Hey guys! I had to take a quick break over the month of August. It got hectic as all get out in July with work and NaNo Camp, so my brain promptly took a nosedive.

But I'm back! And I got an update for you! And man oh man it's a good one. But it's very somber, just as a word of warning.

But enjoy!

-TK

~*XII*~

Holding Out for a Hero

Something tore at Federico the very moment he caught sight of white robes. At first, he thought he had imagined it amongst the sea of cold faces— because surely there was no other presence besides that of Paola and maybe Volpe (assuming he was even in the city still.) Still— a tiny hope flickered behind his chest. Perhaps their numbers were not as few as his father suspected initially.

But that hope was quickly snuffed and replaced with a dawning horror when he noted how ill-fitting the robes were as they hung loosely around the figure.

God, how familiar they were.

Nausea struck him when he recognized the design and color scheme of the robes as his father's. Which could only mean—.

He's not ready. He had heard those words from their father every time he inquired about it. And every time, he would walk out of the suddenly stifling office frustrated and perplexed. Why? Federico always tried to reason. He had been told roughly of their heritage the same age as Ezio is now. What more could he teach without letting it slip that all he had done was for something far grander than wanton youth? Of course, his father never swayed; his word was final, after all, and no doubt their mother had her fair say as well.

And thus, he would play the part, acting the big brother, all the while secretly wishing he could admit everything.

But now? Of all the days to see his brother adorned in their station—ignorant of both its heavy burden and attached message, it was fated to be Federico's last.

And it was fucking ironic.

He'd dryly laugh if it didn't hurt so much to do so. Both in body and soul.

Go back. Please. Federico silently begged, willing with all of his might for Ezio to disappear back into the crowd. To go back to Mother and their sister and to run far away from this place before he too was dragged up here alongside them with his own personalized death sentence.

Run away, Ezio, please.

His stubborn baby brother kept coming though on a noble yet pointless crusade. Federico's suddenly watery eyes drifted as the executioner waltzed by. What's worse, though, is knowing he'd never make it in time to stop this. No matter how much he pushed and shouldered the citizens of Florence aside, he'd never make it. He couldn't save them.

He was minutely aware that Ezio said (screamed) something, but it was lost in the chaos of what felt like a hundred— a thousand voices, challenging him. He reflected on what little time was left, and he grew cold.

A sniffle, somehow loud in this chaos, broke his spell, and although it felt tortuous to do, he dragged his attention away and turned to behold the cruelest testament of Uberto's betrayal. He and his father have lived as much as they could with what they had. Even if their lives were ingrained into the Brotherhood, they lived a good one on this Earth.

Petruccio, however...

He never had the chance to live being a prisoner to four walls.

Federico tried to sound soothing. He tried to, really. But the words refused to come to him, and any that did immediately evaporated on his lips as he took in Petruccio's wide, terrified eyes as they flicked his way. What could he say to his little brother with their soon-to-be-approaching deaths hanging around their necks? Any reassurances would be hollow and false promises. Any hope would be tainted with bittersweet poison.

He shut his eyes, the pain in his heart hurting far more than the wounds that had been afflicted to that of his body.

"Stay strong," he finally settled on, the words tasting sour as he spoke. Two dumb, foolish words that would probably be his last ever spoken to his youngest brother.

He didn't know if Petruccio had even heard him as the crowd, worked up to a frenzy, rose in cacophony as the hangman took the lever in both hands. But his attempt seemed enough, for his youngest brother blinked but stiffly nodded and straightened. Acting brave for his and father's sake, bless him. And a smile formed because of it.

I never took you climbing, he realized, refusing to look ahead as the traitorous bastard kept speaking. Ignoring his father's cracking voice as he too recognized the futility of their actions. No, he never did, and Federico reflected there were many things he would never have the chance to do. Seeing his siblings happy. Training alongside his brother. Hell, maybe even Claudia and Petruccio as well— assuming if he ever recovered from whatever affliction that had laid him low. Would his dumb brother get his head out of his ass and settle down? Presumably, with that Cristina, he's so clearly enamored with? Have a family? Would he? Would the both of them join the ranks?

