Heyoooooooo! What's this? TK dropping another chapter so soon? That will be yes! So be ready — this one is a chonker!
Reminder! I have a Special Announcement at the end! So be sure to check out the notes at the end of the chapter.
And with that said, please enjoy!
~*IX*~
Under Pressure
"You eavesdropped."
As soon as the words left her lips, she knew them to be true.
It was absolutely the only way that he could know her last name. That and the guilty "I fucked up" look on Federico's face was not helping his case. She expected him to bolt. Surprisingly, he didn't; in fact, he managed to rein in his facial expressions and even had the bravery to admit what he had done in the form of a reluctant but sure nod.
"Shit."
Well, that surely explained why he never questioned that she was spending the night, didn't it? Fuck, what else had he heard then? One particular topic came to mind, and an icy hand grasped her heart, causing her to lean against the dresser as if someone had sucker-punched her.
Oh god, no. Tristan covered her face. No. No. No. Anything but that. Please not that.
Tristan reluctantly turned to look at him, peeking through her fingers.
Sure fucking enough.
He had stepped off the sill and, to her shock, horror, and absolute flustering frustration, she saw he had that dumb hand gesture over his chest—with a folded ring finger. The same greeting she had shown to Giovanni just hours earlier. The same motion that indicated a stupid allegiance to an equally dumb and ancient cabal and terrible war attached to it that unfortunately had her life entwined in it tighter than a sailor's knot.
"Not you, too," she outwardly groaned, running both hands through her hair. Tristan bitterly laughed and supposed it only made sense; if there was one Assassin, there were bound to be others, right? And honestly, did she expect otherwise if his dad was one? It still burned a pit in her stomach, and Tristan could almost taste acid as she palmed the side of her head. "God, why is being normal such a difficult thing to accomplish?" she muttered more to herself before dropping her hand and throwing a heated look. "And put that down! I'm not an Assassin! At least—well, not anymore!"
Taken aback by her reaction, he fumblingly dropped his hand to his side; yet there was clearly excitement stemming off of him as he blurted, "But Trish, you were one. It explains everything now! Why you were blue!"
"No." She slashed her hand, wishing it had as much cutting power as an actual knife. On the one hand, she was flabbergasted as to what he meant by being "blue." Followed closely by admiration for not only having some major cojones for admitting his misdeed but also noticing he used her nickname as requested, both were overshadowed by the flickering fear-fueled anger that rested upon her other hand. "We are not having this conversation now. I'd kindly not ever have this conversation, thank you very much."
He looked about to protest, and she immediately stabbed a finger at him. "Boy, I just told you we are not having this conversation right now. We're focusing on the fact you eavesdropped. The hell is the matter with you? Weren't you taught to mind your own business?"
Federico's head snapped back, and it did not take long for his demeanor to stiffen and his eyes to darken. "I am twenty years of age and am an initiate of the Brotherhood—" he folded his arms, looking as if he bit into something sour as he gritted the next bit out, "I am no mere boy."
Tristan resisted the urge to roll her eyes or else feared losing them. Grandstanding? Really? Was she supposed to be impressed? "Emphasis on initiate. You're still an errand boy with far too much time on your hands, apparently. And frankly I don't care if you're the bloody Pope himself— I'm older than you by. Four. Years," she punctuated each word by stabbing him in the chest. Something he really didn't appreciate as his nostrils flared. "And only a boy would stick his nose into business that didn't concern him."
Federico's lips curled into a scowl that would probably petrify anyone else in the general vicinity. Unfazed, she put a hand up to cut him off, matching his seething expression with her own. "How much did you hear?"
His mouth, having opened previously to retort, clamped shut, and he suddenly paled.
A pregnant pause followed, only broken by an awkward cough.
Fuck! a part of her screamed. Fuckity flying fuckballs! This couldn't be happening right now! Her heart raced a thousand miles an hour, and her head was lighter than a balloon, but she tamped down on her panic, managing to spit out through gritted indignant teeth, "Federico."
He pursed his lips as the gears in his head seemed to find the least offensive response. Eventually, a minute wince escaped when he realized there was none. She had to give him credit, though. He met her gaze head-on, nearly unapologetic, all the while carefully wording his answer. "... What would you say if it had been all of it?"
"...You didn't," she sputtered after a pause, putting a hand over her mouth. "Please tell me you didn't hear..." She trailed off, shock and horror clamping her mouth together.
That I'm from the future, she finished in her head.
When he said nothing, and her only answer was his slumped guilty disposition, a significant numbness draped over her. She slowly wiped her lips with the back of a hand, eventually backing up until she bumped into a small table. The rattling noise didn't garner her attention; not when her mouth felt drier than the Sahara, and she yearned for something to drink— but not for water. "Dammit," she whispered, pressing her palms against her eyes. In a state of guilt and weakness, she actually would have killed for another one of those cigarettes she stupidly threw into the fireplace.
"…Tristan?"
She ignored him while bringing her fists down to her teeth to bite at her knuckles. "No, this... isn't... dammit."
An endless hurricane of thoughts and feelings hit her at once. The anger that merely flickered at first sparked inside her chest, making it hard to breathe. A wave of anger for being dumb and stupid for throwing out the pack into the fireplace. Anger towards the people responsible for this. For being here in this time period when she could have easily been home on her couch binging Clone Wars or Supernatural. For agreeing to come to this accursed Palazzo.
Fuck the cigarette, she eventually decided— she wanted something far more substantial to knock her out for the next five. Fucking. Centuries.
Sensing her unease, Federico took a tentative step forward. "Tristan, I assure you it will be fine—."
Her head snapped his way, lips curled. "No, it's not—" Tristan hissed with clenched shaking hands at her side as a scorching rage enveloped her. "You—you fucking idiot! How dare you try to tell me it's going to be fine when it clearly isn't! You really don't seem to grasp the goddamn stakes here! I'm a time-traveling woman who is way over her fucking head and stuck in the fucking Renaissance— in Italy of all places! I'm going to take a gander and guess that you have great head math because that is over five hundred years for me. And where I'm from, we have entire theories about how my just standing here and talking to you could fuck up everything timeline-wise! I'm supposed to be home right now, on my couch, drinking a beer. Not here. In this place. A-and now? Now? To realize that you heard all of that? Fuck, you weren't supposed to! Not that I'm from the future, or an ex-Assassin, or the fact I once met your father in a near-death situation two decades ago! None of that! And yet! You decided to say, 'fuck it,' and listen in on a conversation that didn't even fucking concern you in the first place! Now, look—" she threw her hands his way, her voice getting higher. "You're dragged into this fucking mess, too!"
Half of these words probably flew over his head into the outfield and beyond. The poor clueless man didn't deserve this. Any of this—but to his credit, he never faltered as he took another step, palms facing outward. "I understand you're angry, but let's just…"
She stepped back and sharply brought her hands up in a 'stop' motion. "Don't." She took one long breath followed by another and dropped her hands, forcing them to open up. "Just fucking don't." She shuttered her eyes, hating how pitiful and raggedy her voice became when she forced the next word out of clenched teeth, "Please."
