I landed a job, so updates are going to be a li'l bit slower, but fret not—this is still my main focus!

Ooooh boy, lemme just say this chapter is a BEAST; I had an absolute wonderful time writing this and it's quite the roller coaster. Hope you're ready for it :D

Disclaimer: I only own a small collection of OCs and this cobbled-together plot. Everything and everyone else is simply borrowed. So, in short, please don't sue. I'm poor. These are also my interpretations based off of the games, books, and AC: Lineage. So, forgive any transgressions.

And just wanted to say— thank you so much for the reviews, favorites, and watches. You make my day every time I see them in my inbox. Ya'll are the GOATs.

Now with that said, I think it's about time we introduce an important set of someones...

~*VI*~

With a Little Help From (Surprising) Friends

December 27, 1476

I'm surprised this journal is actually salvageable. Guess my friend got one of those fancy-schmancy waterproof journals or something? (Not that I'm complaining, this was her idea anyway.)

Heh, anyway—

Assuming you can even read this, my name is Tristan Meyers and I think I'm a time traveler.

Yes, shocking, I know. You're probably questioning my sanity. Trust me, I know. I've been doing it for the last half-hour. "But how do you know?" you may ask, tempted to put this journal back where you found it, but you won't. You know you're too curious.

Well, it's rather simple— I was born in the year 1989, and in the year 2013, I somehow ended up in 1476. I don't really know how, but what I do know is that I found myself in a smelly alley in Florence, Italy, despite having been walking home in a completely different country across the globe. (Canada if you're wondering. Assuming it's already been discovered. If not, spoiler alert! There are two continents on the other side of the world with their own peoples and civilizations.)

I also know I may have... well... honestly, I don't know what this thing in my possession is. It looks old though and severely damaged. But, despite the damage, I still get the strangest vibes when near it. Sometimes it gets to the point of me wanting to toss the damn thing and be rid of it. Except— I know I won't. Because if I had to make a wager, I'd say it's responsible for my being here.

I roughly drew the… Clock (I guess that's the best name for it?) for reference, just in case something happens to it or me. I think something already happened, but I'm not quite sure; like I said previously, any and all memories are somewhat muddled together.

Can't really explain it, but it feels like every time I try to recall what happened, my brain becomes this fuzzy static mess; as if the rabbit ears on the top of TV were skewed and malfunctioning. And no amount of fiddling clears the image any. (If the current reader is from the 15th to the 18th century, sorry kid, I don't feel like explaining the metaphor.)

I do wonder, is it possible to get amnesia from getting struck on the head by a coin purse?

Yeah, I know. I sound even more ridiculous. You're probably putting the book down and walking away now. Don't blame you at all for that one.

If you're still here, wondering what the heck I just meant because, once again, curiosity's sake— let's just say it's a long story. But it involves this man-kid who WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE! Seriously, I'm about tempted to strangle this kid. He's literally sitting right next to me. Just popped out of nowhere and now is trying to be smooth, despite having been on someone's shit list just prior. Go. Away!

Excuse me, let me go deal with this.

(Later)

Okay, reader. Sorry about that, but I'm back. Things got a little hectic, but it turned out okay! Got a place to sleep for the night. Won't go into details, but let's just say, that kid is alright in my book now.

Let's mosey back to the subject at hand, though and talk about the giant elephant in the room. I'm in Italy during the Renaissance. I guess in a twisted way, I'm fulfilling a friend's request to go on an 'adventure.' Although this was not what I had in mind. I would have much preferred hitchhiking to the middle of Bumfuck nowhere than traveling back in time. Especially to a period where they don't know there are two continents on the other side of the world. My home hasn't been discovered, yet let alone thought of.

I suppose one unseen benefit about all of this is that there's little litter, hardly any graffiti, and no hordes of tourists snarling the streets. The icing on the cake I'll get to meet some famous people too.

Or I could die a horrible death by tuberculosis, or some other plague lost to the ages.

I'm rambling now, and it's kind of hard to see now. I am still sort of figuring this shit out. But… I will push through—despite some saying, I have little to no self-preservation. (I'm looking at you, Cat.)

Until next time, (if there is one)

Toodles,

T.M.

Florence, Italy

December 28, 1476

The habit of monotony had been Tristan's best friend after she had moved. It had consisted of an early morning alarm, a shower, feeding her cats, coffee, and catching the bus to work. It was spending long hours in front of a computer wrestling with code, getting it exactly right so it would render correctly. It was spent discussing projects and negotiating pay.

It was a series of things and events that kept the gnawing thoughts of guilt and worry away. Such as, had it been the best idea to move to another country away from family and friends? There had been plenty of excellent sounding job prospects and promises close to home in SoCal, hell she could have moved up north to the Bay area and snagged something. Why even Canada and not stateside? Or the most important question: had all of this been a big mistake?

Her restless sleep brought little peace. And for the first time, in a long time, a memory floated from the deep waters of her subconscious, clogging her mind and weighing her chest with the heft of molten shame.

"I know why you're doing this."

"I don't know what you're talking about, mom."

Tristan, to her credit, tried to push the memory away; but it swirled and ebbed in her mind, nibbling at the remnants of her sleep. In the daze of half-consciousness, she agonizingly waited for the phone's alarm to sing the opening notes of Circle of Life, signaling the end of this nightmare of being stuck in the past. She even pictured her two cats pouncing on the bed, protesting with yowls in an attempt to get her up— they always believed they were starving after all. And after that, she would jump into the shower and hope to have remembered to lock the door; since said cats had the annoying habit of opening and jumping in with her. Then she would get dressed, get some coffee, hop on a bus, head to work, curse at a computer screen a couple of times…

That's what she expected.

