Alternative music to set the mood: "March to the Scaffold" by Symphonie Fantastique and/or "The Host of Seraphim" by Dead Can Dance.

~*XI*~

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

December 29, 1476

The morning that greeted the city of Florence was as somber as Tristan's mood.

Grey clouds that had merely clung to the local mountains had crept in overnight on cold, unseen steeds with black rearing heads. They built and spilt over into the Arno river valley and then sat there— low, heavy, and ready to burst at any second. Tristan risked another look into the swirling silver depths from under the lip of her hood, frowning. She hoped to be out of this weather before it unleashed its drizzly miserable payload. And hopefully, the three other Auditore men would be with her.

Another gust had Tristan tightening the cloak around herself even though it very little in combating the cold. By the frigid sting, it may actually drop some sleet today; hell, maybe even snow. An ironic thing given how there was no snow upon first arriving here. A likelihood Tristan wished she had her jacket for, but wisely chose to leave it back at the bordello where she had stashed both it and the Clock under the bed. She was supposed to be part of the crowd, and standing out in a Canadian blizzard blessed ski coat would not do her any favors in her attempt to blend in— even if she was cozy and warm.

She stifled another shiver, stepping in line with some of the other curious denizens who were also making their way to the Piazza della Signoria. Funny, she wouldn't think there would be so many people this early in the morning, but then again— she'd imagine these types of events to be their version of Law and Order: SVU since entertainment was so sparse. She just hoped this episode ended on a good note. Tristan bit her lip as she walked under the arch's shadow, and her feet stumbled to a stop as a ghastly sight met her eyes. Maybe she hadn't noticed them earlier in her haste the other day, but sprawling front and center of the Piazza was a curious structure, a scaffold of some kind.

Her mouth became dry when she noted the nooses lightly swinging in the breeze.

The hand loosely grasping the pommel of Giovanni's dagger under her cloak—now properly tucked in a safer and more accessible area— tightened when she counted three of them. A sinking feeling made itself known as she realized there were two large nooses and one small enough for a child.

She thickly swallowed, and the color faded from her face. Oh no.

Luckily, they were empty— for now, but the quietly blaring klaxons were increasing their tempo. It was just for show, right? It wasn't actually going to be used today since they gave the evidence last night? She noted that the area around it was beginning to fill up with more people by the second. A fact that had the corners of her lips curling downwards. If this was their idea of a good time, count her out. 1 out of 5 stars on Yelp. Would not recommend.

Her eyes spotted a statue— or more like the statue since it was the only one in the plaza. Funny, she remembered it in a different spot from here, but whatever. The severed head of Medusa in his hand gave away his identity, and it stood not far from the platform, providing relief from the crowded space. Ignoring the curious and more offended glances, she hoisted herself on top of the base, coming about even with Perseus's knees as she searched the crowd. There was a buzz in the air, one that reached the status of a dozing wasp's nest in the middle of a hot summer. Even if the weather was utterly wrong for it, she had expected lightning to strike with how energetic it was.

"Oh Ezio, where are you?" she whispered as her eyes ventured from one face to the other. No luck for now, but he'd come eventually. She knew that to be true. But there was no denying that all of this felt bad. A sensation she hadn't been able to shake from the night prior. In fact, she'd argue it had probably strengthened in the mere hours that had passed between last night and now. She hadn't even been able to sleep, tossing and turning as more and more intrusive thoughts permeated her head. The hindsight that she should have pushed just a tad bit harder permeated to her very bones.

Dammit, all of this felt rotten. Tristan just hoped it was nothing more than nerves instead of having been lead like flies to a sweet-smelling trap—finding only their demises within the folds of a pretty flower.