Silence met her answer, and Tristan palmed at her suddenly fuzzy head. She immediately regretted her explosion as she worked the stiffness out of her jaw; her fingers tingling and her mind racing. She knew what had happened, and she cursed herself to infinity for indulging. It had been best to toss that damn thing into the fire. She just wished it was before she took a hit.
Fuck, withdrawal was a bitch.
A knock at the door served as a great distraction as both she and Federico turned to look at it. Tristan took a steadying breath and straightened, throwing a drained but still firm look his way. "Don't think we're done here," was all she said. His lips thinned but he nodded, stepping back as she walked past.
Remembering to adopt her best customer service smile despite her quaking legs, she opened the door; but just a hair. She was surprised to see the maid so soon with Tristan's request— one she lifted to indicate as she informed her, "The brush you requested earlier."
Oh, thank God. You're a lifesaver. Tristan accepted it, being genuine in her gratitude as she replied with a "thank you." Being crazy and overwhelming, her day was made just a wee bit better by the mundane idea of getting something through this rat's nest on top of her head.
She thought it would be just that and nothing more—and yet Annetta, curious, perhaps even suspicious, pursed her lips as she flicked between Tristan and behind her. "Is... everything alright, miss? I heard you raise your voice just now."
"Oh… you heard that," Tristan visibly flinched. Shit. She had apparently been louder than she initially figured. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes to appear sheepish. "I'm sorry. I stubbed my toe against a rather obstinate piece of furniture," she brought out her bare foot—the one not tattooed into open view and flexed it, doing her best job at wincing convincingly. "Today has been a long one and admittedly not been my best. I may have lost my temper because of it. Completely my fault, and sorry to disturb anyone."
"That's quite alright," the maid said evenly with a slight bit of relief to her tone. "I was just worried you might have had an intruder."
"Not that I have noticed..." Tristan furrowed her eyebrows, enjoying this little acting session. She piled on the confusion as she further pressed the subject, "Should I be worried?"
"No," Annetta answered a little too quickly as she straightened. A lie, or maybe just avoiding the truth since she was probably aware of Federico's skills with the lockpick. "Although I must ask, have you seen Ser Federico as of late?"
Ahahah, oh, I see, she couldn't help but internally snigger as Tristan adopted her best pass at a surprised look. "No, I haven't seen him since earlier. "He—" Tristan pressed her lips together, feigning sadness— "didn't seem particularly keen on conversing with anyone the last I saw him, let alone me. Is everything alright?"
Tristan had been called many things in her life, ill-tempered, irrational, even a brat and a bitch at times—but a snitch was not one.
She had been convincing enough for the maid to incline her head before curtsying.
"Everything is fine," she hurriedly said, which according to Google Translate, meant no, it was not fine— at least for the missing party involved. "However, if you do see him, please inform Ser Federico his presence is requested by his mother. It is an urgent matter he must attend to before the day is done."
'Urgent,' ah yes— as in he's urgently going to get his ear bent by one angry mama for not preventing his brother from doing something stupid. She merely nodded in return, saying she would when (or if) given a chance before closing the door as the maid said her goodbyes and left. Tristan ruminated she did not miss those days of growing up as she locked the door again. She listened for the maid's footsteps to fade away before she turned her attention back to the man in question.
"Now where were…" she trailed off upon seeing empty space. The only movement was the fire flickering away in its little hearth and the ebony curtains slightly lifting in the breeze emanating from the open window. Had the 'intruder' decided to leave after all to do God knew what? Tristan figured that was the case and pursed her lips as a result. Perhaps it was for the best— let things simmer down and all since she knew she would get her answers in some form or another.
That was until she saw the tuft of suspiciously dark hair peeking over the sill before it dropped from view again.
Her brows drew together before emitting a loud snort. She strolled across the room, setting the brush upon the closest table to the window, before poking her head out. What she saw made her snort again.
"She's gone, but don't think you're in the clear just because I covered your ass. I've still the mind to lock this and leaving you to hang for the wolves," she crossed her arms, leaning against the window frame as she scrutinized Federico who clung to the side of the building like a demented Spider-Man. "Oh, by the way, your mother is looking for you. It sounds quite urgent."
"Noted." He cast a glance over his shoulder at the street. The sun was at the perfect angle to shadow him from any curious eyes if they were looking from below. "And I know you won't." Only for his eyes to become wide as she began closing the window with a thoughtful hum.
"You do, hmm? I mean… I could? If I really wanted to?" She shrugged, lightly pushing the window with a finger against the wood grain. She then dropped her voice into a sweet whisper, "But isn't this what you wanted, though? To escape through the window and go do whatever it is that you do in your spare time?"
"Yes, but surely you understand not in an event like this," he whispered harshly, again throwing a cautionary look over his shoulder to see if anyone heard him. When it became apparent they hadn't, he turned back to Tristan with barely tempered frustration. "And surely not after what happened. Do I look like a fool to you?"
"Perhaps a little understandable," she agreed, but the sympathy stopped there as she continued, "and yet again, no, not really. To answer your question, no, I think you look like a dumbass with a penchant to get himself into trouble with a big nose to match." She put a finger up, her face barely containing her irritation. "So, give me one reason why I shouldn't close this window then."
He threw a haughty look but lowered his glower to the wall in front of him, and then eventually, his entire face went blank. Tristan wondered how long he could keep at this, and she found herself rather impressed at the sheer arm strength it must have taken to last this long. And yet, it was up to him if he wanted to come up or drop down into the garden below. The seconds seemed to tick by into hours in the space between them before Tristan mock sighed, dramatically draping her arms around the window.
"Well—" she shrugged, swinging the window close, "I guess you're going to have to come back through the front door then."
"I was worried," he blurted without raising his head.
She stopped, opening just an inch. "Pardon?"
He looked up, his features tightened. Or was that the strain talking? "You wish to know why I listened, yes? Why I didn't leave? I did it because I was concerned. Does that satisfy you?"
She pondered on this, eyebrows furrowed deep in surprise and concentration— just long enough for him to sweat a little. He was... what? Worried? This made little sense, and she found herself befuddled as a result. Eventually, she dropped her hand and let the window fall open, stepping back to give him some space. He quickly took the hint and clambered back through. She couldn't help but notice he kept his distance as he rubbed the aches out of his shoulders.
"Explain," she said as she folded her arms.
He stopped in his ministrations, letting his arms loosely fall to his sides as he brought his eyebrows together, trying to piece together a response. Eventually, he vented a breath with a humorless laugh.
"I don't know what is the best way to explain. It... all sounds rather ridiculous. The truth is, I figured you of unsound mind at first, for who else would wear such strange clothing and say such odd things? But the more I spent in your presence, that first impression faded a little at a time and disappeared completely on the bridge. Besides, I doubt an unsound person would be an excellent thief such as yourself." He smiled.
It was obviously forced.