It didn't matter, he supposed while hanging his head. None of it mattered, he bitterly added. They were going to die here in the cold, on this platform, in front of these people who truly believed they were nothing more than criminals.

In front of Ezio.

The anger at such a revelation was there, yes. Burning, threatening to consume him with an inferno that would rival that of divine wrath as he brought his head up and glared at Uberto. Specifically at one of his hands, where the Auditore signet ring glinted in the winter sun. The very one that was passed down since that of the age of Renato. What he wouldn't give to have a go at that fucking traitorous bastard and break that finger. But deep down, he knew it was a fruitless endeavor, and there was also an icy fear, clutching at the edges and slowly creeping in, threatening to drag him from this existence right then and there.

A fluttering of wings caught his eye, pulling him back from the dark swirling abyss just to be blinded by the sun peeking out from behind the cloudy covers like a shy lover. He watched with squinting eyes as a pair of startled doves flew through the cold grey sky. In the movement, he caught red in the sun's brief rays, and his heart stopped only to speed up again. No surely, it couldn't be— But... it was just his imagination, for there was no one there the next time he blinked, despondent. Oh, Tristan. She didn't ask to be a part of this, and if she was smart— (he knew she was), she'd be long gone from here. It was just a pity that their time together was so short, for he would have liked to know her more.

He blinked again, and the sun dipped back into the clouds. But there it was again.

Red.

Now his confusion was replaced with that of frustration because once more, the red-colored mirage was gone from sight when he turned to focus on it. Federico furrowed his brows at where he last saw the color amidst the crowd and then proceeded to shake his head, gritting his teeth. Perhaps the bastards had done more damage than he initially realized the night before.

His heavy footfalls having stopped, Federico knew that the executioner had finished his [slow journey] from one side of the platform to the other. Having already succumbed to his fate, he couldn't bring himself to watch as the gloved hands latched themselves around the lever.

His lowered head turned in the direction of Petruccio, who, despite the red eyes, still had his head upraised, staring front and center out into the crowd. Something that made pride swell in his chest. Even if bed-ridden, he was every bit an Auditore.

Stay strong.

His vision wandered to his right to see his father meeting his eyes. Words weren't possible, not in this loud chaos, but the pride Federico could see there further warmed him. They shared a solemn nod as the lever was pulled.

The creaking sound that came with it and the thudding of his heart drowned out the crowd.

He raised his head nonetheless because if there was one thing, he would not do. It was to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing an Auditore cower. And so too did his father, for his voice as he condemned Uberto carried with it such great power, that for a second the Gonfalonier looked abashed and scared.

Stay strong.

A buzzing sound flew past his ear. He had even felt the air tickle his hair with a silent woosh. The only thing that came to mind was: a bee? Wasn't it too cold for bees?

The lever came down with a loud groan, and Federico found himself falling.

"I swear it—!" He heard his father's voice cut off.

Falling.

Falling.

He sucked in what he believed was to be his last breath...

...only for it to come out in a puff of surprised but pained breath as he landed bodily, stars briefly flashing before his eyes as his head smacked against the cold and frost-covered cobblestones. He laid there, dazed, waiting for the blurry images to become one again as the sounds outside the underbelly of the platform devolved into confused and angry sounds. Occasionally interspersed here and there with metal scraping against one another and shouts and grunts of pain. He also heard... screaming? And it sounded like his brother? His head was muffled like it had been stuffed with wool.

However, all of it drifted by like dust in the wind as another slower breath escaped him. This one of surprise. He... he was alive? Or was he in some kind of purgatory? That was a theory soon disproven as he flexed his bound wrists, earning him a flaring pain that had him hissing between teeth.

Slowly but surely, he sat up groggily, shaking off his daze as he looked up with squinting eyes through the hole from his awkward position. The rope... it... it was—Suddenly, his memory reflected back to a curious conversation he had with a particular strange woman (who fortunately turned out to not be crazy.) It had only been a couple days ago, but in this infinity of despair and chaos, it had felt like centuries. For above his head, swinging in the wintry breezes as if mocking him was the clean end of the rope that once held his doom and not a single fray in sight.