What she wanted more than anything else.

What she got instead was a whole lot different.

Yes, something did jump in, but it was certainly not any kind of cat she had. The woman roused amidst flailing limbs as a heavy bulk came crashing through the cloth coverings and onto her. Her eyes snapped open, immediately throwing herself away from the trespasser, fight or flight kicking in. She caught a glimpse of a cut lip and wide eyes, indicating he was just as surprised to see her. However, before Tristan could react or say anything, he regathered his wits and leapt the distance between them. There wasn't much room to move around in here, and he managed to pin her. Before she knew it, she was wrapped up tighter than a present on Christmas morning in his arms.

"Fuck!" Although with the hand slapped over her mouth, it only came out as an angry "mmph!" And then when she tried to breathe, there was a strong urge to gag. Jesus H. Christ, did the concept of handwashing ever occur to this person?

She stopped struggling as a voice hissed into her ear, "Shh! Do you want us to get caught?" Tristan froze. She found herself caught off-guard due to how young he sounded. And yet, if she didn't have such a simmering vehemence, she would have been feeling absolute mortification for getting jumped by what looked like a teenager.

The woman hotly threw an elbow and wanted to snarl; she didn't care who caught who, but alas, he dodged it, breathing an annoyed "Quit it!"

Worse, he further pinned her arm against her body. Then she heard it: angry voices, curses, and pounding feet that sounded endless. They weren't on the roofs from the sounds of it, though, which was good— she guessed. It appeared to be an unending barrage however and, in a strange case of déjà vu, she realized someone had fucked up. Again. And ended up with her— on her more like. If she didn't know any better, she was starting to become a massive magnet for trouble.

She didn't care if the kid got caught; however, she didn't want to end up in the crossfire. And so with great reluctance, she sat still and stayed silent. It felt like forever until the last vestige of the interloper's pursuers faded. In their absence, her captor's breathing sounded deafening. The seconds went on forever before the hand around her face loosened. "Now see that wasn't so hard—"

She would feel almost terrible since he had just been a kid—but at that moment, Tristan saw her chance and took it. In one fluid motion, she braced her legs, brought her head forward, then with all of her might, slammed it back. A loud crack was her reward, followed by a muffled sound of pain as the hands that been pinning her arms and mouth disappeared. Tristan scrambled and grabbed her things, swinging up and over the railing, shooting a last glare over her shoulder.

"Look before you leap, asshole," she sniffed, rubbing her face on her sleeve as if that was going to get rid of the scents clogging up her nostrils. Blech. The woman was tempted to find one of those smelling salts the beak-masks used just to have something better. Ignoring the sounds and curses of pain emitting from inside, she adjusted her bag and flounced off.

The bell towers were silent at the moment, but she figured it was mid-morning judging by the sun's placement. While it was cold, the clear cloudless sky promised it to be a warmer day. Either way, it was a definite sharp contrast from the cold misery that had been menacing her last night. From this height—which the view was admittedly gorgeous from— Tristan could almost pretend she was somewhere in the mountains outside of Santa Barbara if she squinted at the surrounding terrain hard enough and ignored the gigantic dome in the distance. She would have appreciated it if her mood hadn't been so sour. Or if the back of her head hadn't been smarting so much.

"Hey, you!" Now what? She threw a glare to the side. Across the street was one of those guards Federico had warned her about. He wore light armor and looked pretty disgruntled that his quiet morning had been interrupted, but it appeared that Tristan's threat level was low enough to keep the bow he had on his back. It didn't mean it would stay that way as he gestured irately at her and then down at the street, "No civilians are allowed up here! Get down!"

Tristan flipped him the bird as she meandered to the edge, "Hold your horses, dude, I am going!"

He angrily said something else— a declaration of war perhaps, but she tuned him out as she swung herself around the ladder, gripping the rungs until the knuckles of her hands turned white. "Don't look down. Don't look down," she repeated, forcing herself to stare straight ahead as she slowly climbed. A tightness that wrapped around her chest constricted with each rung she descended. It seemed to stretch on forever, and the woman didn't quite feel safe until her feet were safely on the ground. A shaky breath of relief slipped between her lips as she removed her hands from the ladder and took a step back.

"See, it wasn't that hard," she laughed, ignoring the nervous tint to it as she bent over to catch her breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. She did that focusing on one spot for however long until her limbs stopped shaking so much. She groaned, running a shaky hand through her hair, "Fuck, I thought I was over this already. A ladder of all things? Really?"

She shook her head and slapped both of her thighs before straightening. Right, she had other priorities, and it was apparent she had just been evicted from her temporary place of residence. So, the question became, now what?

It came to her almost immediately, but the source of her answer was in the form of a least expected manner: her stomach. It growled like a cornered animal. Apparently, a handful of measly stale chips dug up from the bowels of her bag hadn't been good enough for her now raging hunger.

Great.

Food? Her stomach asked, or more like begged. Food, she agreed. The question became, where would she find food? And then morphed into how would she acquire food? With a scowl, she waved them off as if they were troublesome flies, "I'll figure that out when I get there."

Translation: she was probably going to snag something when the person wasn't looking, because hey it's suddenly okay now. Oh, she winced at that—how the mighty have fallen.