She humored him nonetheless with a slight smile of her own.
"But then I.. brought you with me and then I saw my father's face. I—" his brows knitted together, and he rubbed at his face. "Trish, I've never seen him that scared before my entire life. Or that angry. As a result, a horrible thought occurred, and I wondered if I had been wrong this entire time. That I had brought home someone of ill-repute. Some criminal off the street. Or worse..." He trailed off, his eyes soon drifting off to the floor.
"…or worse, a Templar," she finished for him, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. He looked up for a brief moment before nodding solemnly.
"So because of that, you found you couldn't trust me anymore," she said flatly.
"On the contrary," he shook his head. "I was afraid I trusted you too easily and was blinded by my own infatuation to realize your true intentions."
Tristan's words failed her, and she could only blink. "And now?"
"...and now, I find myself strangely relieved. Puzzled that the truth is far stranger than fiction, but relieved that my intuition had been right," he looked as if he wanted to say something else but then decided against it as he rubbed at his face, shoulders slumping in defeat. The silence that ticked by was thick and choking. Eventually, it became too much for Federico before he indicated the bed with the high-back chair not far from it. "…perhaps it's best if we sit down?"
Truth be told, the last thing she wanted to do was sit down, but her legs either did not get the memo or worse—chose to ignore it and had already started to shuffle towards the bed where she planted herself on the edge of it. She leaned over and buried her face into her hands, stifling a tired groan. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong at the worst possible time— and she was knee-deep in the middle. The chair squeaked slightly as Federico sat opposite her, but she did not lift her head; nor when he sank back into the chair with a deeply troubled sigh that was reminiscent of her own internal turmoil.
It was Federico who broke that silence first as he emitted a dry laugh, "…it's funny; I always wondered who that belonged to."
This time, curiosity got the best of her, and she raised her head, only for him to avoid eye contact as he indicated the scarf thrown indiscriminately over the nightstand. "When I was young, I remembered him often taking it out to look over it. He would have it draped across his desk with this melancholy about him. Of course, he never talked about it. He'd fold it and put it away, never mentioning where it came from and feign ignorance it ever existed. When I became older, I made the mistake of asking him about it once. Once. He told me never to mention it again, and I obeyed. Reluctantly, but I did. Although, I always knew it had to be a woman from his past and wondered what happened. Just… I never thought I'd find out." He finally looked upwards, "Nor would I have guessed it was to be someone like you."
She stared until her eyes stung and was quick to look away. Yet another reminder of the relentless march of time and how, in a matter of seconds for her, years flew by for others. It chilled her to the bone at the notion that the scarf, a novelty object, was now older than Federico was.
"Is it bad I wish it wasn't me?" she murmured, doing a poor job of keeping the bitter edge from her voice. A dry laugh of her own slipped out as she clasped her hands over her face. "Fuck it feels like I'm living in an episode of The Twilight Zone."
He didn't comment— how could he? The reference flew right over his head. It wasn't the first time, and she expected it wouldn't be the last either. Like with all the other things and sayings she knew, talked about, and referenced. Damn, was this going to be her life now? Watching what she said? What she sang? Avoiding any mention of pop culture and her entire dictionary of jokes and references? A horrifying thought, indeed, and it made her quiver. Scarier than a thousand Giovannis was the idea she'd never have a conversation truly as herself again.
But then... a tickling thought made itself known on the edges of her mind. One that made Tristan drop her hands as her voice became tighter. Speaking of Giovanni—."He knew, didn't he." Her mind couldn't help but play out that angry exchange of words earlier. It was pretty obvious the Patriarch hadn't been mad at something superficial. And she supposed she had been right in the end after all.
It had been about her.
Just... not what she had thought.
Federico looked to ask, but then his lips thinned, and his shoulders scrunched up, bowing his head. She knew he didn't need to confirm.
"…yes," he said quietly. "I must have slipped and brushed against the door at some point. But I suppose it's what I get for doubting my father. He was livid but wishes to speak on the subject further after he is done with his meeting with the Gonfalonier. I'm doing my best as to avoid him until then in hopes his temper may cool down."
You're really burying yourself, aren't you? A notion she shook away before exhaling a noisy breath that suspiciously sounded like a scoff. "If you knew the risks and how much it would anger your old man, why? Why did you do it then? Of all the stupid things to do— fuck's sake, Federico. I'm a stranger to you. I barely just met you yesterday. You shouldn't concern yourself with someone like me."
He bristled and threw a heated glare, for once meeting her eyes. She was caught off-guard that they weren't amber in the slightest, but rather a dark cognac that simmered in barely contained anger as he quietly uttered, "And just because you're a stranger, that nullifies having any concern for your well-being?"
Flabbergasted, Tristan could only stare before spreading her arms wide in vexation. "Uh, yes? It would be common sense. You said it yourself about possibly trusting me too easily. What if I had been someone of questionable character, and you just brought me home within easy reach of Petruccio?"
"But you were not," he interjected sharply.
"But what if I was?"
Federico made a frustrated sound deep in his chest and promptly threw his hands before standing up. "Fine, if you insist upon us going down this path, I could ask you the same question, then. Need I remind you that you would have never revealed yourself out of that empty stall," he continued, "nor would you have carved your name on a bench if I had been just a stranger. You could have easily said no and went about your way, never to be seen again. But you did not."
He steepled his hands, fixing her with a pointed yet challenging look. "So, I suppose it is my turn to ask why is that if you are such an untrustworthy person? Why did you agree, hmm?"
She opened her mouth to retort, yet nothing came out but dry air. Touché. She crossed her arms and exhaled. He backed her into a corner there—much as it wounded her pride to admit. Truth be told, she didn't even think about it when they first encountered each other. He seemed harmless enough. Annoying? Sure. And yet, she could not exactly explain to him her reasoning without sounding batshit insane. Oh yes, she could just imagine his reaction if she were to tell him, 'oh yeah, my intuitive Spidey-Senses told me you were trustworthy.' Sure, okay. That would be fantastic.
He still awaited her response, judging by his expectant stare, and she resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Instead, her lips tightened as she answered him truthfully with a long-troubled sigh. "…I just knew."
Because... well, she just did.
She knew it wasn't a suitable answer, and as a result, his brows knitted together— in what, she couldn't translate, but it was gone in a flash as Federico merely tilted his head, pondered, and then nodded, his voice growing softer as he muttered, "As did I."
Now it was her turn to frown. Did that by any chance pertain to his earlier blue comment? What had he meant by that, anyway? Now didn't seem the right time to ask, however. And so she kept mum and let him continue on.
Federico stifled a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up. "Trish… make no mistake; I am sorry for prying into your business and causing you distress as a result. However, I do not regret my actions in the slightest, and I hope you will one day forgive me for saying that. I felt it was necessary. Of course, I will not lie and say I understand what is happening, but I assure you, I'll help as much as I can." He paused briefly, a corner of his lip quirking, "You are a guest of the family now."
