Hey guys!

I'm sorry this is super late; life, holidays, and work got in the way. I also was hosting my absolute best friend in the whole wide world for a massively needed vacation. And as a bonus: I got a sweet new AC tattoo in the process. Hint: rhymes with "book overtaking a light" ;) Not to mention it's because of her this chapter managed to get somewhere! Thank you, bestie! 3

Last but not least: yours truly has a Tumblr now! Hit me up at "tkwritesdumbassassins" for future snippets, art, and mood boards! You can even ask me things you've always wanted to know about! Tristan's origins! Head canons about the Auditore! And much more!

Anyhow, onto the main attraction:
(I highly suggest listening to the Westworld cover of "Exit Music (For a Film)" to truly get an idea of the mood I wished to set here.)


~*XIII*~

Exit Music (For a Family)


The storm descended upon Florence in a vicious one-sided war, driving any remaining stubborn residents indoors as they sought refuge from the frozen invasion. Soon the troops came in the form of snow and sleet— which covered the cobblestone streets in white and brown slush, blanketing the city itself until it was eerily silent save for the occasional dog barking and a random curse from any lagging denizens caught outside.

It was funny, Tristan could not help but muse — she had arrived from an area being battered by snow and ice to a place with neither, and all of a sudden, boom! Getting battered by snow and ice. It was as if the storm had packed up, hitchhiked, and came with her to wreck some shit. In another time, in another place, she'd probably laugh at the sheer coincidence— or the irony of it all. Right now, though? As they ran for their lives all the way to the front door of the Rose, wet cold, and, miserable, their pursuers hot on their trail? Everything but laughter was on her mind.

It didn't help she felt... raw. Ragged. Like she had been a frozen slab of meat and had just been used as a warmup before the big match. On top of that, there was a massive pressure building up behind her eyes, bringing back too many memories of staring too long and hard at the computer screen in a bid to catch up on coursework and papers. And probably not for the last time she was thankful she had kept her snow boots on, for their treads gripped the slick streets as she followed the others. Visibility was horrible, but she knew it was Federico and the Gang going by their shapes bobbing up and down.

She briefly stopped and roughly pawed at the crystalline trails that had formed on her cheeks. She hadn't realized she had been crying. But it explained how scratchy her eyes felt as she rapidly blinked in the stinging wind. I'm sorry, Giovanni, the choking sobbing thoughts bounced in her head. I'm sorry. Fuck I should have—

"Petulant child." The sudden hiss that slammed and bounced through her skull was like a scraping ice pick to the brain: cold, sharp, and painful. It nearly caused her vision to tilt as her feet began to falter.

Panic bundled behind her chest as flashes and shapes teased at the corner of her eyes before they eventually congregated into harsh shadows. One of which depicted a deep-set hood hiding its wearer's features. But she needed no face to recognizethat venomous voice. And the woman's wrath, the size of a derailing freight train, bore down on her with wheels of Hellfire as she suddenly appeared to her left.

"I should have dealt with you the very moment you were brought to me,"her assailant continued to seethe, being both here and not. Both far and near. Her voice was one—no, shit; it was many. Dammit, it was hard to think; to focus when no matter how much she averted her attention, something— someone was there dragging her attention back. Worse, despite not seeing it, she was aware of golden eyes that balefully stared from those same shadows, and in response, she ducked her head, clutching either side of her head as the voice of many rose an octave. "I thought you had perished all those years ago, and I will not lie—I found myself relieved in knowing the failed paradigm and its tool was no more— but it seems I had merely been a fool to think so. And you dare come crawling back? To fumble with things that transcend your comprehension? Decades of carefully laid out plans put into motion— all at risk because you have no sense, no bearing, on what is at stake. You and that heretic both."

"Go away," Tristan whispered pathetically, a quivering leaf in the face of a coming tornado.

She's not real. Tristan squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself against the onslaught and putting one foot in front of the other, despite the task feeling equivalent to climbing Everest naked. And even if she is, remember what Miss-Needs-a-Tan said: she's not here. You have to ignore her.