Federico's gaze descended, and he froze when he landed on the cracked leather boots suspended swinging slightly. The snow was already dusting over them, but he recognized them from anywhere—and a part of him knew that. He was hesitant, however, to look at who they belonged to. But as the eldest son, it was his duty, and so he raised his eyes.

He knew at first glance, his father was dead. His neck was at an angle, and the once warm eyes that loved and laughed and scolded for twenty years of his life were nothing more than empty, lifeless orbs. He had seen death before. He had killed before. But not like this. He felt sick, and a hoarse sound threatened to escape his throat. Never like this.

Federico's eyes started stinging, and he bowed his head. By no means was he a religious man, but it did not stop him from emitting a silent invocation that he remembered from his childhood before angrily (and awkwardly) rubbing his face on a shoulder. Stay strong. "I will make him pay for this," he growled to no one. "You have my word."

But only the creaking of the rope answered him.

Another stranger sound stemming from behind broke his stupor, and he awkwardly scooted around to face it. His heart practically stopped when his eyes. On a good day, Petruccio was lightweight, but the last few days... he had been bed-ridden. Barely able to eat despite the doctors' and mother's best attempts. In short, he had been a shell of himself as they pushed him into the cell next to his and father's. Now he was far too underweight, and the rope- It wasn't- He bolted forward, a strangled sound escaping him that sounded like a "Hang on!"

Federico didn't even know if he had heard him, but it didn't stop him as the panic and adrenaline hurried his attempts, and he cursed and snarled as the ropes painfully dug into his tender flesh as he took his bound wrists and tried to bring them under him. Eventually, after what felt like grueling hours, it gave, and his hands were finally in front of him. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the legs of his brother, holding Petruccio up; his teeth bared as pain lanced through him at the moment. He attacked the ropes binding his wrists, tasting blood, and spitting out tendrils of rope before they fell away, leaving him free.

A ruckus overhead had him craning his neck upwards.

"Cut him down!" He realized too late that it had been a stupid idea to do. He didn't even know why he said it. For all he knew, the figure above him was no ally and would more likely kill him than save him. Fate, for once, granted him a reprieve, for the face that he saw was that of his brother's. Relief and fear plastered over his features. He couldn't make out the words Ezio said, but the outstretched arms were self-explanatory, and he wordlessly passed Petruccio along, soon hoisting himself on top. The surroundings were chaotic, the crowds already having fled, only to be replaced with either the dead, the dying, and the poor unfortunate souls who had been caught unawares and trampled.

A precursory glance confirmed that Uberto was gone, probably already having been escorted inside that of the Signoria. So too was the strange hooded man that he'd never seen in the city before. But it had been evident that Father had known him; the anger, rage, and coldness he had towards him spoke of a great seated familiar hatred. Which only meant one thing...

However, he shook that thought away, knowing it was a fool's errand to dwell on it right now.

"Federico, I—." Words failed his wide-eyed brother as Federico turned around to face him. Blood speckled his checks and the sword (their father's sword he spoke of replacing for weeks now) he once had was no longer in sight. It was painfully obvious that he was terrified. Hell, he would be lying if he said he wasn't, too. The difference became Federico was just old enough to bite down on his own and put on a brave face for the both of him. He pressed their brother into Ezio's arms. He noted that Petruccio was pale and barely breathing but alive. But for how much longer? A voice asked— one that he pushed back with a growl.

"You have to go," he said urgently, noting that some guards were beginning to climb the wooden platform, murder in their eyes. Yet his tone never wavered as he continued, grasping at his brother's shoulder. "Take Petruccio somewhere safe. I will find you and the others soon. I promise."