A ruckus from the far side of the plaza perked her ears, and she swiveled her head towards it just as the crowd quieted to an intrigued murmur, for the entrance to the Signoria had opened. First, there were the guards that came out— far too many for just a trial surely, she wondered out loud. One of them— an absolute brute with embellished armor and a red tassel on his helmet, hefted a giant axe with ease over his equally broad shoulder. Immediately flanking him were four others— mere underlings if she had to guess judging by their light armor, followed in the rear by a tall well-armored guardsman whose hand was permanently affixed to the sword at his hip. Her lips rose into a slight satisfied smirk as she recognized him as the Captain from the day prior. The same one who had come to arrest Federico. While the helmet he wore was ornate and detailed—it still left little to the imagination as his face was sporting purple brooding bruises and a busted nose. It was so swollen, the helmet didn't even fit right, leaning slightly. Looks like he got what had coming for him. He bade his men to form a line with quick hand movements— to keep the growing crowd at bay from the prisoners and their handlers.

Then came more guards, followed by the gaolers and behind them—. Tristan stiffened, hand gripping at the statue, her heart jumping up to her throat as she witnessed a small pitiful procession making its way from the Signoria flanked by even more brutes.

First to come into view was Giovanni, hands bound behind his back. He was haggard-looking with sunken eyes and torn clothes. And yet, despite it all, he still carried himself proud- head lifted high and each step a purposeful one. Even as a hobbled prisoner surrounded by a dozen guards armed to the teeth, the Assassin would not let weakness show. Not here, not in the face of a soon-to-be bloodthirsty crowd.

And especially not in front of his own children.

Behind him, also tightly secured, came Federico— who out of the three looked the worst off. It was clear that what the Captain had been gifted, his soldiers had equally gifted out. Even from this far away, she could see the black and purple bruises. And the blood. They dotted his face like warpaint. Surprisingly his eyes had been spared the brunt of the damage. However, his lips were swollen, and there was a nasty gash across his cheek that had already opened back up again. And yet, with the simmering hellfire of a glare boring in the direction of the men leading him, he looked just as vicious as any cornered wolf. Tristan wanted to look away, but she forced herself to continue watching as the final, and last Auditore was escorted out:

Poor little Petruccio. He had been left unmarked and wasn't as tightly bound as his father and brother. But the bindings that kept him were enough to make Tristan feel ill. And no doubt, the mental ropes were keeping him in line too. Fuck, he was barely a teenager. His eyes darted this and that on an alabaster face, and when he stumbled, he practically was on the verge of crying when the nearest guard pulled him back to his feet, giving him a little push. An action that nearly drove Federico feral if a brute hadn't intercepted, yanking him by his shoulder to force him to continue walking forward.

Tristan slunk against the statue, white knuckles grasping the stone. The revelation struck her as they began to position Giovanni, tugging on the rope and tightening it around his throat. This was no trial; in fact, it was a fallacy of one. A child was being marched out to the fucking gallows. Tristan shuttered her eyes as all three were escorted— or pushed in Federico's case as he fought and struggled up the stairs, throwing himself like a mustang refusing to be broken. A quick cuff by heavy hands put a stop to it, though. And soon, his own personal noose was tightened around his neck. She was biting back her own tears as she watched the rope be pulled down and tightened around a crying Petruccio's scrawny neck.

The crowd had expanded far more than she had expected, the very edge extending past the arch she had entered from. Why? She wanted to scream at them. Why do you think this is right? He's a child, not a criminal!

As if to mock her, a ragged cheer grew and spread. It originated in the back and, like a twisted version of the wave, steadily migrated to the front. Who knew how many people were in the crowd now, but it seemed every voice joined in the chorus. Swirling and ebbing before becoming one. And it became louder when out of the Signoria came the Gonfalonier— now dressed in a rich red velvet depicting his office and power. Tristan's face twisted into a hateful snarl as nausea and enmity hit her all at once in a venomous whirlwind.

Him.

Having shed his mundane and humble clothes, the true version of Uberto Alberti became seen in the bright crimson robes of his office. The sneer plastered on his face had replaced the once kind and false smile she had seen in the foyer earlier. As he stepped onto the gallows, she noted the cheers rising in tandem only to tamper down again when he raised a hand- demanding silence.