The woman ran a hand through her lost cause of a hair, still wishing she had some kind of brush and then threw it into a quick braid. She drew the cloak's hood over her face and slumped her shoulders to make herself look uninteresting as she strolled the streets, mostly following her nose for anything tasty to eat. But alas, nothing seemed to be available so early in the day. Most of the stalls were bare-boned or still in the process of being set up. Some of the vendors would pause in their work and eye her in suspicion as if knowing her intent, but they were few and far between. Which was how she liked it. The lesser the attention, the better.

After a half-hour of no luck and feeling all the hangrier, she stopped and rubbed the back of her head in a loss. Okay, maybe I oughta head towards that one big marketplace. The Mercato something? Crap, she wrinkled her nose, the name was escaping her. It was another one of those tourist traps that everyone flocked to. Full of vendors and cheap souvenirs. The one with the lucky pig statue whose snout was shiny from people rubbing it too much. Or was that built after this time? Ugh, time travel was confusing as hell…

"Tristan?"

The brunette's thoughts braked to a stop in absolute confusion. She must have been hearing things because no one should have known what her name was. Not even that weird lady had said it. When she heard her name again, she tugged her hood down and turned her head in the direction of the voice, frowning.

Waving at her from the nearest corner was none other than Federico. The one constant variable right now that proved to be predictable, reliable, and at times, extremely annoying. But she knew she could trust him. Although she found herself perplexed. Why did he—oh. Oooh. Her morning dose of adrenaline rush and hanger dissolved, and, in a flash, last night's events came back to her in one substantial embarrassing lump. She resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose as a sheepish voice commented from the back of her head, Ooooh yeah, I did that.

Last night had many, and she emphasized the word "many," regretful moments, including but not limited to taking a knife to a bench. The end result had been hilarious she'd admit, but still by no means was she proud to be in such a poor mental state to get to that point in the first place.

She vented a breath shortly after that, pasting on a more natural-looking smile. Admittedly, she supposed it didn't really matter. He was pretty much the closest thing she had to a friend in these parts, and he was willing to go out of his way to aid her. Who else offers a place to stay to someone who pulled a stunt like that amongst the many other societal crimes she might have committed in his presence thus far? No one from her time that was for sure. He must have been on his way to Il Duomo, but their paths intersected prematurely.

"Good morning, Tristan," he greeted with the warmth of a campfire on a winter's day as she got close. A trait that seeped not only into his personality but also his attire— judging by how he preferred his warm colors. Yesterday, it had been a surprisingly flattering burnt orange. Today it was a rich dark burgundy with gold and black adornments that complimented his olive complexion. His ruffled dark hair still looked like he hadn't put much work into it though, beyond rolling out of bed and maybe running a hand through it.

And, she winced. Bless his heart, he pronounced it as "Tree-stan."

"Mornin' yourself. But uh actually… not to be rude, but it's Tristan," she politely corrected, emphasizing the "Tris" and "tin," respectively. "You can always call me 'Trish' though if you prefer nicknames."

But neither comment seemed to faze him any as he made an "ah" sound and nodded in understanding. "Tristan," he repeated, rolling each syllable. Then he did that crooked grin of his. "Thank you, that makes much more sense now. I thought that hadn't sounded right at first."

Lord heavens, this one is popular with the ladies, she mused, but then remembered their initial meeting and resisted a snort. Or an absolute dick. Probably a little of both.

"There you go," she hummed, returning the smile, switching her stuff to lean against her other hip. "Glad to see you got my hint."

"I did, and I must say," he scratched at his chin in thought. "It's an… interesting way to receive a woman's name. Uh, not that I'm complaining, of course," he hurriedly added.

She couldn't help but grin, Heh, I bet. "Well, you know as they say: there's a first time for everything."

"Indeed," he dipped his head. "Although, in all honesty, I didn't expect such a—"

"Man's name?" Tristan shrugged helplessly, recalling all the painful memories from her youth. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

A brief annoyed look crossed his face before he chuckled, shaking his head. "I was going to say unique, but now that you mention it..." He trailed off humming, cupping his chin as he thought out loud. Before long, he snapped his fingers in an apparent eureka! moment, "From the tragedy, if I'm not mistaken?"

"O-oh, you know of that story?" She blinked, then silently cursed at how stupid that had sounded. Why wouldn't he? He probably knew it better than she did! A nervous chuckle escaped as she palmed the back of her neck, "You'd be right. My father wanted to honor his great-grandmother's legacy when she passed."

In fact, according to him, it had been her great-great-grandmother Liddy's favorite story thanks to studying a lot of Medieval Era Literature after the Great War. She wished she had been able to meet her just once. She had sounded like such a fascinating woman.

Federico drew her back to the present as he smiled, "Well, it fits. And it certainly is an honorable way to remember a loved one."

And then her stupid stomach had to ruin the moment, and she willed the silly thing to shut up on its tirade.

"I… actually was on my way to get something to eat?" She grinned, embarrassed, and wanting the earth to just open up and swallow her. This was not what she wanted. "But it seems like no one is open this early…" She trailed off, grumbling.

"Well, that'll make two of us then," he chuckled, "I did not get much chance to break my fast before I left, and there's a bakery not far from here—"

"Federico!"

Both of their heads turned when a voice hailed from down the street.

"Why does that sound familiar?" Tristan muttered under her breath as she watched the source come into view. And was taken aback when he got close enough for her to see his face.