"Thanks for that," she snarked. "Since me coming here was all your idea." But she didn't mean it, and she could see he knew that as the corner of his lip lifted even higher. She sighed though, setting her cheek in her hand, "But, I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have exploded at you."
Now it was Federico's turn to blink owlishly. "Well, I mean, it is understandable—" he started to say, but she shook her head adamantly.
"No," she insisted. "It was a lapse in judgment on my part. Even if you poked your nose into my business, you didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve to be insulted either." Tristan averted her gaze sheepishly, palming the back of her head, "So, I'm sorry."
"You're forgiven," was all he said after a brief pause.
And just like that, the smothering tension that had snuck into the room when neither of them were looking dissipated.
"So," she drawled a little, fumbling with her hands. "What now? Since... I guess you know the truth now. Do we pretend this never happened—?"
"I think we are far beyond that now," he pointed out, staring particularly at her outfit with a slight but fond uptick of his lips.
She picked at her clothes mindlessly, lips pursing, causing him to break out in quiet laughter. What strange bedfellows she was procuring today. The thought made her lips quirk as she dropped her hand. "...Fine, valid point there. But my question still stands. What now? Does this mean I'm never going to get rid of you?"
"You are a cruel woman," he sniffed, fighting a grin. "But you know—" he sat back down, more leisurely this time as he took his chin with a hand. "Since that revelation is now out in the open— I do have an idea. Since you are a guest and will be staying here for an indeterminable time. And you were previously lost in the city with strange clothes—."
Her head jerked in surprise—and indignation. "I wasn't lost—" she protested.
He dropped his hand to stare directly as he deadpanned, "You fell off a bridge."
"Pushed," she threw back with a scowl, crossing her arms. "We established this already."
"Yes, yes, that's right, you were pushed," he agreed. "Off a bridge, you did not seem to realize was in construction."
"Hey!" She chucked a pillow at his head.
Federico's restraints finally broke, and a crooked grin appeared as he easily caught the pillow, and Tristan, despite her own embarrassment and sheepishness, felt her own lips twitch in response. "Anyways, my point is. Perhaps a tour and open-air could do you some good? We could also find a more suitable place to talk."
"What's more private than here behind four walls and a locked door?" Tristan frowned.
But a second later, the answer came to her, and she pressed her lips together at the memory between herself and Annetta. There were walls, yes, but they were thin and had many ears, apparently. As a result, she put her hands up before he could comment with such an observation, "Okay, never mind, I answered my own question."
She dropped her hands when he gave a satisfactory smirk. "In that case—." Despite her hopefulness, Tristan clamped on it and shook her head profusely. "That is a tempting offer, I'll admit, but I'm not sure that's such a good idea given…" she trailed off, gesturing around her. It didn't seem the Templars were out in the open like back home, but who the fuck knew anymore? She certainly wasn't the expert here.
"Plus, your dad probably wouldn't appreciate me running about Florence so soon after settling in." Her tone grew grim. "You heard what he said."
Federico waved off the worry though, softly scoffing, "I also heard mention that the men who were responsible for—" his hands circled and rotated before he gave up and shrugged, probably still reeling from that part of the conversation. "Well, anyone who could recognize you are probably dead. Besides—" he shrugged— "he is already angry with what I've done today, so you just leave him to me. Although, I strongly suspect he would understand the need to get your bearings given the questionable length of your stay here. Furthermore …" His voice lowered above that of a conspiratorial whisper, "I have a robust suspicion that you may want a much stronger drink after all of this."
"Is it that obvious?" Tristan asked with a minute cringe, wanting nothing more than to cover her face. First Giovanni and now Federico… was she that much of an open book? No wonder she sucked at playing poker.
Apparently, the answer was yes, for he nodded, looking sad as he spread his hands and replied solemnly, "About as obvious as a raging bonfire. But, please take no offense. I do not blame you in the slightest." He shrugged, scratching at his chin. "I'm still trying to grasp the idea myself. The strange woman I bring home is not only an Assassin but one who traveled through time itself? I could not imagine what you're going through."
"Ex," she corrected, yet again. Her reward for it was a sheepish grin. "And my advice? Don't try to dwell on it. It is a total mindfuck. I feel my brain is going to melt the more I think about it." She immediately wanted to slap a hand to her face as she realized too late she had slipped up with another one of her modern wordplays.
"A mind—?" Federico (his poor face was bound to be stuck in a constant state of confusion if she didn't stop anytime soon), put his hands up in a self-admitted surrender. "Oh, never mind, I'm sure I'll get used to it with time." It didn't stop him from fixing her a bemused look, "Although, I can't help but notice that you have the strangest sayings concerning your mind from where you are from. Perhaps I was right after all concerning the state of your mind, hmm?"
Her cheeks were hurting from trying not to smile as she rolled her eyes. Oh, you don't know the half of it.
Sanity was overrated anyways.
"So?" he pressed.
Her eyes ventured from him to the door and then back. His reasoning was sound. Neither of them precisely knew how long she was sticking around. It could be days. Could be longer— a thought that she resisted shuddering at. And as she looked back at Federico's hopeful face, she realized she wasn't even mad at him anymore. She should be, right? He had bloody listened in on a conversation between two other people that didn't concern truth be told? The only thing that raced through her head was: Don't make me regret this.
And she had doubts that was going to happen anytime soon. So, needless to say, it did not take her long to come to her decision. Besides, a little fresh air wouldn't hurt. However, she scowled as she pointed at Federico and then at the window.
"We're not going through that."
Spoiler alert: they did go out the window. It was at Federico's insistence and pure stubbornness at not wishing to use the door and getting caught by either of his parental units. It was dumb. He was dumb. But in the end, his smarmy reasoning and absolute refusal to budge won. With much cursing and threatening and a reluctant koala hug on her part, they both strolled about the city streets in broad daylight.
He was a man of his word, though— despite her best efforts at trying to choke him on the way down. (Something she profusely apologized for.) He provided a simple breakdown of Florence and what part they were currently in— ironically called the San Giovanni. The further along they went, he pointed out some of the more common landmarks outside of Il Duomo and explained the best way to get someone's bearings. What streets to take (and avoid since there were a surprising amount of dead-ends one could get trapped in.) How the ringing of the bells worked— which were very odd and not at all like she was used to the last time she had been here. Which earned her a puzzled look from Federico when she mentioned her home didn't start their days at sunsets.
He even pointed out the Ponte Santa Trinita— her unfinished nemesis, and with the straightest face he could muster explained how this bridge was under construction and should by no means be walked upon, lest they wish to have a date with the River Arno below.
The bastard ran off snickering when she started to pull her boot off to throw at his big fat head.
After what felt like hours of being a tour guide, Federico led her to the bustling heart of the district. It didn't take her long to figure out what the building they arrived at was.
"This was not what I had in mind," Tristan crossed her arms in front of the boisterous tavern that was full of drunks. Not bad for only being late morning. Or was it early afternoon by this point? She shot a dirty look from the corner of her eye. "What part of alone and quiet was difficult for you to understand, again?"
