go out. Would you please attend to the business in my absence?"

"Of course," Serena - the young woman who initially greeted Claudia - answers, straightening her bodice.

"Thank you," Madam Paola says, finally turning fully to Serena and offering a nod. "I'm not sure how long this will take, but I trust you can open the bordello should I not return before nightfall?"

"Yes, Madam," Serena answers.

"Good. Well then-" Paola starts towards the door, tilting her head in indication for Claudia to follow, "I suppose I ought to go see what Giovanni knows. Shall we, Claudio?"

Claudia huffs at the familiar name, hurrying to follow behind her old teacher back onto the street. The crowds have not diminished in the ten minutes she was inside, and Claudia easily joins with Paola walking amongst them. La Volpe is still on the rooftops, following them above.

"Is there a reason Giovanni could not come speak with me himself?" Madam Paola asks and Claudia can detect hints of judgement under the politely curious tone. Likely, the woman did not approve of Claudia being sent as messenger.

"Do you think we can signal La Volpe to come down and walk with us?" Claudia asks rather than answering. Madam Paola frowns down at her for a moment before turning her eyes to the rooftops. When La Volpe reveals himself with a flash of orange cloth the woman's expression clears and she whistle's sharply.

Without waiting for a response, Madam Paola turns them first down a narrow street and then into an alley. As soon as they are alone she stops moving and La Volpe drops from the rooftops with silent grace. The look he gives Claudia says 'see how it's done' without him having to speak.

Claudia scowls at the silent taunt, refusing to be embarrassed or ashamed. She is fifteen and physically untrained; she only forgot herself a moment.

Ignoring her reaction, La Volpe steps up to Paola with half a grin, taking her offered hand to press a tender kiss against her knuckles. "Paola, it is good to see you."

"And you as well, La Volpe," Madam Paola answers dryly, clearly amused and exasperated in equal measure.

"I see Claudia found you as well," La Volpe says and nods over to Claudia. Claudia rolls her eyes in response, forgetting for a moment that this is not the La Volpe who played hide and seek over the entire city to train her Sense. It had been a long time since he could hide from her, but sometimes he would still try, to her endless exasperation.

The man hums a question at her and Claudia nearly startles with painful realisation. Madam Paola and La Volpe do not know her. Facing them both now, alone in the alley, Claudia knows they can talk freely yet has no idea what to say. It is not the same as talking to Father or her brothers - all of whom had been dead for thirty years. No, La Volpe and Paola had trained her, had guided her for years to become an Assassin.

Claudia had spoken with La Volpe not even a week ago, discussing what best be done with Apple now she had it in her possession. Madam Paola was in Firenze and they had a regular exchange of letters. She cannot reconcile the version of them which is so familiar with these two, who look at her as near a stranger.

They are both watching her now, observing the play of emotions across her features. It makes her feel stripped bare and conscious of her new weakness.

Clenching her jaw, Claudia marshals her strength and dives into the conversation. "Madam Paola," she says, deciding to start with the original question, "the reason Father could not come speak with you himself is for the safety of you and your girls. The Gonfaloniere sent out orders for the arrest of him and my brothers before he was killed."

"Uberto?" Madam Paola asks. "He was a trusted ally of your Father."

"He was a traitor and a Templar," Claudia spits back, "who would have seen them all hanged in service of his own goals."

La Volpe frowns at her before asking slowly, "how much has Giovanni told you?"

"If you're trying to figure out if I know of the Brotherhood," Claudia says, flexing her hands, "then I do, yes. I would also rather we continue this conversation somewhere more private than the open street while we wait for Father to catch up with us."

"I asked how much Giovanni told you," La Volpe says, pointed. Claudia scowls at him, wishing she was older if only for the intimidation factor - not that it had ever had an effect on the Fox. The amused look he gives her at the attempt only makes her feel frustrated at her own inadequacy.

"Enough to know we should not speak of it out where anyone could hear," Claudia insists. From the corner of her eye she can see Paola is watching them, quietly assessing but making no move to intervene.

"It just seems strange to me," La Volpe says, looking at her with suspicion, "that Giovanni - who has always been very clear about waiting until you're older to introduce you to the Brotherhood - would so suddenly change his mind."

The constant suspicion hurts, coming from a man whose trust she had earned so long ago, and it is clear by her silence that Paola is of similar mind.