It's him.

In the sunlight, she got a far better glimpse at the interloper and how she hated to be right. He was a teenager, at most eighteen with dark hair pulled back in a low-lying ponytail and a hawkish nose that was becoming two times too big and two shades too dark for his face. She minutely grimaced. Damn, she really had done a number on him. However, despite his appearance, there was a sense of carelessness and arrogance about him that could only be fueled by youthful bravado. But his neutral-toned clothes looked rumpled and his hair unkempt as if he had been in a hurry. She could only guess as to why.

When the foreigner warmly greeted Federico, her brain put two and two together and nearly had a stroke at the sheer coincidence. The family resemblance between the brothers was undoubtedly there. While the older sibling had maybe an inch or two on his brother, they both had similar amber eyes and skin tone. Although with his nose being swollen as is, the newcomer was beginning to look like he was related more to a tomato.

Federico paused their conversation and turned, remembering he had company as he gestured for her to come closer. "Oh! Tristan, this is my brother, Ezio."

She stepped aside so she could be seen better. "Yeah, we've met," she nodded her head in civil greeting just as the kid—Ezio fixed his attention on her, and immediately, his good-natured smile dissolved.

"You." The newly named stranger hissed, sounding unsure if he should be pissed, bewildered, or a bit of both.

Taken aback, Federico crossed his arms as he looked between them, focusing the most on his brother's face. "Yes, I see that you have." Eventually, he indicated his brother as he fixed his gaze on her. The man didn't look angry, but there was definitely an aura of confusion, maybe even some bemusement. She could probably take a gander as to what he was thinking and she ran a hand through her hair.

"Did... you do this?"

Her eyes flicked over to Ezio, who was beginning to fume in indignation, preparing for her answer. "My head may have gotten in the way of his face, yes," she said calmly, causing him to scowl. She couldn't help but smile sweetly as she established eye contact, "Rather hard I might add."

Federico was now watching Ezio with far greater interest, an all-too-familiar expression Tristan was used to as it had been leveled at her as a kid. The one to see if your dumbass younger sibling was going to do something foolish and whether or not he had to step in, "I see."

Ezio's attention turned to Federico, indicating in her direction as if she was not there. "I'm curious, dear brother, as to where you might have found this 'delightful' bludgeon of yours."

"Ezio- " Federico warned.

But Tristan cut him off with a hand, "No, no, please let him speak. I would love to hear what he has to say. Perhaps instead of his face, an unfortunate accident could befall something more precious this time."

Ezio's brow rose and gave her a once-over. "If you can reach, you mean."

She sputtered as her hands furled into rigid fists. She went to take a step forward, but she found her progress halted by a hand gripping her upper arm. Not tight enough to be uncomfortable, but just firm enough to prevent her from doing something she'd probably regret. When she shot an annoyed glare, she found Federico wasn't looking at her, but rather maintained a stern gaze at his brother. "I'll tell you later but I wouldn't keep Father waiting if I were you, Ezio. He is already in an unpleasant mood, and I doubt he'll improve the longer you wait."

He paused, frowning as he took in his appearance, "Perhaps it's best if you go clean yourself up first too, hmm?"

The younger Auditore nodded and, surprisingly, shot one last smug look and wink at her before running off. It wasn't until he disappeared from view did Federico release her arm. She stepped away and rubbed at it, scowling up at him. "That was pretty uncalled for, don't you think?"

His shoulders relaxed as he turned his head to look at her. "Actually, you misjudge my intentions, I was more worried about him." He waved a hand in Ezio's direction, failing to hide an amused grin. "Look at what you did to his only asset already. "

Tristan threw her hands in indignation, crossing them in a huff afterward. "I assure you, Federico, it hadn't been intentional. I was just trying to get away from him and acted in self-defense! I felt bad at first, but now I know it's what he gets for landing feet first into a woman trying to get her beauty sleep!"

"My brother did what—?" Federico blinked in surprise before he threw his head back, laughing. It lasted a while until he shook it afterward, "Oh, that poor boy is hopeless."

He sobered up shortly after that, his gaze focused on where Ezio disappeared off to, and Tristan noted the faint wince as he sighed, "I'm sorry for him. Truly. He's usually better than this. Or at least," his voice dropped to a barely discernable murmur. "I thought I taught him better than this."

Tristan cocked her head before dropping her arms to her side with an exhale and a grimace. "No, please don't beat yourself up over it. If anything, I should apologize. He was in some kind of trouble, and I suppose he did what he thought was best at the time. And honestly, I should have known better than to goad him so much. Besides!" She clapped his shoulder, "What are brothers for if they're not little shits at times?"

"True, but still…" He didn't turn her way, "Even if you are not affected, it's not exactly decorum to insult a woman. And he knows better than that."

Ah yes, that good old-fashioned chivalry, the woman snorted but said nothing as she watched him furrow his brows. "Trouble you say?" It hit him a second later, and as a result, he let out a rather loud scoff and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Dammit, he must have been caught by Ser Vespucci again..." Federico mumbled, probably resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

A corner of Tristan's lip betrayed her as she asked innocently, "What was that?"

He fixed her a look in an attempt to look serious. "Nothing for you to be concerned about." Although the tone didn't match his demeanor, for he too had to fight a seditious upper lip.

Uh-huh, sure 'nothing' or it's another case of horny teenager strike again. She coughed into her hand to stifle the laugh, ignoring the mock glare he sent as she rolled her wrist. "Anyway, you were going to show me a bakery. Or something?"