Federico— the idiotic peacock that he was— had a grin on his face as he sauntered towards the partially open front door, looking proud as could be. He looked back at her barely reined in facial expression and winked— almost like a tomcat after dropping an unwanted bird at her feet. "You're right; it's loud and full of men who are burying their woes into drink. It'll be perfect!"
She lost her own fight and glared. They both knew she wasn't convinced in the slightest. As a result, his lips lost their humor and grew more serious, skimming between her and the entrance. "Quiet and alone would be easier, I suppose," his voice dropped into a murmur, "But loud and in public means no one will overhear us. Not to mention," his grin came back in full force as he indicated the tavern. "We're here for drinks after all!"
Tristan scrunched up her face, but truth be told, it did make sense—kind was a point to his manic way of thinking, she reluctantly conceded, and judging by his expression, he had come to that decision as well. Still, Tristan couldn't help but stare helplessly and hope he'd come to his senses. When he didn't budge and only sent a challenging brow, she made a sound betwixt frustration and defeat before throwing up her hands. "Fine, we'll do it your way then, but if we can't hear each other, I'm blaming you. So, you can just wipe that smile off your face."
He didn't, of course, as expected; it just became wider as his victory became apparent.
"Excellent." He beamed before leading the way with a diminutive pep in his step just to mock her. Tristan threw a scowl at his back before reluctantly following. His optimism was just too much right now, and she was worried she might get infected the more she stood close to him.
The inside wasn't as terrible as she initially thought but still held a sizeable bunch of patrons. They managed to find a table on the outskirts of the crowd and sat across from each other. Still a part of the group but close enough to the dark corner to be unassuming. A stout barkeep shortly came by with a couple of pints filled to the brim with dark amber liquid. He handed them off with nary a word, besides a nod to Federico and a bored look her way. Tristan raised an eyebrow, but she only received a secretive smile from her companion as the barkeep walked off.
A patron with a running bar tab, it seemed.
She didn't wait for an invitation before grabbing one of the pints (tankards? Nah, she preferred calling them pints.) and taking a long drink. Now this was more like it—trash beer in a dimly lit corner surrounded by drunk idiots. In a strange sense of déjà vu, it was almost like being back at Ol' Ricky's with her coworkers, celebrating their successes with sports, wings, and beer. She almost expected a bunch of drunken hockey jerseys running amok chanting team songs. Or worse, the dreaded annoying drawled out "Raiders" she'd come to despise over two decades of being an AFC West rival. Tristan wrinkled her nose at the thought of actually missing that hectic alcohol-soaked mess.
Federico nudged her from her thoughts as he leisurely settled on his elbows. "So you're really from the year 2013."
Well... that was one way to start a conversation, she supposed.
Tristan furrowed her brow and swiveled her head suspiciously, but he had been right. No one sober was going to listen to their conversation. And any rational-minded individual was going to keep away from this place with a ten-mile pole. Not in this loud, senses-dulling chaos. Across from them, two drunks were sleeping off their liquor, with the third, still babbling on, soon on their tails. The one across from them decided it was a fantastic opportunity to take up singing a string of garbles. Stifling a defeated sigh, she reached into a pocket and slapped her wallet down, flap open, revealing her severely out-of-date driver's license and a cringe-worthy picture to match. Truth be told, she didn't even know why she brought it along since it wasn't like anyone here had drinking laws to begin with. Habits. Hard to break. "Does this answer your question, my curious companion?"
She watched quietly as his eyes widened, and he set aside his drink to take a closer look. "Fascinating." He looked up, however, with a confused frown. "Although I do not recognize this place at all. What is this—" he squinted at the license—"Calee-fer-nee-ah? Am I to assume it is your country?" He then proceeded to tap at the center of it, poking at her face in particular. "And why does this painting of you look so… life-like?"
"California," she corrected as she set her pint down with an amused sigh. She propped her elbow to lean her head against a hand, swirling a finger around the pint's rim. "It's my uh... birthplace. Mmm, or at least will be. It's uh not a country either… just one… state? Out of fifty?" She furrowed her eyebrows, glancing at him. "Do any of these words mean anything?" He nodded, although she could still see the vestiges of confusion at the edges. Okay, she could work with that.
"And that," she tapped the card, "is a photograph." She paused and practically facepalmed with the brim of her pint at what she had just done. "I should not have said that," she muttered, wiping off the foam from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
Too entranced with all of this new information, he ignored her comment, instead narrowing his eyes as his attention found something shinier to look at. "So, what does Oohsa mean?"
Tristan blinked, briefly wondering if she misheard something. "Oo—? I'm afraid you lost me there."
Wordlessly, he tapped at something on the very top of her driver's license, where in tiny faded letters right next to the bolded "California," USA stared back forlornly.
"Ooh, you mean the USA," she chuckled, sitting back in her chair and adopting a pensive look as she ruminated on the best possible and neutral way to answer this. "...Remember that 'one of many states' comment I made earlier? Yeah. That. It's an acronym for 'United States of America.' But... you won't see them in your lifetime. They don't show up for... a while."
He nodded, stopped, and his brows furrowed, even more puzzled. "I see— wait, did you say America? Why does that name sound awfully familiar…?"
She aimed a look his way, cheeks flushed. Oh no, Tristan vaguely remembered him mentioning a 'Signor Vespucci' earlier today. Surely it couldn't be the same one, right? "Best not to think too hard on it, 'Rico," she hurriedly said. "I'm already questioning whether or not telling you any of this is a good idea. Remember? Time travel theory and all that?"
"Right right," he waved her off with an annoyed huff as he pulled something else out of the wallet to look at. "You mentioned that before."
Tristan recognized what it was but kept mum as she watched his eyes flick between her and it nervously, already dreading trying to pronounce it. "Uhm..."
"...yes?" She looked on in bemusement at the flat expression on his face.
He said nothing at first, brows furrowing deep in thought. "...What is this… 'Canada?'" he asked without looking up.
Tristan had to bite back a chuckle. Huzzah, he got that one right. "Nice job. It is another country you won't see in your lifetime, I'm afraid. But it's where I moved to— will move to, excuse me, since it doesn't exist now. On a..." she paused, scratching at her chin. "Well, best way to put it is to imagine moving to France and working in a bank there for the experience."
"How dreadful," he sniffed, swiftly putting the visa away as if it was physically affecting him. "They don't know a good bottle of wine if it bit them on the ass." He went to take a sip but briefly paused to shrug. "The girls are pretty, though."
Tristan had chosen an inopportune time to take a drink and thus snorted beer up her nose. She coughed and wheezed, trying to shoot a glare through burning eyes as Federico laughed.
He soon fell back into silence as he perused the wallet, muttering more to himself as he fingered through the many cards and other crap she somehow accumulated over the last five years. Something she stored for later whenever, or if ever, she returned to the life of normalcy— or at least whatever was considered normal for an ex/retired Assassin with student loans, a career as a borderline starving artist, and the starter pack for "Crazy Cat Lady."