Easier said than done, of course.

Tristan pressed her hands tighter in a pathetic attempt to keep out the droning screaming cacophony as she tried to keep up with the others. A difficult task for every time she so much as squinted an eye open, she found that the world around her had descended into a kaleidoscope of chaos. Lights and colors would flash and blend together. Snow would dissolve, and sunlight would take its place before a deluge of rain would thunder down in one heaving rush. All of this and more, transitioning so fast it was hard to find her feet and see straight as she stumbled through this funhouse of nightmares.

Just keep your eyes in front of you. That was the strangest thing, however. Despite each new and terrifying development that shifted and dissolved, a single-robed figure was constant. But...it seemed even Ezio was not impervious to the bastion of visions. Didn't he have a red ribbon tying his dark hair back? Why was it now blue? And why was his hood, also an unusual color, down now? Her eyes narrowed, then blinked again when she spotted a smaller figure trotting alongside him. Annetta? Dread and panic dropped into Tristan's stomach when she noticed only the maid was there by his side.

Where were Federico and Petruccio?

And in the blink of an eye, Annetta was gone too, leaving Ezio alone.

Tristan stumbled, feet tangling. Reality snapped back so fast as she face-planted in the snow with an indignant grunt, she figured Eminem was reeling wherever he was with a muttered: "'ope there goes gravity." She lay there stunned, the cold burning and scratching at her face. Minutes ached by, and nothing ever happened. What disturbed her, however, was the silence. In the absence of the woman screaming in her head, it stretched long and , but with great trepidation, she lifted her head, vision swimming. Second, by second, her vertigo slowly subsided, and she found with great solace that no sun, no flashing lights met her gaze. Even as the burying snow began to seep away at her fingers and skin's warmth, she was thankful that whatever acid trip had subsided, and she was met with average snowy weather.

But that gratitude dissolved into a panic when she realized she couldn't see anyone. God—her chest began to tighten—could they even see her?

"H-hey," she tried to catch their attention— assuming they were in the same area. "Please come back... I'm still here." However, all that came out was a raspy croak; a whisper sucked away by tiny snow devils twisting and twirling before being consumed by the storm once more.

Get up, she urgently ordered her legs, but the action seemed an extraordinary task as she clenched her fingers into the snow, eliciting a numb sense of pain.

A crunch in the snow had Tristan startle out of her daze, and her head automatically whipped the direction the sound stemmed from. She blinked away the flakes from her eyelashes, both frustrated and terrified that she couldn't see shit. She awkwardly began to scrabble to her feet as the crunching came closer, louder before a dim form could be spotted amongst the onslaught of snow and wind, hand in front of their face. They stopped for one second and peered in her direction before resuming once more, their pace faster.

With a beating heart, Tristan watched as the person (wearing a hood, she silently panicked) stopped just short of her. "Tristan? What are you doing back here?" The muffled inquiry almost blew away as the person dropped to one knee. "You know we don't have time to frolic in the snow."

Tristan was thankful to find that the Ezio that was crouched besides her was the same Ezio she was (unfortunately) familiar with, even if the face peering at her was tempting to fling snow into it. Taking her expression as a sign, he wordlessly grasped her around the shoulders and began to pull her into a sitting position. She couldn't help the pained sound as her leg was rustled in the movement. He abruptly stopped and then resumed again, slower and careful.

"Remind me," she mumbled, a hand hovering over her nose in case it decided to bleed again as she, with his help, rose to her feet with a sway and a groan. Could the world stop spinning? That would be fantastic. At least it wasn't switching between snow and sun again, she conceded as a low chuckle escaped her. "When this is all said and done to kick your ass."

She hurt... a lot, she realized. Her head was pounding, and her leg throbbing. And not just an annoying soreness that flared up occasionally but an actual fiery pain that lanced through her thigh every time she so much as put weight on it. She bit her lip to prevent the next grunt from slipping out of her mouth as she gingerly touched the spot. Swollen and very tender. God, she hoped it was nothing serious; at least it didn't feel broken. (Like she would know, honestly. She only had ever gotten her ankle sprained while hiking. And that was in the parking lot.) Either way, she mentally kicked herself for being so stupid. She shouldn't have gone for that last hit.