Thankful for the distraction, he jerked his head. "This way. It should be open."

It was open, and she found a place to sit as Federico spoke to the man. It wasn't much besides bread and some cheese, but to her, it was practically ambrosia: a feast for the Gods themselves.

Food! She tried. She really did try to look decent and lady-like as she ate. She wanted to say her mother's and Abuela's attempts at manners maintained, but chances are she probably looked like a happy pig slogging through the mud, happily digging through the food scraps. She could practically hear the incredulity in Federico's voice as he said, "May I ask, when's the last time you've had anything to eat?"

Oh five-hundred years, give or take.

"Uh… awhile," She shrugged, wolfing down another bite. Freshly baked bread was amazing, and she'd never take it for granted again.

"Ah," he slowly nodded, continuing to stare as he took a bite. She decided that was her cue to maybe slow things down and act less like a starving bumpkin and more lady-like, and she sheepishly smiled as a result. It wasn't long after did they fall into a comfortable silence and every now and then she caught him stealing glances. She was tempted to have him spill whatever was on his mind before he cleared his throat.

"If you don't mind me asking." Tristan looked up with an inquisitive brow and was surprised to find him pointing. "What… what is that?"

"Oh, this thing?" Her fingers brushed against the small dark patch that spread across her wrist. Crap, did Renaissance-era men ever see ink? If they had, definitely not on women, that was for sure. "It's a tattoo," she said carefully, watching his expression for disgust or the like. When there wasn't, she softened a little. "A silly something my siblings and I decided to get together. It's a rook overtaking a knight chess piece. It's like an inside joke between my family."

He immediately brightened. "You play chess?"

Why was she not surprised to hear that? "Ehhhh," she drawled. "It's been a while? I was taught a long time ago and only ever played with my father on our trips. Needless to say, I'm not the greatest at it."

"Well, if you ever decide to take up playing again, you are in luck. I consider myself quite the skilled player."

Had that been pride she heard in his voice? Tristan snorted, stifling a laugh, "Am I supposed to be impressed?" She made a mock gasp, "I bet you tell all the girls that!"

He fixed her a cryptic look before the biggest shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face. "Just the beautiful ones," he purred prior to winking.

Walked in on that one, dummy. She chided herself as her cheeks flushed like a silly schoolgirl. Damn him. Out loud, she flicked a hand his way in that typical 'oh you' fashion. "Think yourself mighty clever for that one, don't you?"

To her surprise, he didn't retort but instead snatched her wrist and pulled it closer to him as a bout of intensive examination overtook his features.

"Hey!" She exclaimed, attempting to pull it back despite the annoyed expression on his face. Growing frustrated, she glared at him, "What's the—!"

"Your hand," was all he said as he turned it in a way for the palm to face her. She was caught by surprise when she saw that it was bleeding. A nasty gash had adorned her hand, running parallel from the flesh of the pinkie finger downwards to her palm. It must have happened when she jumped out of the bachelor pad earlier, for it was already scabbing.

She swore quietly in Spanish, scrounging around in her bag. "Shit," she swore again as she failed to find what she was looking for, looking upwards. "I don't have bandages." She had meant Band-Aids, but regardless, add another thing Tristan forgot to put into her bag. A basic First-Aid kit. There were a couple of feminine pads, but she thought better about it as she did her best at cleaning it.

"Well, there's a doctor nearby," Federico jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "But..."

"But?" Tristan raised an eyebrow at his apprehensive demeanor, finishing off the last of her breakfast.

He stayed quiet, drumming his fingers on the table as his eyes shifted, making their best attempt at not meeting her gaze, but every other second, they'd flick to the purse attached to his side. Oh.

"Wow," she deadpanned, her voice thick with sarcasm. "I would think someone of your talent would be absolutely swimming in funds."

"I don't see anything stopping you from contributing," he snarked back with a pointed look, making her emit a quiet laugh. To his credit, he hadn't missed a beat.

"Heh, touché." She leaned back into her chair, steepling her fingers together. "So how do you figure we amend this situation then? You with little money and me having no bandages?"

His nose scrunched up, and he went to scratch at it, "Well, there are several ways we could acquire money, but some of the methods would be... frowned upon."

She shot that down quickly with a stern look, "No, Federico."

He held up his hands, palms facing her in an "okay, okay" gesture. "I suppose you could try to get sympathy from the man— although, I wouldn't recommend it. There's another way, of course. But it would require us to go to my home."

Tristan balked at the idea, and she opened her mouth to refute that last option, but nearly jumped when a sudden tugging sensation hit her like a Mack truck. It was as if something deep inside insisted on the notion. This… alien feeling wanted her to go there, to his home, bad, and it concerned her. Terrified her, actually. But then there was also confusion, and lastly, fury. Where had that come from? She still put up a fight, fixing him a look.

"'Rico, your heart is in the right place, but I hate to break it to you. Your bringing home a random woman you barely know in men's clothes would probably not fare well with your family." She pointed out.

Not to mention, he had already supplied her with sustenance, a place to sleep—she couldn't imagine him going out of his way just for bandages. When was enough? There was nothing that she could give that would return the favors.

His brows rose into the "are you serious" position before giving her a once over. She couldn't help but scowl. Why did everyone feel obliged to study her like a lab rat all of a sudden? "No offense, but at first glance, a 'woman' would be the last thing anyone would think. However, we'll make it quick and, if necessary, spin an innocent lie."