"Giovanni Auditore," he boomed, his voice carrying over the suddenly hushed plaza. "You and your accomplices stand accused of treason and crimes against the city and her allies." While all the attention was focused on him and him alone as he went down the supposed "charges" of the crimes they committed, Tristan noticed that behind him, another had discreetly slipped in. She hadn't even seen him arrive, but his presence was impeccable as he stood there wearing pitch-black clothes and a deep hood that hid his features. No matter what, her narrowed eyes always seemed to drift back to him. His presence, like a foul fishy odor even after scrubbing the hell out of its container, was a noxious cloying one. Had he been the source of her discomfort all along? And it had only rubbed off on Uberto? Regardless, it came off of him in waves. She ducked slightly out of view when the cloth of his hood shifted somewhat. Maybe she was just paranoid, but it had looked like he was beginning to look her way. Purposefully.

"Have you any evidence to counter these charges?" Uberto half-turned, finally focusing on the person he once called his ally and friend, with something like apprehension or fear briefly appearing on his features in the process. Whatever it was, it made Tristan clench her hands into fists. More than anything, she wanted to punch his stupid face. The bastard had no right to feel regret.

"Yes, the evidence that was given to you last night!" Giovanni roared, rising slightly on the balls of his toes, eyes wide and full of rage as the noose strained against his neck.

Uberto looked taken aback by that— or at least he acted that way, she bitterly thought as he helplessly spread his arms and turned to the audience. "I'm afraid I've no knowledge of this!"

"He's lying!"

Ezio? Her head careened around the statue. She saw him standing out amongst the muted greys and blacks. His brilliant white robes was like a beacon as he pushed and shoved towards the gallows. But no matter how much he made progress— he never seemed to get closer. He wouldn't get close enough either, she realized— not with those guards in front who tightened the grips on their pommels and shafts. A couple with polearms swung them downwards into a defensive position.

Still, it didn't stop him; an admirable but sad attempt. Even as he hoarsely shouted over the crowd, "I was the one that gave it to him! My father and brothers are innocent and didn't do it!"

But Uberto didn't even react. Worst even— didn't respond; didn't even glance his way. He just merely strolled to and from, waiting for something that he knew would never come. It was rehearsed, an absolutely brilliant play that would have made Shakespeare jealous. But Tristan knew damn well he was still acting because that's what this all was. A play. A sham. And as he spread his hands apart, looking confused, she realized her intuition had been correct. He was nothing but treachery cloaked in sweet words. And the anger that had flickered to life turned into an utter hatred that seeped deep in her person as he adopted a further hurt, helpless state. One that was shed as he turned to the crowd, anger, and spite twisting his mouth as he angrily gestured at the accused.

"In the absence of evidence—"

"No." The word was pulled from Tristan's lips, and despite it all, it did little to drown out the rest of what he was saying.

"I sentence you and your conspirators to death."

She watched in horror as the man in black stepped forward. Both he and Uberto shared a subtle, brief nod. It's time, the gesture said. She watched the executioner with a heavy sinking dread as he made his careful way across the platform. His steps heavy, reminiscent of a Grim Reaper, acting oblivious to the world despite Giovanni snarling and cursing, calling the man he once considered his friend a motley of well-deserved names. Despite Federico hanging his head in defeat, all the fight having gone out of him as his lips moved.

Despite Petruccio openly sobbing as the executioner's hands clasped around the lever.

"No," She said the word a little louder, firmer, ripping her hood off and letting her hair tumble out. Weak sunlight permeated through the underbellies of the cloud, lighting up the courtyard with a pale light. She knew by the squinting and raised hands, the beams of light were briefly blinding the men and guards around the platform.

Who knew how long this opportunity was to last, so she had to act quickly.

A knife soon appeared in her hand, but trepidation stayed it for only a brief moment. This wasn't some trickshot in some throwing competition back home. There were lives in her hands, and if she so much as missed, that's it. Her chance was done, and innocents would pay the price. She breathed out in one smooth motion and brought up her stance, eying her target. She leveled herself. She knew it was a stupid plan. Kill the executioner, use the chaos to rescue, maybe escape. Probably a silly, pointless attempt on her part, but there was no way she wasn't going to try. She refused to stand aside and do nothing.