For instance, did she really need that gift card for Old Navy anymore? She hadn't shopped there for going on two years, and it was probably expired now.
As Tristan mused and drank from her beer, she wondered if she should even be doing this. He, a man from a completely opposite time from her, was going through her wallet. Surely every time-traveling show, movie, etc., would clutch their pearls and exclaim this single event was tampering with the timeline! This would affect everything! That she should jump up and snatch it from his hands before it became too late— and she'd never be born!
And briefly, she considered doing that because what if the damage had already been done? What if something like just falling off that damn bridge did something already?
But then another side of her, the selfish, scared, exhausted side, fought against that notion tooth and nail. Honestly, she was so weary of holding this in, and it was nice to finally have someone on her side— who understood her extraordinary circumstances. She didn't have to lie. She didn't have to make up some elaborate cover-up story to explain her origins or reason for being there. She could just be herself— perhaps a little muted from her usual 21st Century shenanigans and sayings, but still, herself!
Tristan drank again to occupy the laugh that threatened to slip out from her lips. This entire thing was ludicrous, to say the least. But of course, her mood turned slightly sour. There came the downsides. Through some twisted humor, she was now homed in the presence of Assassins. Something she had been reluctant to ever do again. But what was the alternative? Staying on the streets? Freezing to death? Neither of those things would be for the first time, but then the undeniable truth was that something far worse could have happened. She'd swallow her pride— for now. Besides, she could get used to this. She had to believe it was going to be okay, and she clung to that notion tightly.
By the time she set her beer down, he had pulled out something with a deft hand. His eyes switched from it to her, curiosity yet again lifting his brow. "Is this another one of your 'photographs'?"
Tristan found herself caught off-guard. The word sounded so alien coming from him as if he was an out-of-tune piano. She leaned forward with narrowed eyes and a confused purse of her lips. It was hard to see in the dim setting, but Tristan could make out four youthful faces looking up from his hand. "Oh…" Her shoulders slumped as she recognized what it was.
"That's…." She stopped, wrapping both of her hands around her pint as she suddenly found the cracks in the table more fascinating. "I forgot about that." She risked a look upwards to see his eyebrows slowly ascending in what could only be described as concern. Or worse— fear. "No… no, nothing bad," she reassured him quickly with a tiny laugh and patted his hand. "Just…" She sighed, biting her lip. "It's hitting home."
Federico seemed to understand, for he didn't pry any further. On a whim, she slipped it out of his grasp and flipped it, reading the penned-in date: '07/24/2010', followed by 'Happy Birthday TB and BB!'
She never realized that a familiar rook tattoo could be seen on each Meyers kid, whether it was a wrist, a hand, or a forearm. The very same one she bore on her own neck. She found her eyes watering, and she cursed herself for it as she smacked the picture back down, palming at her face afterwards. "It was the last time we were all together."
When he looked at her with concern knitting his brows together, Tristan forced a smile. She straightened in her seat, even though a heavy weight had settled onto her chest.
"I uh... Well, I guess it's one way to introduce my siblings, then, huh? Here's Ethan," she tapped at the sandy-haired eldest, permanently captured with a party horn in his mouth and a hat tipped precariously on his head. Her finger drifted over to the shorter blonde beside him with a secretive smile and haunting eyes raising a cup up in cheers. "Becca." Then to Becca's right, was a dark-haired man who shared the same eyes and devilish smile as Tristan, holding up bunny ears over the last person's head and supporting a huge grin and a scraggly attempt at a five o'clock shadow. "That's my twin, Brent. And… of course, me." She tapped at the much younger version of herself, embarrassingly sporting horns, winking, and sticking her tongue out to the camera.
"I see nothing has changed since then." Federico chuckled, but his jovial mood soon faded, and he politely slipped everything back into their proper place before sliding the wallet back her way. His hands resumed their residence, wrapping around his beer, and he passed it between his fingers in deep thought before he sipped. "I'm… sorry," he said, and Tristan's brows rose in surprise. "I shouldn't be making light of all of this. This must be very difficult for you."
She made an "ah" sound and promptly lifted a shoulder, silently willing the bartender or whatever he was called to come back and refill her close to empty mug. She was going to need it.
"It is difficult," she admitted after a bit. "Exhausting, even. But truth be told, 'Rico, I'm kind of glad for the offered distraction. Otherwise, I'd be stuck back in the Palazzo, dwelling more and more on my current state and despairing because of it. I mean… going back in time. It's supposed to be fictional, you know? It's not supposed to happen—and yet… it did. I did. I actually time traveled. And not just once, but twice. And the sheer fact I lost access to… well, practically everything I am used to? It's terrifying. I'm terrified at what the future may hold—especially if someone planned this." She took a long draught and killed off her mug, feeling the alcohol starting to hit, even if it did little to stem the runaway train of thought. Tristan forced another smile, though. "So, it's… it's kind of nice to just not focus on that."
"Still—." But she cut him off with a dismissive hand and a warning side-eye.
"Federico." She hadn't meant to sound so harsh and thus softened her voice. "Please believe me when I say your concern is wonderful and appreciated. But sadly, it's not the first time I've been far away from home and from my siblings. Granted—" she shrugged— "this is definitely the furthest I've been. But... I'll get used to it. Hopefully. About as much as getting used to being stuck in the past with a stupid time machine you can get." She pressed her face to the table, stifling a groan.
"Do—" he cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable "—do you have it with you?"
Tristan frowned, a hand patting at her side as she resumed her slouched status. "Against my better judgment... yes. But I'm not pulling it out. This thing and that bloody woman have been causing me enough issues. And I don't need to add onto them," she bitterly muttered, looking morosely at the bottom of her mug. Why is the beer gone?
As if by magic, the barkeep wordlessly reappeared, dropping off another for the both of them. Federico watched him disappear from the corner of his eye before leaning slightly in. "Speaking of... I do recall the other night you mentioned a woman had appeared to... what did you say? 'Order you around'? At the time, I thought it… peculiar, to say the least, but given what I know now, I have to wonder what was that all about?"
"Oh," Tristan flatly drawled. "Yeah. Her." She sighed and leaned back, rolling her wrist in an attempt to gather her words together. "It happened right after the bridge incident. I legitimately thought that she was some kind of ghost at first, but no, she was just pale. Like she hadn't seen the sun in ages. It didn't help she wore an an-all black dress…" She proceeded to tell him about what happened, from the Ponte Vecchio to the clothes she was told to steal and finally what occurred leading up to their encounter on the bench.
A horrifying thought came to mind after she finished, and she suddenly paled, "Jesus, I just realized something. I don't think anyone but me noticed her. I don't remember people looking at or even interacting with her. She predicted this. All of this. Your father, the painting. She… told me to say those words. I even think she forced me to come along with you to the Palazzo through the thing." She angrily gestured at the object she colloquially called the Clock in her pocket. "I don't know why or who she is; however, my working theory is she's connected to this damn thing in more ways than one."