He hated to see that there was a dullness in Ezio's eyes as he blinked slowly. "But—"

Federico's anger and worry flared into a storm, and he fixed a scalding glare, teeth bared. He loved his brother. He truly did and would go to the very edge of the world for him without question. And hell, in other situations, he'd sympathize, be more gentle, but now was not the time for this. And so, he grabbed a fistful of his brother's shirt and, after pulling him close, shoved him hard toward the edge. All the while, snarling, "Get the fuck out of here."

He didn't wait to see if he followed through or not. All he hoped for was that if his brother had any sense, he'd already be running. Instead, he turned around. To find Tristan. He soon discovered that he needn't go far as a guard fell at his feet, with a familiar figure appearing out of what looked to be thin air. Grim, angry, covered in blood but very much alive. He'd never see anything so marvelous before in his life, and he nodded as relief washed over her as well. "Ezio's gone ahead with Petruccio," was all he said.

"Good, you're next." Tristan gritted out, dropping the remnants of a spear's wooden haft. She indicated the surrounding chaos grimly as she spoke, "I'll draw them off long enough for you. Annetta is somewhere close by. Get to her, though, and she will lead you back to your folks."

Despite it all, a breath of alleviation slipped past his lips. Thank God. She had managed to get them to a safe place, after all. But to her other point... Oh no, not today.

"We will draw them off," he corrected, strafing to the side, watching almost lazily as a sword passed him by. He quickly dispatched the man with a few well-placed blows, knocking him back into the crowd. "I know these streets better than you do, and I will not leave you behind."

Tristan's lips twisted into a snarl as she punched the first unfortunate soul to ascend all the way up onto the platform. He hadn't even had the chance to unsheathe his weapon. "Goddammit Federico, this isn't a fucking debate!"

"You're right that it's it not." he smiled thinly, but his tone boded no argument. He coolly twisted around another brazen enough to climb onto the platform, thwapping him with an elbow and a quick kick off the scaffold that sent him on his way. "It's a declaration."

When she whirled on him— a terrifying image of rage and vexation— all he could do was grin defiantly, despite the tightness as he also clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry, but you'll find it's not so easy to get rid of me. There is a debt to be repaid."

She merely snorted. "Of all the bloody goddamn hills to die on—"It was tempting to dryly point out that no, it was actually the gallows he nearly died on, but he figured it was best not to say that. Especially when she angrily grabbed a fallen helmet off the wooden planks underfoot and slammed it up across the head of its owner. He hadn't even properly hit the ground yet before she pivoted on her heel and threw it at another, knocking— he winced— what looked to be several teeth out. She focused on him again, chest heaving like the bellows as she spat, "Fucking stubborn, stupid bastard, fine! You lead; I'll fucking go!"

Federico dipped his head and didn't have to be told twice. Not that he could anyway as an arrow whizzed by and buried itself next to his foot. He spat out a curse when he spotted another archer taking aim on the closest rooftop and an armored guard charging at him with a pike. He sidestepped him, wrapping a hand around the shaft, and tugged it sideways, drawing his opponent around just as the arrow was released. A whistling followed by a pained howl was his reward as the arrow meant for him sunk deep into the soldier's back.

Time to go. He snatched Tristan's wrist and pulled her towards the stairs, ignoring her hissed, "I didn't mean literally lead me!" as they went. Ezio was already gone, no doubt having already raced on ahead with Petruccio. But Federico was not worried as the two of them raced across the courtyard. He and his brother knew these streets probably better than anyone else here. Since Ezio ran one way, Federico decided to take a different route. He cursed when he noted that two men dressed in lighter armor and armed with wicked daggers had separated from the main pursuers and were quickly gaining ground. He tugged at Tristan's wrist again, dipping into a side alley before another handful of other guards spotted them. The last thing they needed was the entire city swarming on them.

Eventually, he did let go of Tristan, knowing full well she was right behind him. Between the two of them, they bulled over anyone and anything in their way to dispel their pursuers as they ducked and weaved through the many back-alleys and shortcuts of Florence that he knew like the back of his hand. Soon, the sounds of pursuit fell away, and Federico risked a look over his shoulder to find that he couldn't see either of them. They had lost them. However, that sense of accomplishment was short-lived as they were spat out on one of the main avenues only for a vast armored monstrosity to appear in front of them.