As Tristan pulled her arm back, thumb and fingers pinching the blade, a tremendous pulling sensation deep in her gut made itself known. She nearly dropped the knife with how sudden and powerful it was, like being at the very top of a roller coaster and coming straight down, specifically like that one time she rode Goliath at Six Flags. It was a weird sensation and came out of nowhere, but she shook her head. But... her hand slowly began to drop as a sudden eerie hush descended around her as if someone pressed a pause button.

It was the birds that caught her eye first. Having been disturbed from their roost, a pair of doves took off from the statue's head. And yet... as she watched in great confusion- their wings took far too long to flap. It was like watching a video being dialed back into slow-motion territory. Eventually, they slowed to a crawl before coming to a complete stop- their wings frozen and outstretched, pinions reaching for the sky. Her attention was soon drawn to the environment around her, for the crowd was beginning to slow as well, their cheers and yelling one by one disappearing into silence.

"What the fuck?" She muttered, turning around to spot Ezio once more, now stuck, one hand outstretched towards the gallows he'd never reached in time. She looked down from her perch and realized only she could still move, but it felt... strange as she climbed down. Delayed. Her limbs felt heavier than usual like weights had been tied around her extremities. All while walking on the bottom of the seafloor.

As a foot touched the paved stones, something warm made its presence known in her pocket. And when she shoved her hand in it, she found with great dread the metallic texture of the Clock against her fingertips, now searing and pulsating with a heat that immediately gave her flashbacks and had her pulling her hand back. She swore she had left it behind at the brothel. In her the case, it was here now, a fact that had Tristan shoving the blasted thing into her pocket with a scowl. Worry about it later.

Whatever the stupid thing had done, it had obviously frozen time, leaving only her, the lucky bastard she was, remaining aware. She supposed it was a bonus because why throw a knife when you could get to the gallows themselves and just cut the ropes? Sure, let's go with that instead.

Turns out that was easier said than done as she set out on her new task. As she began to shoulder through the crowd, it was like her movements were being pushed against; as if every step felt like an eternity. This was so bloody frustrating. But she gritted her teeth and continued on.

"It is often said that justice is a cruel mistress."

Tristan froze mid-step and slowly turned to find a familiar set of unflinching eyes and a hard-set jaw. She couldn't believe it. Her. Of all people to show up, it had to be the Pale Lady. She stood not far from where Tristan was and proceeded to come closer. The people around her seemed to bend and warp as she walked past, yet they did not notice, even as their upraised hands and slowing motions made the fabric of her hood swish to and fro as she walked past.

"Justice? This isn't fucking justice," Tristan found herself blurting, gesturing wildly at the gallows, rage settling deep in her chest. "This is a fallacy. A sham. A-a—."

"And you are right," the pale woman calmly cut her off, the only sign of anger showing in the stiffness of her shoulders as she gestured with a gloved hand, her tone stern and demanding. "This is a mockery of justice where fools play God with innocents' lives. Tragically, he betrays both his office and his close friends for the sake of vengeance's bittersweet rewards." Her head dipped in the direction of the Gonfalonier, caught in mid-movement like a fly in amber, his face a Greek mask of triumph. "But he will get what is coming to him."

"What about them, then? "Tristan snarled, stabbing a finger towards Petruccio. "What about him, huh? He's just a fucking child. Does he get his justice at the end of a rope?"

Her companion turned to her, eyes somewhat softening as she emitted a sigh, "Which is a tragedy within itself since he has known nothing but suffering in his short time on this world. But you and I both know you cannot save them. Not all of them, at least. Even if you were to act out your plan, you would undoubtedly fail."

Tristan's anger cooled to a brimming simmer as she furrowed her brows, lips twitching into a grimace. She shook her head and continued to press forward. I do know, actually. Out loud, however, she said, "I have to at least try. Better than any of these bastards." She indicated around her with a thrown hand, daring not to closely study any of the frozen faces. Too many were finding satisfaction and pleasure in watching this, and it greatly disturbed her.

"I would not expect any less," the other woman hummed, folding her arms behind her back as she observed both Tristan and the scene before her. "You are... quite tenacious in that manner. Some would even call it an annoyance. But it is an admirable trait all the same."