He scratched at his chin, looking thoughtful, "How so?"
She paused when the growing ruckus on the table next over started to get too much— great, she mentally snorted, a bar fight would be the absolute perfect thing to end today with. When it simmered down a little, she continued; this time, her voice lower. "Well, she angrily gave it back when I apparently had lost it and my jacket while in the river. Said something about some link getting weaker. And then warned me about the Templars too. I knew they were clearly doing something all those years ago. Or wanted to do something before I was brought in and practically wrecked the place. If they had gotten their hands on this— well, obviously, we don't want that. The last thing we need is a bunch of time-traveling asshats, making everything miserable for everyone else. Imagine what they could do with the knowledge they have? They could prevent wars or, God forbid, start them. They could even remove characters and figures from history, making it all the easier to conquer it. Shit, they'd be unstoppable."
Federico leaned in further, his brows low. "And you didn't tell my father this… why?"
It came across as accusatory, and she fixed him a flustered but annoyed look his way, passing her drink from one hand to the other, "Gee, I don't know? Slipped my mind between the realization of time traveling being real and seeing someone I just saw now twenty years older. I mean, sure, looking back now, I supposed I should have mentioned that alongside this Piece of Eden that isn't supposed to be real. But pardon me for being too busy wrapping my head around the idea that something bad had happened that night. Something..." She pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting a shudder, "Something I really don't want to dwell on if I'd be perfectly frank."
She knew the snark had not been necessary and he looked rather hurt as he pressed his lips together. Still, he bowed his head. "I suppose it is my turn to apologize now. Although, I would recommend informing my father the next time you see him. He may know something about this…" he struggled for the word. "Being."
"I promise I will," she said, letting her hand drop. And it was sincere. If the hints he dropped were anything to go by, Giovanni probably knew far more than she did when it came to these fabled Pieces of Eden.
However, that thought process was cut short as the 'debate' stemming from the next table over had evolved into a round of fisticuffs, with two of the men jumping out of their seats amidst smashing cups and bowls. She couldn't quite catch what they were mad about, but then again—with drunk men, mismatching shirt colors and the sky looking at them wrong was reason enough. Federico noticed it as well, and he slowly sat up, barely removing the tankard from his lips. "Maybe it's time to take our leave, eh?" he mused from the corner of his lips, just as the table next to them was used in a maneuver any WWE wrestler would have been proud of.
Dammit, how she hated to be right and yet, didn't make any effort to stand up, instead coolly turning to face Federico and draining the beer in one go. As she wiped the residue from her lips, she couldn't help but notice the way he was so nonchalant about the whole ordeal. It made Tristan suspect he'd been in his fair share of tussles. Hell, she'd even say he probably fought most of them in this very tavern. "Before or after we get dragged into it?" she deadpanned, setting her now empty mug down on the table behind her.
Federico shrugged, having already slipped out of his seat only to step back to allow two of the brawling men to barrel through, nimbly lifting his mug out of the way. He took another long drink and set the now empty cup down, only to watch it fall off with a clatter as their table was bumped into by another couple of dance partners. "Well, preferably before, but— duck."
They both did— a mere second later, a chair flew by where their heads had just been and slammed against the wall.
Tristan slowly straightened and shot an exasperated look at Federico, who readjusted the front of his shirt to its normal half-open status with a sheepish grin, "Need I remind you this was your idea."
"My dear lady," he started with a wry grin. "You agreed. Now c'mon, let's go."
She huffed, "I'm no lady—,"
However, she wasn't given much time to complain as he wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged, forcing her to follow. He made a beeline for the door just as the barkeep appeared around a corner, his face a mask of surprise and thinly veiled anger at the revelation that his tavern had just become the victim of drunkenly disorder and chaos. Probably again, if his expression was anything to go by.
She never did catch what came out of his bellowing, for she and Federico were far past the front door by the time he gathered his senses again. It was some time before they slowed down in an alleyway. If she had to guess, they were pretty close to the Palazzo now.
"So much for that idea," she drawled, tugging on the front of her vest. Afterwards, Tristan jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm curious, though— does that happen often? You running off amidst a fight before paying the bill?"
"Oh, do you mean, Tulio? Let us just say we have a mutual agreement. The fights, however? Occasionally at best," Federico lifted his shoulders and then let them drop. He soon became serious as he started walking, "However, ever since the Grand Duke's murder and the arrest of Francesco de' Pazzi not long after... Well," he gestured to the tavern far behind them. "Tensions and tempers are both running high. I've also noticed there's been a considerable uptick of mercenary presence in the city. No doubt paid for by nervous families. Frankly, I'm surprised there's not more bloodshed in the streets."
"Ah, makes sense, I suppose." Tristan adjusted the bandage wrapped around her hand, slightly hissing when she pulled it too tight. "But, uh, is that why there were men strewn about on the Ponte Vecchio yesterday evening?"
She nearly ran into Federico's back as he froze mid-step, shoulders slumping with his head lolled back in exasperation. "You saw that, did you? My brother's handiwork, I'm afraid. He and Francesco's son have a bit of a heated rivalry."
"Is that so? And yet," she adopted a pensive tone cupping a hand to her chin, "I specifically remember some of them chasing you last night. Judging by the severity of their injuries, I'd be pretty pissed too, frankly speaking."
He stopped again, this time to peer over his shoulder to shoot her an indignant look. "Remind me exactly— whose side are you on?"
Tristan innocently smiled, acting as if she was flipping her hair as she passed him. "My own, thanks. Just telling it as I see it."
He rolled his eyes and grumbled, but a slight chuckle nonetheless escaped as he looked heavenwards. "We should probably head on back now. Perhaps, Father may even be more amicable when we return."
Tristan noted the apprehension in his tone and offered a sympathetic smile as she nudged him with an elbow. "You almost sounded convincing there."
"I try my best," he shrugged. "The hope is if I speak it out loud, perhaps the thought will come into fruition."
"Oh, I'm sure your father is a reasonable man with what little I know of him."
"Now you're just failing at making me feel better," he teased before turning on a heel and heading towards the Palazzo with Tristan trailing not far behind. "But I appreciate the effort, even so." Tristan trotted to catch up to him, cursing his long legs under her breath. But a part of her was smiling.
Yeah, even if there were to be challenging times ahead, she could get used to this.
That was until a group of guards came around the corner.
The five of them were obviously part of some patrol pounding the pavement for the afternoon. In a way, it was almost reminiscent of home with just a couple of local beat cops doing their duties. Mom often said it beat sitting in a patrol car all day. The four in front leisurely moved about, their hands on their respective weapons but loose enough to let the pommels and handles slide through with ease. The one trailing behind had to be a higher-ranking officer judging by his shiny blinding armor and a stiffness to his step; no doubt from the stick up his ass. He looked ready to knock out the next bush which looked at him erroneously, or even the next person. Tristan decided it was a wise enough decision to give him a wide berth.