Claudia cannot deal with it. The pain is entirely different from that of seeing her family alive again, which had been a mix of old grief and joy. Now she feels she has lost her oldest supports, the pillars she once stood upon, and the fresh grief is a sharp pain in her chest.

"Claudia?" Madam Paola asks and Claudia is abruptly snapped from the building spiral of emotions. She buries it under anger.

"Fine. You want to know what Father has told me?” she snaps, gaze fixed on La Volpe as she quickly checks their immediate surrounds for other people with her Sense. "Nothing. He told me nothing, and then he died and now I am thirty years in the past and trying to make sure it doesn't happen again.

"So, if you don't mind, I would like to be gone from here before the patrol arrives."

La Volpe and Madam Paola stare at her in startled disbelief.

"That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard," La Volpe says eventually, slightly wide eyed.

Claudia glares at him and then says with deliberate calm. "I told them to meet us beneath the Ponte alle Grazie, in the cellar you have under the bridge, because it is the first place I could think of that wouldn't put the thieves or the courtesans at risk. Would you like me to lead us there, La Volpe?"

La Volpe is staring at her with a wary look, now, clearly trying to judge her truthfulness. Claudia doesn't care, just stands there, pissed off and waiting. She has nothing to hide.

Gradually the man relaxes, shoulders visibly loosening beneath the folds of his cape. "If you would, yes," he says, and Claudia can see a half smile in the shadows of his hood. It is a test, she knows.

Well, so be it.

"A cellar, La Volpe?" Madam Paola asks with idle curiosity.

"I have not told anyone I have it," he answers with a shrug. Paola hums.

Claudia ignores the both of them, turning on her heel and starting to walk.

Chapter Text

Maria

Maria can hear the murmur of conversation carrying from down the hall, too quiet for her to parse any of the words. She wonders, in the same distant way she does all Assassin business, what they are talking about.

For all the years they have been married, Giovanni has never been particularly forthcoming with the details of his work, and Maria hasn't felt the need to pry. She knows enough to trust her husband's judgement, and understands that he would rather not bring talk of killing and murder between them. Giovanni, though dedicated to his work, has never taken any pride in the deaths he causes.

Sometimes he would return home wearing such a blank, empty expression; as though the things he has seen and done have hollowed him out for their horror. So rather than pushing, Maria has simply supported him as much as he would allow, reminded him of the good he has wrought and learnt to be satisfied with that.

Last night's discussion had been an unprecedented sharing of information and Maria is still reeling from all she had learnt.

Federico, Claudia and Petruccio, back from a terrible future and each with a different tale to tell. Maria had wept for them, for their losses, even knowing all she's being told would not be the full extent of their pain. Giovanni had held her tight through her tears, clung to her with such desperation she knew he felt the same for all that his eyes were dry.

No, instead Giovanni had gained that hard set to his features, the one she knew meant he would be donning his robes on the morrow.

Now she does only what he requested of her, gathering a chest of their things in preparation as he instructs their children to do likewise.

Maria is in the process of folding one of Giovanni's doublets when he enters their bedroom with hurried steps. Immediately she turns to him and pauses when she sees he's in his robes. Nearly 25 years they have been together, and still she cannot help but worry for him when she sees he's working. There is always a chance he does not make it back to her, and it is a fear she can never forget.

Giovanni sighs heavily and Maria allows him to pull her into a loose embrace, careful of the many blades strapped to his person.

"Ezio came to speak with me this morning," he says into her hair, and Maria closes her eyes in quiet mourning. They had known it was a possibility last night, but it has hardly prepared her for the pain of confirmation.

All of her wonderful children...

They stay like that, sharing the silence and the grief for a stolen moment, marshalling their strength.

"I need to go, Maria," Giovanni says, pressing a soft kiss to her head before releasing her. Maria nods, raising her hands to cup his face and pull him into a tender, chaste kiss.

"Be safe, Gio," Maria says and steps back. Giovanni offers her a last, gentle smile before he turns on his heel and strides purposefully out the room. As always, Maria listens for the sound of his footsteps and hears nothing.

Maria doesn't allow herself to linger, packing away their lives with practical efficacy. Clothes, books and jewellery are all removed from their place, considered and either replaced or moved into the chest.