That made Tristan pause, and she turned around with eyebrows furrowing. "Thanks..." She said, rather confused, "I think. But shouldn't you be... I don't know, trying to stop me?"

The woman wrinkled her nose, barely sparing her a look. "Should I?"

"I—. Why else would you be here?" Isn't that how it usually goes when it comes to these things?

A snort answered her. "I am merely a witness who wishes to restore balance and right the wrongs and nothing more. You could even call me an unwilling passenger. But if you are concerned about maintaining the sanctity of this timeline akin to your modern membrana— don't. While I don't know the reasoning as to why you were chosen of all people, I do know that your arrival was and still is a calculated risk. You changed the tides the very moment you stepped foot into this place. To expect nothing to happen because of it is a foolish notion." She paused, and her face morphed into that of unbridled fury as she pointed. "Besides, this... place, this pocket of time is a cancer; one that needs to be cut out and cauterized. And it is here your quarry has meddled in your extended absence. So, yes. I have accepted that things will be altered. And this deviance is but a small price to pay if it means stopping her and ensuring her plans fail."

Tristan, confused, followed her hand to the slight left of the platform.

What she found, shimmering and disappearing at a moment's notice, made her a little lost for words. It was like looking at an illusion—one of those side attractions she used to visit as a kid whenever they came to town. But, if you stared directly at it, you merely saw fragments and pieces of glass and metal that made little rhyme or reason, but take a step sideways and look from another angle- like the corner of the eye or another place in the room, the real image appeared in front of you like a mirage in the desert. Funny, the things you realize you miss with the fondest memories when you're unable to do so later.

The woman that floated besides the man in black was like that. Unlike her companion's mistaken supernatural origins, this one was actually see-through. To the point, Tristan could barely make out her features besides dark hair and a glowing iridescent gown that moved on unseen winds. At the moment, her —aureate cold gaze was fixated on the affairs in front of her, her stiff folded gossamer arms covered in soft glowing tattoos. Tristan was barely able to discern that her lips were moving. She was talking to someone and judging by the stiffness of the strange man in black, Tristan was sure it was him.

A chill had enveloped Tristan at the mention of 'she,' one that was made worse by the sight. Of a howling voice in the dark and golden eyes that burned with a deep-seated fanatical hatred. Even now, she heard the malice in the word, Traitor. She shuttered her eyes, and yet the vision and the voices refused to dissipate. On a very rational fear, Tristan silently hoped that the woman wouldn't look their way. Curiosity and God knew what else, however, had her turning slightly, murmuring in half awe and half fear: "Does she know we're here?"

"No," came the curt reply, the woman's attention never leaving the ghostly figure. "At least for now. I have the vague sense that she is somewhere else, merely observing the events unfold. I doubt she's even in the city. But... I suspect she soon will know after today."

Tristan blinked and glanced sideways, brows furrowing. "And... who is she, exactly?"

A weary look overcame her companion as the mirage, looking satisfied, slowly began to dissipate as she turned, crumbling to golden ashes. "That is a tale for another day, I am afraid. We are running out of time. But, just know, she is the reason for you being here and that your actions here, whatever they will be, will draw her ire. Be vigilant and always be on guard from here on out."

Tristan's lips thinned. Her gaze was fixed on Giovanni, who strangely enough seemed to be looking right at her. Which she knew was impossible because, well, frozen in time and all. Still, she was close enough to see his expression. How defeated he looked.

Her shoulders slumped, and yet she couldn't pull away from his resigned eyes. "There's— Is there really no way to save all of them?" She murmured, her eyes starting to burn as the truth she had previously kept bay with flimsy optimism and excuses was literally staring her in the face: Death, riding on a skeletal steed of deceit and pain, was moments away, and Giovanni was beginning to embrace it with open arms.

"In another life. In another cycle where the stars align and the variables are in perfect synchronization, perhaps." After a long pause, the Pale Lady softly spoke, managing to sound sorrowful as she shook her head. "But... not in this one. It's too damaged after what happened. And you are currently too weak to handle its full potential. Even now, you are both struggling to maintain this." As if on cue, a familiar wetness began to drip from her nose, and Tristan wiped it away in scowling annoyance. "So, I suggest you choose now."