But Federico, much to her dismay, slowed and waved with a warm smile of familiarity. No doubt a result of growing up in the same neighborhood. A gesture returned by one of the men in front— a grizzly-looking fellow with salt and pepper hair and hard lines that meant years on the streets but enough room for warm smiles. "Adolfo! How good to see you this fine day! Business or pleasure?"
But Tristan saw that there was no warmness in Adolfo's features now. When she averted her gaze to the other men, she noticed a similar grim expression on all of their faces. "'Rico..." she muttered in warning under her breath, but he either didn't hear her or promptly ignored it.
"I'm afraid it's business this evening, young master," Adolfo said. He looked genuinely pained to say it, and outside the Captain, the others looked just as uncomfortable in having this exchange as the next man.
"What? Are you meaning the fight?" Federico jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I can assure you neither of us started it."
"Ah, I wish it was that, but I'm afraid it's much worse—" he mumbled, just as the Captain stepped forward and shoved him aside, having grown impatient with how the conversation was going.
"Federico Auditore, you and your family have been accused of crimes against the city of Florence and her people. Do not resist apprehension, or we will use force."
Federico's easy-going smile dissolved, only to be replaced with an expression betwixt confusion and a slowly dawning realization. His gaze swept over the other men, and Tristan saw something harden. In fact, she could have sworn the colors of his eyes flashed briefly into a golden color before reverting back.
"...I see," was all he said in a flat tone. "On what charges am I accused of then?"
"Treason." The word fell like a stone from the Captain's lips, and even Tristan felt sucker-punched as Federico stiffened.
"'Rico, what's happening—." He didn't allow her to finish when he pulled her aside, another one of those indistinguishable expressions on his features when he turned to face her. He pasted on a smile, but it was forced.
"Just a misunderstanding." He tried his best, but she wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure her or him. "But do you remember how to get back to the Palazzo from here?"
She flicked between him and the guards. "I think so, but I don't think that sounds like..."
He put a hand up to stop her. "Tristan, it'll be fine." He looked back towards the guards, the fake smile disappearing. "But I need you to go. I need you to run straight to the Palazzo and don't look back. Warn them if it's not too late. I hope I am wrong, but... they cannot catch you. They cannot know about you."
"'They'?" Who the fuck was—. Her eyes widened, and she grasped at his arm, hissing, "You mean Templars?"
He shook his head, looking grim. "Like I said— I hope I'm just jumping to conclusions. But, regardless," he gently extricated himself from her grip, punctuating each word as he softly spoke, "You need to go. Now."
Tristan's focus flicked towards the guards— some were slowly tightening their grips on their weapons as if anticipating a fight. She felt helpless. You can do nothing, Trish. Don't try to be a hero. You with fists and knives versus swords and spears. A sentiment shared by her companion as he sent her a warning look and a subtle shake of his head. The message he was conveying was crystal clear: Don't.
As much as it pained her. As much as she wanted to stand her ground and insist on staying and doing something— she bit back on the urge and merely nodded.
Federico instantly looked relieved and patted her hand once, twice before dropping it. And then stepped back, turning to face the guards. He held his hands up in a placating manner. "I will come peacefully," he stated, walking towards them with straightforward steps. And all Tristan could do was watch helplessly.
Just as Federico got within arm's length, one of the soldiers, now christened with the name "Mace" for the weapon at his side, indicated with a lazy hand. "What about the other one? Do we just let him go?"
The Captain flicked his gaze, gave a once-over, and pointed at her, "I have not seen this man before but detain him anyway. He could be a conspirator as well or at least have some useful information for us."
Him? She blinked before patting at her head, noting that her beanie was still firmly in place. Freezing water then rushed down her spine as all eyes turned. Oh, shit-fuck— he means me. Tristan stepped back again just as Mace took a step forward, an arm reaching out to grab her. "Don't do anything stupid—"
It happened so fast. One second, Mace was there advancing on her; the next, he was on the ground with Federico on top with wailing precise fists to his face and throat. He paused with one hand around Mace's throat, his fierce eyes having caught her staring, and for once, he was genuinely livid as he snarled, "What are you waiting for? I told you to run!"
The other soldiers had recovered from their daze and were grappling and pulling him off their comrade. He disappeared from view into their grasp amidst grunts of pain and sickening thuds. What happened next, Tristan's legs had shaken off their delayed reaction, and before she could stop herself— she ran, wishing she could close her ears off from the curses and yelling and the sounds of flesh hitting other flesh.
And the sounds of pain that seemed to shadow her every step.
~*End*~
And alas, we jump right into the thick of the game's first chapter. *gets shield out* I'm sorry, folks, but happy sass Trico times had to end sometime! ;(
So, you're probably wondering what my announcement is? WELL, this is actually the tenth chapter, and as a thank you to all you wonderful readers and a reward for those college students who've finished or are finishing their studies— I ask what you would like to be featured in the next TK's History Fun Facts section?
THAT'S RIGHT, you, my lovely people, get to choose! *Insert Air horns blaring here* It can practically be anything! Any time period/person/thing etc.!
One entry per person is all I ask! And while not a hard and fast rule, do try and keep it SFW.
TK's History Fun Fact:
What's in a name? While there are multiple theories as to the origin, no one truly knows what "California" stemmed from. Initially used in the 16th Century Romance novel Las Sergas de Esplandìan (The Adventures of Esplandìan), California was the name of a mythical island populated by black Amazon-like warrior women, ruled by a queen by the name of Calafia. It is widely speculated today that both California and Calafia stem from the Arabic word, 'Khalif/Khalifah or 'leader.' However, it has also been thought that maybe inspiration was taken from the phrase "Califerne" used in the 11th Century French tale, Song of Roland. (Regardless, California represent!)
State of Mind So, at this point in history, Italy was not a unified nation. That wouldn't happen until roughly 1861 when the Kingdom of Italy was formed. Until that point, it was a country populated by mostly city-states. Many were the survivors and remnants of Roman settlements and by the time the 15th Century rolled in, they were often ruled by different families and their houses. (For example, The Medici being the unofficial rulers of Florence after the previous one went bankrupt in the late 14th Century.) Often many of them were vying for power and prowess. And some rivalries—like the one between Siena and Florence, still last to this day.
I didn't come to hear you Wine This was something I personally learned after having visited Florence. Wine was coveted so much, there are literally tiny openings built into the basements of palazzi and merchant's homes for the sole purpose of selling to-go wine. Called "buchette del vino" ("little wine holes"), these small windows were often used during the Renaissance period. They were the cheaper, direct-to-consumer alternatives to taverns and other drinking dens. Not to mention— a fantastic way to avoid the taxman.
Sadly, at the turn of the 20th Century, many were destroyed, covered, or even used as mailboxes thanks to various drinking laws and natural disasters that hit the city. However, due to recent world events that shall not be named, these buchette have been repurposed to sell everything from wine and beer to gelato! And believe it or not, this is not even the first time these windows were used in such a manner.
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! :)
Thanks for reading!
-TK