Her swimming head was still bowed, so she didn't see the action, but she still heard a soft snort. She assumed Ezio was looking down his nose at her with a (playful? Did she hear that right?) sniff. "If you can reach, you mean."

She finally lifted her head with a frown as they began walking in the direction Ezio had come from. Had... had he just made a joke? Her scowl deepened before lightly punching his arm, earning a half yelp, "Smartass, need I remind you, I'm in perfect striking distance of something far more precious."

"Behave you two," came the muffled warning as they nearly tripped over Annetta— and Federico and Petruccio to Tristan's great relief— awaiting them. While the tone itself from the eldest Auditore was lively, there was still a clear underlying note of caution to Federico's admonition. It dawned on her that the reason why she hadn't seen them in the white onslaught was that they had sheltered tightly against the wall, no doubt waiting for Ezio and her to return.

And while a-blink-and-you-miss-it-moment, she saw the relief on the older Auditore's face as he gave her a once-over.

He was right, of course. They weren't out of the woods yet. Even now, they could hear the clangor of far-off soldiers as they swept up and down the streets. Once, they even had to hurriedly hide in the shadows of a nearby alleyway as a pair of bundled riders came through amongst flurries of snow and creaking leather, their horses' heads bent low. They had been so close; Tristan had been able to see the whites of their steeds' rolling eyes and the steam rolling off of their flanks as they cantered down the street, quick to be swallowed by white curtains.

She sobered even more when she noticed Federico crouching down to be more on Petruccio's level, hands clasped on his shoulders, saying something in a low tone. Despite everything that happened, Petruccio was standing on his own two feet. His breathing, while labored, was constant. Which was a small miracle within itself after just having almost been hanged in the most painful way possible.

But much as she didn't want to face it, the reality was Petruccio did not look so hot. He had the overall appearance of death frozen over, defrosted, and then overcooked in the microwave— and she didn't mean that lightly in the middle of this literal frozen hell they were in the middle of. The youngest child's cheeks were taking on the color of alabaster with sunken eyes surrounded with dark ringlets. Worst of all, eerie red spots were beginning to stand out on his pale skin. And God, how he was shivering. She wished more than anything she had something to spare to help with the cold.

Whatever conversation the two brothers had was a short one, and Federico jerked his head before rising back to his feet, but not before ruffling Petruccio's hair. He looked... pained, however. And Tristan could only imagine what turmoil the young man was going through. Of course, whatever emotion he had was tamped down as he faced them once more.

Ezio grew solemn also. Something she was surprised to find as he nudged her with a soft shoulder. She was even more surprised to find that his voice had dropped its joking tone as he quietly asked, "Do you think you can walk the rest of the way to..." he trailed off, frowning.

Ah, right. He doesn't know. She pulled her hand away. Luckily, it seemed that her nose had stopped bleeding for now. However, she had no clue why it kept deciding to do that after the stupid thing activated, which was a downright annoying affair. As she clenched her now-healed hand and bit back curses as her brand-new injury caused her to penguin-hobble, she found herself bitterly wishing the Annoying Teleporting Clock would heal her wounds outside of using the godforsaken thing. How exactly did it even work?

Tristan resisted the urge to throw her hands. She supposed it didn't matter— in the end, she was still fucking stuck in the Renaissance, with a beat-up body, a nose that wouldn't stop bleeding, and a leg that just got stomped on by an angry armored dickhead who could have been the Mountain for all she knew. She tugged at her hood, further resisting a disgruntled side-eye towards a comfortable-looking Federico. Tristan would never admit it out loud, but she was beginning to regret loaning her scarf too, as the storm buffeted at her exposed face.

Her gaze slid over Ezio's expectant face, and she blinked. Oh right.