Tristan stared, before averting her eyes when he started to shift uncomfortably, "Thanks… I think." While he wasn't wrong in his assessment and it had been her intention to blend in with the crowd, truth be told it still managed to strike a blow to her feminine pride. She didn't dwell on it too long for the woman palmed the back of her head as the tug grew stronger. Tristan didn't like the fact it seemed to be getting worse; faster, harder.

HEY YOU, yeah YOU! Listen! You need to go there! Go! Follow him there now! It seemed to be screaming in the only way it could: by bouncing around inside her head like a pinball on steroids. It was either that, or a demented Navi stuck inside her head. The worst part? There was a tiny notion that suggested the stupid clock-long thing in her bag was partially responsible. Or was she just losing her damn mind in this godforsaken place?

She vented a breath. Two against one; what shit odds.

In the end, a defeated Tristan sighed as she slipped on her cap, "I suppose… we don't have much choice then."

When Tristan heard the word 'home,' she'd been expecting something similar to the red-tiled buildings that lined the wide boulevards. Something warm and comfortable that reflected that of her guide. Maybe his family owned one of the many shops that lined the street? She didn't know jack shit about Renaissance dynamics, but if he wore clothes like that, he must have been high up the social ladder, right?

What she was gifted with, however, totally blew her mind. It was a sprawling mansion that stood about two stories, with crème colored walls and motifs that delicately wove around the borders. It rose high enough to be seen almost everywhere in the immediate area and was adorned with the same red and yellow flags she had seen throughout the district, announcing a sense of immense importance. Through the single entrance that gave way to the open-roofed foyer, Tristan could see the word, "AVDITORE" above what she assumed to be the front door.

Auditore.

Funny, she could have sworn she had heard the name before, but from where? She shook it off, for it was probably nothing. She did remember that this mansion hadn't been standing when she visited Florence last.

Wait, not a mansion, she corrected herself. No, no, what was the actual name again? Ah, yeah, a palazzo. She froze at that. A palazzo meant money.

"Hey, Mr. Money-Bags," she smacked Federico lightly with her uninjured hand. "You didn't tell me you were rich," she hissed under her breath, gesturing towards the grand building.

To his credit, he adopted a sheepish stance and scratched the back of his head. "I didn't deem it important enough to mention at the time. But— yes, my family is employed in a bank." He fixed her a look and a quirked brow. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"A little," she blew a strand of hair that had slipped in front of her face. Banking. Of course, it was banking. He wasn't just rich, he—or more like his family— practically defined the word. "But, a banker without a full coin purse is something I'd almost call ironic." She pointed out with a scoff.

"Perhaps it would be—if I was a real banker," he side-eyed her with a crooked grin. "And I can assure you, I most certainly am not one. At least—anymore. It could also just be stupid to carry that much money around. We aren't the only thieves in Florence, you know. And not all of them are as friendly or understanding as we are."

She had intended to reply with a sharp comeback, but his response made her pause. For someone younger than her, he had a pearl of unexpected budding wisdom within. With narrowed eyes, she pursed her lips and waved a finger at him. "Huh, you have a valid point there. Color me surprised."

"I have my moments," he shrugged with a grin, gesticulating with a hand. "Now, c'mon. We'll make this quick so you can be on your way—wherever that is," he led her inside. Vines and other plants adorned the wall to her left. Statues stood in tiny alcoves watching her as if they were miniature soldiers, ready to strike down any danger. The same sigil on the flags had been cemented into the center of the floor and was lit by sunlight that peeked through the open roof that was typical of most palazzi.

He stopped her and indicated towards an ornate bench that sat under one of the alcoves, "Wait here, I'll be back soon."

"'Kay," she plunked her butt down and nearly groaned in relief when she was allowed to slip off her suddenly heavy bag. She rolled the shoulder, thankful to be given a break from the damn thing. Actually, just have the opportunity to sit in general. She leaned back and closed her eyes, sighing, for once feeling at peace.

It didn't last long, however, and she felt more than heard someone nearby and peeked an eye open to see a boy sneaking in. Out? She wasn't too sure, but she got the impression he wasn't supposed to out here, due to his head looking back and forth expectantly. As if expecting to be caught and in trouble. He looked about twelve, maybe thirteen.

He froze like a rabbit in the sights of a wolf when he caught sight of her looking at him. She waved, hoping she didn't come off as suspicious. So she pulled off her cap and smiled. It seemed to work for he stepped closer, curiosity looking to overwhelm his initial apprehension.

"Who are you?" He asked in a cautious tone. "Are you here to see my father?"

She shook her head. "Ah no, I'm... Tristan. A friend of Federico's." She showed him her hand. "I got hurt, and he's going out of his way in helping me with it."

This must be the brother he was telling me about, she thought with a sad smile. Poor kid; he must have been on bed rest for months if the pallor of his skin was anything to go by. She wondered what kind of ailment he had and hoped he'd recover from it soon.

The kid blinked and then smiled, but before he could reply, another voice entered the fray in the form of a tall man. "Petruccio? What are you doing out of b—."

The man didn't finish his sentence as he spotted her, and it was Tristan's turn to now feel like a rabbit dead center in the wolf's line of sights. She couldn't explain the utter fear she had, but her heart quaked, and she found it difficult to swallow as his eyes first widened then narrowed. And then became angry.