The man who blocked their route was practically a giant and made Federico— who by no means was a short man, feel small in comparison. From head to toe, the armor he wore was thick and had a steel breastplate adorned in a coat of arms he did not recognize. A mercenary? He wondered, not that it mattered. He was clearly intent on one thing today. As a testament to both his size and strength, he hefted a great two-handed sword off his back with ease putting himself into a defensive position. "Halt!" He barked in a deep and grating voice as they braked to a sudden stop. "Did you truly think you could get away?"

Shock, then anger washed over Federico. He recognized that voice. This was the same bastard who had dared to lay a hand on his brother. His mocking laugh as he pushed Petruccio was still ringing in his ears as he balled his hands into tight, shaking fists. He could not have done anything then, but now—

"Scaffold," Tristan suddenly said, breaking him temporarily out of his rage-induced stupor.

Against his better judgment, Federico turned. "What?"

She fixed him a look, one that he almost angrily snapped at, but she cut him off before it came to that, saying it once more with a great hissing emphasis: "The scaffold."

It only made him more confused. And, unfairly, he admitted, even more annoyed at Tristan. Now wasn't the time. Besides, what does a scaffold have to do with—. He stopped mid-turn as his eyes landed on a familiar-looking empty stall, and it clicked a second later. He reflected back that it was here in what felt like another time and place they had talked. Oh, how he would have traded anything to go back to that. He also remembered the scaffold having looked unsafe. In fact, even while he watched as the winter storm bludgeoned it with snow, wind, and ice, it minutely began to sway.

And luckily for them, their quarry was right in front of it.

"Scaffold," Federico repeated softly, the wind threatening to steal the words away while he turned to glance knowingly at Tristan. Without uttering a single word, they both came to the same conclusion and mutually nodded. He didn't quite grasp the notion as to how it happened, nor did he care to, as on the next breath, Tristan was already gone, running headlong towards their quarry, a dueling dagger he recognized with a sudden jolt appearing in her hand as the storm descended upon them, dipping the streets into an icy slick. He knew that silver and black handle. His father's— he blinked in shock. But... how?

The thoughts were swept away on the wind, though, as another blast whipped through the narrow streets. He put up a hand in front of his face, but it did little to shield it from the stinging snow. As it dropped, he found that all he could see of the two were black and grey smudges against a white backdrop. They almost appeared to be dancing as they struck at one another. His ears caught a deep-throated snarl of frustration and then a heavy whump as the hand-and-a-half sword swung downwards, but the nimbler form of Tristan dodged to the side, and it harmlessly crashed against the cobblestone street in a myriad of sparks. He knew what she was doing, inching the man little by little into the best angle, all the while jabbing and needling him in the process. Just a bit more, he observed, his fingers and nose beginning to numb as the cold nipped at them

. Contrary to what Federico initially thought, however, the other man moved fast despite his size. In fact, he'd make the argument that his speed was beginning to increase as the weather raged and his patience thinned. He was calculating his actions more, swinging with far more purpose and intent, barely giving Tristan time to move out of the way. And she was beginning to realize that, too, judging by the pinched pale look on her features he caught briefly

Then he heard it, and his heart fell: a muffled yelp. Fearing the worst, he ran forward, just in time for the white curtain to pull back slightly, revealing Tristan sprawled on the ground with the brute towering over her. Federico watched as he yanked out the dagger from his chest and threw it to the side. "You dare?" He roared, breath steaming from between the holes of his visor. Federico saw red when the man slammed a heavily armored foot down, eliciting a pained but muffled scream from Tristan." I'll make you pay for that, you little fucking bitch!"

The woman retorted through gritted teeth, suddenly kicking out with her leg and striking the man in the knee. When he doubled over with a surprised grunt of pain, she aimed her next kick upwards, catching him in the head. The brute stumbled and Federico, sensing his chance, raced forward, dipping his shoulder low. Like hitting a brick wall, he caught him in the chest with a metallic clang and an oof. It was almost comical that his arms barely reached around the man— and he knew he was going to feel it in the morning—and yet he pushed the pain away and used the momentum, element of surprise, and weather, to send him flying backwards, slamming into the scaffold with a tell-tale thud.