"I—" she paused to test the problematic leg, wincing as pain flared up. "I think so? It's not broken," she hated how unsure that response sounded; however, her pride was a fickle thing and just refused for her to humor otherwise. It had already been offended earlier when she admitted so to Federico. It would not be sullied twice this day if it could help it. Of course, no one looked convinced, but they didn't exactly have time to debate this, did they?

Tristan straightened her back and, ignoring the limp she most definitely had right now, started the pace again. "It helps it's not too far." Her eyes averted the direction of Annetta, who had taken Petruccio's hand in her own. Right? She wordlessly asked.

Her answer was the housemaid dipping her chin and thankfully taking the lead. Tristan didn't fail to notice that Federico immediately fixated on her as Ezio followed.

Eventually, his head tilted her way, eyebrows dipped. She figured his mouth was a thin line behind that borrowed scarf.

Are you alright? The movement said.

She halfheartedly waved, lifting one shoulderinto a half-shrug.

"I'm fine."

Translation: Worry later. First, let's get where we are going, okay?

Unconvinced, Federico's brow creased further. When she didn't back down, he eventually (begrudgingly, she might add) dipped his chin. He afterwards cleared his throat. "When you feel ready, I must insist on you going first."

A snort escaped as Tristan pulled her cloak tighter. Leave it to the man to get the last word in. But she started walking anyway, the crunching of his boots beginning not long after. Tristan didn't have the energy or mental willpower to argue with him. Plus, she really didn't want to be left behind in the snow again.

The silence as they trekked made the minutes stretch into hours, and by the time they eventually found themselves at the well-lit front door of Paola's brothel, Tristan's antsy fingers were beginning to twitch. Annetta hurriedly rapped at the door, and in no short time, it swung inwards, revealing warmth, light, and more than one relieved face in the beautiful roaring firelight on the other side.

"Annetta?" Tristan heard Ezio murmur in surprise as he paused amidst the door frame, taking in the sight of the barely clothed women milling about. "Is... is this right? Your sister's house is a brothel?"

"Baby brother, I know you've always had little luck inside one of these, but I have to insist you gawk later," Federico marched behind him, shoving him through the door. "It's freezing out here."

It hadn't been a hard push at all, but it still was enough for Ezio to stumble inside. He shot Federico's passing back a dirty look and muttered something under his breath.

Before Tristan could comment, she was suddenly flooded with the sense of being shoved through the door herself. And as she turned to scowl at whoever was responsible, she was struck dumb as the Lady in Black materialized amidst an auric cloud, eyes grim and glinting before she turned towards the entrance. "You've no power here," she said with barely restrained anger. She outstretched her hand towards the storm, crackling golden light enveloping it, "Begone."

Tristan didn't want to find out what or who it was. In fact, she downright refused to question what the fuck was going on with all of this timey-wimey Inception nonsense. She just tugged at and slammed the door shut as an awful angry screeching sound erupted behind it, cutting off as quickly as it had begun.

She released a breath she hadn't been holding as she slowly pried her hands away from the door, almost as if expecting it to burst open and allow whatever entity to come screaming through. It never happened, of course, and the tightness that had shackled her chest and shoulders together eventually loosened. Safe. She took another extended breath. We... we are safe.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her, and she hobbled over to an empty chair, collapsing into it as the three Auditore sons were being embraced and showered with sweet rambling nothings and more than one relieved kiss. Even Federico looked flustered as Claudia's arms wrapped tightly around his neck, forcing him into an awkward hunched-over position amidst equally doled-out compliments and reprimands. But she saw relief as the small family looked upon each other.

And joy knowing they were alive.

But she knew that grief was not far behind.

"Where is my husband?" The voice that spoke was soft and the environment so boisterous and alive; Tristan almost thought she had imagined it being asked. It hadn't stopped her from practically jumping, though. Nor her heart beginning a tempo that could rival an Imagine Dragons drum session. She forced these feelings down as she lifted her head a smidge. A pit soon dropped in her stomach when she saw a pair of slim hands clenched into the long-plaited gown that could only have belonged to Maria.