I know you. A part of her mind whispered- confused, frightened, but definitely sure of the man in front of her. As a result, many questions dog-piled her: how? Why? Who? Where? What? Most importantly-when. When and where had she seen this man before? So stuck in her mental torment, she barely heard him tell his youngest son to go back to his room. He had... a guest to attend to, flicking a veiled glare her way as he herded Petruccio towards the door.

It wasn't long until he had returned. Her heart was now racing, and she didn't dare look up when she heard his steps come closer, but she could see his worn but well-polished boots stopping mere inches from her own. "Get up and follow me. And do it quietly," he murmured in a tone that booked no argument.

Not like she was planning to. Not when she spied the gilded hilt at his hip. There was little doubt in her mind that he could use it and kill her in an instant if he felt like it.

She gathered her things, and obediently rose from the bench. It was at that point Federico returned, a handful of bandages in his grasp. "I believe these should be enough—oh," his steps faltered. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, "Father."

Daddy dearest flicked his eyes towards him, a brief spark of exasperation and anger flaring up at him. And… did she sense fear too? But like a candle, it was snuffed out as his gaze returned to her. With a sharp jerk of his head, he turned on his heel, knowing she was going to follow. Tristan reluctantly did so, but not before she made a motion to Federico with her hand indicating she was fine and not to worry. But was it fine? For all she knew, she was going to get Shanghaied— or worst-case scenario— shanked.

The Patriarch looked absolutely teeming with antagonism as he opened one of the doors, leading into what looked like some kind of office. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she took a bandage off of Federico and gave him a gesture of thanks in the form of squeezing his shoulder.

"Tristan—." He began to say but stopped. She knew what he was trying to ask, and that was whether or not she was going to be okay. She half-heartedly inclined her head, hoping her expression didn't reflect the dread that was rising from deep within.

As she walked with leaden feet, she wrapped her hand in a quick job, sucking in a breath when a quick flash of pain emitted from her palm as she pulled too tight. She did a sloppy job tying it off, but it'd work—for now.

Just as she reached the threshold, she snuck a look back. There was Federico, still standing there in the middle of the foyer, appearing like a kicked puppy. She didn't even have the chance to wave goodbye before the door closed, shutting off the world and leaving the two of them alone.

It took a couple of blinks for her eyes to adjust. She found herself in a well-outfitted office. One she'd assume to be perfect for banking and private conversations. There was a wide but ornate desk with neat sets of papers and carefully organized writing instruments. On the wall opposite the door, there stood an immaculate fireplace made up of some kind of marble. The wallpaper was also tasteful, giving the eyes something appreciative to look at despite the absolute terror that was going through Tristan at this moment.

It was at this desk, the man stopped, facing away from her. "Who are you?" He spoke, and she found herself drawn to him like a suicidal moth to a flame. His voice was quiet, but Tristan knew it did little to dampen just how deadly he could be.

As a result, she took an apprehensive step back adopting her best calming voice, "Please, my name is Tristan Meyers, and I'm not here to cause any trouble—"

He whirled on her with teeth bared, a hand threatening to unsheathe the dagger at his side, "Then, why are you here?"

She indicated her bandaged hand, scared out of her mind, "I was just here for bandages! Just bandages and nothing else!" Her hands flew up in a defensive stance as he took a step towards her. She felt near tears as she pleaded with him, "Please, you have to believe me. You have me mistaken for someone else because I don't know you or what the hell you're even talking about!"

But she knew deep down that was a lie. He looked familiar, and she would have initially pegged it as the familial resemblance between his sons and him. Yet no, that wasn't it. She had seen his face before. Where though? Something tugged at her memory, a face under a white hood, but it fluttered away just out of reach. And she despaired because of it. What is happening to me?

He must have caught wind of her conflict because he practically exploded as he slammed his unoccupied hand onto his desk, making everything rattle as he roared, "Tell me the truth!"

Tristan opened her mouth to say something. Anything, but nothing came to mind that would placate the man. That and a glint caught her eye. Perhaps it was not the smartest thing given what was going on, but she took her attention off the man. There were two paintings on the wall behind him and the ornate desk he stood by, both depicting mighty fortresses built amidst grand mountains. Maybe it was her art degree talking, but she couldn't help but admire how the artist (artists?) had done a magnificent job with the colors and capturing the majesty of stoic manmade stone and snowy peak.

There was a placard under each. The one on the left said Masyaf. And the other…

Tristan felt the blood drain from her face as she recoiled.

It was like she was six again. Sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin as a thunderstorm roiled and growled outside the window. However, her attention wasn't fixed on that, but rather at the man sitting at her bedside. The flickering candle on the nightstand caught his fair hair and soft smile. Her father—one of the rare memories she had of him that was good. His eyes, the same ones she inherited, were kind as he spoke. Mom had pulled the short stick and was working the night patrols, so it was up to Dad to tell a bedtime story and get their youngest to sleep.

"There was once a king in search of a new home. He and his men ventured far and wide but could find nothing. One day, he decided to go out for a hunt and released his eagle—a loyal companion— to aid him. He watched as the great bird of prey flew up and up before perching on a ledge high up the cliff face. It was then, the king realized he had found his new home, and do you know what he called it?"

She, and her six-year-old self, shook her head. One foot buried deep in denial, and the other in childhood curiosity.

"Aluh amut."

The placard became more menacing as the word glared at her from its bronze pedestal: Alamut.

"But we know it more as 'Alamut.'"

She had scrunched up her nose. "That's a funny word."