All of her words had flown over her head, but they were low enough to force Tristan to hang her head, angrily palming at her eyes to keep them from stinging further. She breathed through her nose as she finally tore herself away, her heart set on what she had to do. The grip on her knife tightening. I am so sorry, Giovanni. I should have done more to repay you.

Tristan's hand started to shake minutely as she noticed the people were moving again, their motions increasing in excitability. Slow at first, but steadily increasing with every drawn-out second. Even Uberto was moving steadily faster. She could only stare at his raised-up hand, no doubt a signal for the trial to end in a short drop. She stifled a rather suspicious sound from deep within her throat. I'm running out of time.

Her gaze found itself venturing to the middle. The freeze had caught Federico mid-struggle. It was in vain, the ropes too tight. Tristan could admire that. And yet, his eyes weren't looking at Uberto but rather to the side. To where Petruccio was. His lips partially opened as if he was trying to reassure him. A brother to the very bitter and short end. She noted from the corner of her vision, the Pale Lady's veiled head had turned, also looking the same direction. "Ah," she hummed. "While I sense problems could arise from his saving and affect the final outcome, he is an acceptable divergence. Perhaps, his presence could even lead to more."

The woman paused, her attention drawn upwards as white began to fall. "Mmm, interesting. It's snowing." She put her hand out, catching a drifting flake. She studied it with keen eyes before speaking in a hushed tone—more to herself than Tristan, "This is rather new. Perhaps...?"

She shook her head, muttering under her breath, and eventually dissolved the flake by rubbing her fingers together. "It is now time for you to choose. You must balance the scales, Viator. Before it's too late." Her eyes flicked Tristan's way, sharpened steel piercing her very soul, as her voice took a hardened edge, full of weight. "For all of us."

Tristan's eyes flickered between the three, a violent shake beginning to envelop her person. Choose. It should be challenging, right? Who to save? But in her heart, which quailed at the idea, she knew she had already settled on a decision. And because of it, she bit down on her bottom lip. But she clenched her fist, all the same, finalizing it.

She just hoped he'd eventually forgive her for it.

"So be it," the Pale Lady inclined her head as if having read her mind, silver eyes flickering a brilliant light as she once more straightened. Who knows, Tristan wondered; perhaps she did have that ability given her close connection to the Clock. "May your aim be true. However, I implore you to heed my words: the road home will be a hard one, and there will be other sacrifices like this on the way. But remember, you are only one person and can only do so much with what is given to you. Stay vigilant. And know I am never too far away. Until we meet again." And in the span of a single blink, she was gone like a snuffed flame.

Tristan didn't dwell on her companion's absence or her parting words; the acid taste still on her tongue as she charged through invisible barriers that one by one dissipated. She ignored the widening eyes, the delayed looks of surprise from the people she shoved and tripped out of the way. As Tristan barged through, something in the air crackled and buzzed, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Whatever spell that been conjured was beginning to fade.

She braked to a stop mere feet from the line of guards. She was close enough to see the narrowed shapes of their eyes starting to drift her way. One even started bringing their spear her way. It was almost comical hearing them trying to talk, to order her back, but at the moment, she wasn't laughing, not with the hunk of metal mere inches from her face.

She simply sidestepped it, the unseen weights sliding off her person as she slipped in behind him and the other guards. The passing thought of quickly dispatching all of them before they realized it was a brief and cold one. One she heavily considered but, in the end, decided against it. Her window of success was slowly beginning to dwindle. As evidenced by the executioner slowly starting to pull the lever. The blade's tip was pinched between her fingers as she took up position, only a couple feet away from the gallows. In one smooth motion, her hand flew forward just as the surroundings began to transition to normal around her. And she prayed for her aim to be true as the knife left her fingertips.

The last thing to come back to normalcy was sound— and it was a tremendous angry roar that crashed against her ears, threatening to overtake her. Followed by a piercing scream that would no doubt haunt her for as long as she lived as the doors under their feet opened.

"Father!"

~*End*~

So glad we've almost made it
So sad they had to fade it
Everybody wants to rule the world