When nothing quite happened at first, as he jumped back to a safe distance, Federico became worried their efforts had failed. That the scaffold had been far more robust than they had expected. But as if time began to stretch out and slow, a loud groaning creak reached his ears. Too late did the brute realize the danger he was in. And too late did he react to it as the creaking became a shaking groan. Something snapped in the tremendous wooden depths, and in one heaving motion, the scaffold came down amidst ice, wood, and dust, immediately making the brute disappear amongst the debris. The only thing being left was his sword soon being buried under white and brown slush.

The silence settled upon the both of them like a smothering blanket as the snow fell in thick drifts. It didn't last, however, as a relieved bark of laughter escaped the woman's lips, sounding deafening in this frozen circle of hell.

Tristan's laughter fell away to muted grunts as she sat up. "Not gonna lie," she groaned as she pushed herself to her feet—slowly, he noticed with delayed alarm. "I half-expected that as not to work." She spat a glob of red, wiping her face with the back of her hand, the other at her side. She did a poor job hiding her grimace as she gingerly probed at it. "Glad to see I was wrong."

He couldn't help but snort and fix her a look. "And yet, you gambled and went with it anyway?"

Tristan's face broke out in a sly yet sheepish grin as she shrugged. The predictable woman, he couldn't help but sigh and shake his head ruefully. But despite it all; despite the fact he nearly died— he found himself with a grin also tugging at his lips. It soon disappeared though, when she went to step forward, and her legs gave out, causing her to fall face-first.

He didn't remember rushing in. Or catching Tristan, and yet he blinked when he realized he had done both. And now, he found himself in a precarious situation with his arms around her, holding her up. She looked just as surprised as he did, and he cleared his throat when she fixed her eyes on him, "Are you alright?"

Her surprised turned into annoyance. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"I'm fine," he lied, ignoring the throbbing in his now flattened shoulder. He also dismissed the pain in his head, face, and the left side of his body as he propped her up to a more steadying position against him. Not to mention the rope burns and cuts on his wrists that flared up in the movement as he loosened his hold around her. Confident she wasn't going to tip over again, he put a steadying hand on her shoulder, meeting her eyes in concern. This close, she didn't most certainly did not look alright. There was a slight sway to her stance. Her skin was pale, and minor cuts and tears decorated her clothes and arms like trophies. But it was her face that was the most alarming. Dried blood stood out in stark contrast, and the bright red under her nose indicated that she seemed to be bleeding from it again. "A little cold is all—but you didn't answer my question."

Her annoyance morphed into that of a stern if not an admonishing look. It took some willpower for him not to roll his eyes in the process, for it was clearly obvious she didn't believe him (not that he cared right now); and yet he met her stare head-on, a challenging brow inching upwards.

"Well?"

"I'm grea—" she stopped, a slow realization dawning upon her as her shoulders visibly dropped. "Oh, why even bother. No... no, I'm not." She ran a shaky hand through her hair. "So if I pass out between here and Paola's, just leave me. Or carry me. Whatever."

"I'm not leaving you behind," he said austerely.

That got him a soft scoff that sounded more forced than genuine as she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You said that before."

"And I'll say it again," he shot back in a tone that meant it. He owed too much for that to happen, and he'll be damned to not repay that kind of debt.

She dropped her hand and an eyebrow arched before her gaze slowly followed the length of his arm. It took him a few seconds later to realize his hands were still on her, and he immediately drew back with an awkward cough. He also promptly ignored the knowing smirk that teased her features. This was ridiculous; he scolded himself. He was acting like a schoolboy.

Curiously though, she strolled over to a spot and bent over. He watched as she brushed her hands over a particular patch and picked something up, wiping it on the back of her leg as she walked back to him. "Your father left this in the palazzo, and I borrowed it. But," she bit her lip. "I think this belongs to you now."