When that is done she moves downstairs to her husband's office, gathering the scattered papers into neat stacks before storing them. Some of it is innocuous, simple bills of sale and transaction records but there are other, coded notes hidden among them. Maria does not waste the time to separate them.

There is a part of her that wants to go back up the stairs when she is finished and gather her children into her arms, hold them and reassure herself they are all alive and well. It is not an entirely new feeling - with Petruccio being as sickly as he is, Maria is always afraid for him. Only now there is a new sense of foreboding she cannot ignore, knowing what tomorrow might have brought.

She knows, however, that she must ignore it. Giovanni had assured her they were okay, and it was more important she go about her planned business to not rouse suspicion. It was for this reason she is ignoring her every instinct and stepping out into the midmorning sun.

She did not have Giovanni's skill at moving unseen through a crowd, but Maria knows enough to not draw extra attention. Admittedly, she is finding it more difficult than she anticipated. Every flash of red or clink of armour seems amplified, and it is an effort to pay them no mind.

The key, Maria had been told, was to not act suspicious; as with the telling of any lie, if she behaves as though what she wants others to believe is true it will be so. Thus she walks with a level gait, smiles and greets those she is acquainted, and eventually arrives at the workshop.

Leonardo throws the door wide when he sees her, smiling cheerily. "Madonna Maria, how wonderful to see you!" he greets.

"To you as well, Leonardo," Maria returns, not quite mustering the same enthusiasm but still managing a smile.

"You are here for the paintings, yes?" Leonardo asks, half turning back inside, "I finished the last just the other day."

"Mmm?" Maria hums with faint interest. She wonders what came of them in the future, if the portraits were saved before they fled. It is a painful thought to consider; they are the only pieces made of the Auditore, and even then only of three of them. Giovanni would not allow Federico, Ezio or Claudia to be painted so they might remain anonymous later.

Giovanni himself is old enough now, far enough into his career and firm enough in his cover at the bank that the portrait holds no risk. Without the paintings, had the faces of her family been forgotten?

"Ah, give me a moment," Leonardo says with an apologetic smile, darting across the room to gather a number of framed paintings. As ever, the man is full of a restless energy, always in motion.

"Right, that is all of them. If you would be so kind as to lead the way?" he asks, hefting the half full crate into his arms. Maria offers him a smile, holding the door open as he passes.

"You know where the Palazzo is, Leonardo," she says, and eyes the wooden crate of paintings. "I was going to have Federico or Ezio come to help carry everything, but their Father has need of them."

"Ah, not to worry," the man dismisses with a shrug, "paintings are hardly that heavy. Now, some of my other projects..." he trails off with a grin that lights up his eyes.

"What else are you working on then, if not painting?" Maria asks, and Leonardo requires no more prompting to launch into a description of various experiments he's performed and models he's built. Occasionally Maria hums or nods in encouragement, but otherwise allows the young artist to carry the conversation as they walk.

It is easier to ignore the city guards around her by focusing on his words, though not by much. When they reach the Palazzo, Maria is relieved to find that nothing seems to have outwardly occurred in her absence.

"Where would you like them?" Leonardo asks, shifting the crate higher in his arms as he looks for somewhere suitable in the foyer.

"Just to the side, please, Leonardo," Maria answers, deciding not to risk inviting him in further.

"And uh," Leonardo clears his throat, focusing too intently on his task to be casual, "might Federico be around? I know he is busy, and I would not dare take up much of his time, but it would be good to at least say hello while I am here."

For a moment Maria forgets her worries and has to smother a smile; at least Federico manages some subtly. Of course, then she thinks of what her son has been through and struggles to maintain her brief joy.

"Not today, Leonardo," she says, and watches the subtle sag of his shoulders. Would this be kinder, for them to leave without a word?

Surely, there would be no way for Leonardo and Federico to continue their illicit relations. Much as Maria would not like to think of it, Federico must not be the same man. Likely, he's moved on from this tryst, and if not then Maria struggles to see how he could reconcile the Leonardo he must know to this younger version.

"Another time, perhaps," Leonardo says, nodding to her. "Good day, Maria."

"Good day, Leonardo," Maria says and watches him leave. Surely, this would be kinder to them both.

When he is gone, Maria shakes off the morose thoughts and turns back into the Palazzo to find her husband. The man she discovers unconscious on their couch will require quite the explanation.