She thickly swallowed, finding trouble in breathing, let alone forming words. "He's..." But Tristan couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, she hung her head, eyes beginning to sting as the tumultuous rioting feelings that were once pushed back rushed forward in one fell swoop. He's dead. They whispered. And he died because I didn't know how to save him. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. I ran out of time.

"...I see," was all Maria said, her voice raspy and strained. The next breath that escaped the older woman was heavy, full of pain, and what Tristan could only assume was pure sorrow. But then she was surprised when she felt a hand soon lay on her shoulder only to lightly squeeze it.

Tristan found she couldn't move. Daresay she couldn't breathe. She bit her lip, not daring to look up. Not wanting to see the pity or the sympathy or whatever Maria may have had if she raised her head; else she would break down as the responding Did I? bounced inside her head, becoming louder and louder until it became the predominant thought that clamored in her head. She said nothing too, because God, what could she say to mitigate the rising waters?

Instead, Tristan set her own hand atop Maria's, grasping it like it was a lifeline to her, the drowning sailor who bobbed and sank on great waves of torment. I am so sorry.

Alas, their quiet moment was bound to end too soon. A horrified gasp sheared apart the air, followed closely by a heavy thump and not so quiet cursing as someone (Ezio?) fell to their knee, cradling something. No, Tristan realized as she rose slightly from her chair—someone. A small someone. A cold hand gripped her heart when her eyes landed on the young boy. It was Petruccio.

And he was sprawled out on the floor, gasping for air. His hand violently shook before it was clasped by another's hand. Tristan was numbly aware of Maria rushing towards him, kneeling next to her son, grasping his other hand. Her mouth was open, crying for something, someone, anything, but what she said, Tristan couldn't hear. Not over the ringing taking residence in her head. It eventually formed into the words of No, no, no, repeating over and over.

Tristan didn't, no, couldn't move from her seat, her heartbeat roaring in her earsas she watched helplessly.

Why? Why? Why?

Not him.

Not Petruccio.

This wasn't fair; she wanted to scream and snarl into the world. He had made it to the front door. He had made it to safety. He had survived a fucking hanging.

The next few moments were a blur. There was screaming and yelling. Frantic movement. Petruccio was no longer in the room the next time she blinked. Had they taken him to another room? Tristan was vaguely aware of a doctor being called for. Then Maria and Claudia hurriedly escorting him to Petruccio's bedside when he arrived.

She felt stuck in amber, watching the world move too quickly as the nearby workers and house servants eventually tapered off one by one. She numbly noticed that the noises had stopped. Was she now alone? How long had she been there then? It could have been mere seconds. It could have been minutes. Hell, it could have been hours for all she knew.

Tristan heard footsteps coming towards her but didn't acknowledge them. She thought her name was called, but she dismissed them as having been her imagination. Who would want to speak with her right now?

...until it wasn't when hands gently wrapped themselves around her own, and it was then, she finally stirred from her daze, stiffly looking up to find Federico crouched in front of her. "...Tristan?" He said again, doing a horrible job hiding his worry. How long had she been sitting there? How long had he been there? "Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," she rubbed her face with the back of her hand. "Sorry, got lost in my own thoughts for a bit there. How..." She couldn't even finish the question, not when he lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Paola is in the next room with Ezio," his voice came out as a low croak. "She's asked for us to join them when we're ready."

"You don't want me there," she blurted out.

"I do." Was all he said in a no-nonsense tone.

Why that was the case, Tristan could not even begin to fathom and honestly would have preferred to stay holed up in her forgotten corner, away from the family she failed to protect a member of.

Nonetheless, she found herself on autopilot, allowing Federico to escort her wherever the others have gathered. Although she gave the area where Petruccio had collapsed a wide berth.

They passed through a door, and Tristan heard snippets of a nearby conversation, numbly recognizing the voices as Ezio's and Paola's conferring. The former sounded uncomfortable, and upon a quick glance, his face reflected that. "Madonna—" he finally started to say, but he was stopped as the older woman raised a hand.