"It's Persian," he had smiled in that quiet humor of his, "it means the 'Eagle's Nest.'"

It was then that the woman snapped back to the present, eyes coming back to the man in front of her as a cold finger brushed down her spine. Barely discernible, she could hear a ringing sound. And as is if someone was whispering into her ear, she could hear the Stranger murmur: When you see the Eagle's Nest…

"No…" She swallowed thickly, her throat dry. No, it couldn't be, and yet… yet rooted in her soul, she knew exactly what to say, and a tremor shook her body as a result. A tiny voice wrought with fear told her to run. And God, she wanted to. Just turn, open the door and sprint away from all of this. If that meant she was cowardly, so be it. Anger then replaced terror. She had sworn away that life by locking it away in a box and throwing away the key. How dare that woman come through with a sledgehammer and break it open again?

I will not do it, her mind and will snarled, gnashing its teeth and throwing up ghostly fists as if to keep the alien thoughts at bay. I will not!

A vision appeared, and the Stranger's steel eyes flashed before her. But don't you want to go home? Came the cold reply, and as fast as it had come, the apparition was gone the next.

While her thoughts were in absolute turmoil, her left hand—as if it had a mind of its own— never shook as it came against her chest. Right over her heart with the ring finger folded over. It was a small gesture, but it stood for much, much more. It was not only a sign of solidarity but of openness.

Of amity.

Dare she say it? Of a Brotherhood.

"If you want the truth," she spoke in a quiet voice that didn't quite feel like her own. "Then you'll have it." And while her pronounciation was rusty at best, she quoted the words her ancestors had lived and died by: "Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine."

The effect of her actions had been immediate. His face bore surprise, and the hand gripping the knife at his side tightened in surprise before dropping altogether. He peered, studying her. Watching her as a myriad of different expressions crossed his face. "You…" He slowly said in disbelief, stopping as if the words failed to come to him. Or maybe he was as anxious as she was about the aftermath, "You are an Assassin?"

The pain in the form of thin fingers that lanced through her head made it hard to think, and spots danced in her vision as she tried to maintain focus on the man's face. The ringing was louder now, and she swore she could hear whispers calling her, beckoning her to somewhere. But she couldn't help a humorless smile as she dropped her suddenly heavy hand from her chest, mock bowing, "Surprise?"

It was then the ringing became too much. With hands clasped to her head, Tristan didn't even realize she had collapsed until a white nothingness overtook her.

~*End*~

TK's History Fun Facts

1.) The Tragedy of Tristan's name: "Tristan and Isolde" is one of many titles to a 12th Century Chivalric tragedy that tells the story of an adulterous romance between a Cornish knight and an Irish Princess. It's said to have inspired the King Arthurian romance of Lancelot and Guinevere, and I figured Federico must have heard it at least once.

2.) On Tattoos: Tattoos have been around in some form for tens of thousands of years. Tools have been dated as far back as 12,000 years, and an intact tattooed specimen, nicknamed the "Iceman," found on the Italian-Austrian border was carbon-dated to be about 5,200 years old. It was believed that the random placement of tattoos on the spine, ankle, and back suggested a therapeutic practice. (As in, he was tattooed to alleviate pain in his joints.)
During the Renaissance, however, the rise of Christianity lead to a sharp decline of tattoos since it was believed to be a "barbaric practice." Of course, it didn't stop some from getting inked, such as sailors and condottieri. The practice wouldn't see popularity again until transoceanic travels in the 16th century when explorers such as Captain James Cook, William Dampier, and Sir Martin Frobisher came back with indigenous people's tattoos on their bodies. (Cookies to those who caught the nod. ;D)

3.) V's before U's: AVDITORE was intentional for that was something I noticed on both my recent playthrough of Assassin's Creed II and while I was visiting Italy last year. On many Romanesque buildings, whether it be a modern-day county courthouse or a Roman church, they often times use a "V" because in Latin, there's no capital U and Vs were used both as a consonant and a vowel. There also wasn't a W or J. As a side note, thanks to Indiana Jones reminding me, Js were replaced by I's!

4.) Alamut: While the story told to Tristan is a simplified version, the legend is very much the same. "Eagle's Nest" is one translation, but from the Daylami language, "aluh amut" roughly means "Eagle's teaching." Built in the 9th century, this castle would eventually become the home of the Shi'a Nazri Ishma'illi or the Ḥashashiyan— otherwise known as the Assassins in the early 11th century. Yes, the very same ones that inspired the Order in the Assassin's Creed series. It had, at one point, a grand library (not the same Library of Altaïr in Revelations) that was often visited by scholars and scientists from abroad, but unfortunately, it went up in flames when it burned to the ground thanks to Mongol Invaders in the mid- 13th century.

(As a word of warning for future content, these fun fact sections will probably get longer. But I'll keep these guys at the end of the chapters; so, if you wish to skip these, you can c: Will not hurt my feelings any— I know damn well I probably ramble too much about history, haha.)

Canon Notes: I'm doing a bit of a lore break here. See, in the novelization, there was only a painting of Masyaf in Giovanni's office. Well now there's two, and the other one is of Alamut.

Little bummed the fortress was never actually shown in the games since it's not only the real inspiration for the games but also the birthplace of the real-life Assassin ideology. Not to mention it's been mentioned REPEATEDLY in the books; even Edward Kenway visited it in his travels!

Ah, well, it's an "AU" after all. :p

Review and Constructive criticisms are always welcome!

Thank you for reading!

-TK