"Please call me Paola, Ezio. Yes, I know who you are. Annetta has spoken highly of you."

"Paola, then. We cannot thank you enough for all that you've done—"

The rest of the conversation became a lulling slurring mess that Tristan couldn't make heads or tails of, let alone contribute to. She questioned once more why she was even here, shifting from one foot to the other, awkwardly mulling that she was as helpful as a recorder in an orchestra as she fiddled with her class ring.

"—But I must ask you that you do so just a bit longer. Until Petruccio is well enough and… until our task is complete."

A pregnant pause. One long enough for Tristan to perk her ears too. On the other hand, Paola merely quirked a brow, her face an impassive mask as she innocently asked. "And what task is that?"

Ezio's mouth twisted in a silent snarl, but the voice was eerily calm as he spoke: "To kill Uberto Alberti."

No. That snapped Tristan back to reality, and she owlishly stared when Federico voiced his agreement as well. Did I hear that right?

"Wait—" she rumbled, putting a hand up as if back in school, soon dropping it flustered when all eyes landed on her. "Surely we should be keeping our heads down right now? Or better yet, maybe look at leaving the city until things cool off?"

Ezio's head snapped her way, seemingly surprised to find her there. He opened his mouth, but he was too slow, and it was Federico who responded with an apologetic glance. "You can certainly try, but unfortunately, so long as Uberto remains alive, the chance to leave is a slim one with all the increased security at the gates. And much as I don't want to admit it, Petruccio is in no shape to travel anywhere just quite yet. Even if he was, of course —" Tristan watched the knuckles of his hands turn white, his voice dripping in rage and barely suppressed anguish as he gritted out each word "— I'm not sure I want to leave. Not when the bastard has something that is rightfully mine, and I want it back."

Tristan glanced between the two of them, not sure if she should be incredulous or vexed by the sudden turn of events. Eventually, she opted for neither and dropped her hands to her side. "What did he take exactly?"

"A ring," he grimly said, leaning against the wall. "It is a family heirloom that has been passed down for the past century or so. My father was wearing it the night he was arrested, and I watched as Uberto pulled it off— right before he was thrown into the very next cell to mine. I saw him still wearing it as he"

Tristan narrowed her eyes, refusing to look away as Federico met her gaze in challenge. Even if he said it out loud and did his damndest to try and convince himself of it— this wasn't just about a ring. Is pride and vengeance more of a priority over your own family? She coldly wanted to ask him. Is killing a man more important than your little brother? But the words couldn't surpass the sudden dam that had been built. In fact, she was mentally scolding herself: You've done enough. This isn't your fight.

In frustration, her lips thinned, and she drew her arms back to cross them across her chest. "... okay." Her eyes forfeited the match with Federico as they moved to Ezio, who had his head bowed. It was subtle, but his hands were shaking as they splayed out on the table. "So, what's your plan of action? He is well aware that you both escaped. He'll be expecting something once he learns that no one has killed you yet."

"I know." Ezio straightened and looked around at each of them, turning grimmer with each passing eye contact, dwelling longer on his own brother's before dragging them away. "That is why the plan is simple," he said. "We find him first, and we kill the traitorous bastard."

"Wow." She didn't even pretend to hide her sarcasm as it dripped from her lips. She blamed the lack of sleep on a proper bed for why her brain-mouth filter decided not to respond. "While I admire your confidence, I must ask as to what the first three plans were? Because clearly, that one is Plan D, as in Dumbass."

At least Federico looked like he had qualms with the plan as well, judging by the deep-set frown that seemed permanently pressed into his face now. Or maybe that was supposed to be directed her way in a "not helping" kind of sense.

Either way, Ezio was not impressed in the slightest by her remark. He turned to the others and gestured angrily at her in an obvious Why is she here? manner. "My dear brother," he began, contempt and annoyance seeping off the words as he threw a look of disgust her way, "I know not what hole you found this so-called woman in, but I kindly ask that you either control her or put her back there."

Tristan's nostrils flared, and she snapped her head as Federico let out an exasperated sigh. Perhaps to grant his brother's request to which she promptly glared and loudly proclaimed, "And kindly tell your brother I'm right here, and that's a shit way of saying 'thank you' for bringing his brothers home. Besides, I need no middle man to tell him he can rightfully fuck off to whatever Circle of Hell he was spawned out of. I am no one's to control, and that perhaps he should leave to let the actual adults speak."

He merely shrugged as a result, clearly having expected that. It was nice to see that there was a loose smile and a twinkle in his eye as Ezio's ears flushed red. "Well, you heard her, 'dear brother.'"

From the corner of her eye, Tristan saw that Paola was doing a poor job hiding a smile behind a hand. But it did not take long before she grew serious once more. "She is right, though, Ezio. I understand your desire for revenge, but we are speaking about the Gonfalonier of the city. He is a powerful man and will be well-guarded. Not even Lorenzo himself can touch him, assuming he has returned from wherever." She paused, politely folding her hands together. "Besides, you are no natural killer—"

Tristan noted the sudden stiffness in Federico's shoulders as he sent a suspicious side-eye towards the Madame.

But his brother, hell-bent on his personal vendetta, did not notice either of these things, for he was too busy waving off Paola's protests. "Spare me the lecture."

"—But I can make you one," the Madame finished.

This time it was Tristan's turn to sharply inhale, and her heart began to thump in her throat. Surely, she cannot possibly mean—

Ezio was also caught off-guard by such a statement, and his scarred lips dipped downwards. "And why are you going to teach me how to kill?" He carefully asked.

"You have it wrong, dear boy." A secretive smile spread across Paola's face, "We're going to teach you how to survive."


~*End*~


Author Notes: redhairedmuses and I probably spent too long on whatever mysterious illness Petruccio may have had. Tuberculosis, anemia. You name it, we went over it. But in the end, we both kind of figured that he suffered from some sort of leukemia. In particular, acute lymphocytic leukemia has a TON of similarities to what ailment the youngest Auditore had. Some of the side effects include shortness of breath, pale skin, weakness, fatigue, and/or a general decrease in energy— on top of bone pain, fever, seizures, and frequent infections. It is also a common enough childhood cancer where it wouldn't be out of the question for Petruccio to be pulled out of school and bedridden.

Granted, according to lore, it seemed he had a "weak constitution" (whatever that means) since birth. So, take that as you will. If you have another theory, hit me up in the comments since I am always up for more headcanons centering around Petru's condition!

Regardless, the absolute poor kid. ;(

TK's Fun History Facts:

Dante's Seven Circles of Hell: Dante Alighieri (~1265-1321) to me is arguably the Godfather of Western literature. Now, while in Assassin's Creed lore, he was an important Assassin figure that was tantamount to the Auditore becoming established in Florence— it is in history, however, where he truly shines. He is considered an instrument in shaping what would eventually become modern-day Italian since the Tuscan dialect was what he primarily wrote in The Divine Comedy. He was the first to use the three-line terza rima. But before all of that, he was an important political figure, elected as one of the six priories in the early days of what would eventually become Florence's Republic.

He inspired a ton of English writers including that of John Milton, Geoffrey Chaucer, and Lord Alfred Tennyson.

His exile also became one of Florence's biggest regrets. To the point that in 2008, the Municipality of Florence officially apologized; and in May of 2021, a virtual retrial was conducted further clearing Dante's name of all wrongdoing— 750 years later. There's also an empty tomb honoring the author in Florence's Santa Croce with the front of his cenotaph reading "Onorate l'altissimo poeta" — which roughly translates as "Honor the most exalted poet" and is a quote from the fourth canto of the Inferno.

His remains rest in Ravenna.

Thoughts? Theories? Random bouts of screaming? Lemme know! Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome. If you wish for a more prompt response or just want to chat you can hit me up on my Discord! (The username is in my profile.)

-TK