An unseen hand clenched his heart with cold fingers when he saw the dagger. It was agonizingly slow of him, but he eventually did pick it up.

It was finely balanced; its simply decorated hilt fit in the palm of his hand as easy as it had in his father's. The dagger had been a gift after his father's previous one broke in a skirmish. From whom, Federico strangely couldn't recall presently. He loosely held it, his stinging eyes feeling like they could not look away from the silver engraved blade. It was beautiful and of fine craft; by all accounts, the dagger was his by birthright. Yet, a lump formed in his throat, and as a result, he pressed it into her hands once more, gently folding her fingers back over it. "Keep it." He mumbled. "I was never very good at using them myself. Besides...I feel better knowing that you have it."

Tristan looked to protest, but he shook his head fervently. "Please," he spoke so softly, making the thoughts that whispered and plotted sound as loud as the bells of Florence. I don't want it. I'm not worthy. Not now. I don't even know if ever—. "I insist that it's yours."

Her eyes searched his face, though as if sensing what was happening and trying to find its source. But he was numbly cognizant of her doing so. In fact, he was only minutely aware of the surroundings around him: the sounds of the city bells, the snow lightly landing on his head and melting into his had felt numb too while watching his father's corpse swing in front of him and like wolves inching towards the kill, the cold and the pain and the hollowness that his father was no longer here started to howl inside his head.

But he stood still regardless. He was an Auditore, dammit. And as the eldest—he clenched his fists and jaw—he had to stay strong.

Even though he knew he wasn't.

Finally, after what felt like a painful eternity, she slowly nodded. "I won't lose it."

I know, and I thank you for it. Truth be told, he wanted to thank her for many things, but he couldn't bring himself to say a single one of them as his fingers loosened around the dagger's hilt before reluctantly pulling away, lingering probably a few seconds too long. He was surprised when he felt a hand lightly settle on his arm, and as he met Tristan's eyes, she gently squeezed it before taking a step back. While silent, he still understood its meaning.

It was a small comforting gesture, but one he appreciated regardless.

Federico took a deep breath and let it out again, centering on himself before jerking a nod at her and raking a hand over his face. He had time to grieve properly later. First, he had to find Ezio and the rest of his family.

Tristan's face drew up into that of a thinking expression as she slid the dagger into whatever hiding spot it had come from. He noted she would probably need a sheath in the future unless she wanted to get cut— or worse, stabbed. "You said you were cold?" She murmured, brows furrowing in thought. Before he could comment, a tsk sound slipped from between her lips. "I can tell. Bend over, I've something that might help with that." She paused, looking sheepish. "Err—please?"

He blinked but eventually complied with her request, albeit very confused.

She withdrew something around her neck, and with a start, he recognized the design and color against the glaring white of their surroundings. Before he had a chance to protest, she took the long piece of faded blue cloth and draped it around his own neck, wrapping it in such a fashion where it covered the bottom half of his face- mainly the bridge of his nose and resting against his cheekbones. He noticed her touch was feather-soft when she adjusted the fabric around the blood and facial blemishes the Captain and his 'generous' lackeys had kindly given to him. Finally, after a couple of minute adjustments, she was satisfied, and he immediately found warmth and feeling seeping back as his breath bounced back off the cloth. "I can't do anything about the fingers, I'm afraid," she muttered with a subtle note of remorse.

He tugged at it into a more comfortable placement, musing to himself that this was an attempt to hide his face and attempt from any future encounters they may have. Clever woman. Although, a rumbling chuckle escaped him. "I'll be alright; I've dealt with the cold before. But— you are most kind for thinking of my poor fingers, Trish." He straightened, being absolutely sincere when he expressed his thanks. It still felt strange, however, referring to her as such and not her name. And yet, he still found that it fit. That it was her.

She nodded, tugging at one of the loose ends in an experimental yank. "All I ask is that you don't lose my scarf."

"Of course I won't," he puffed a breath of air into his hands before tucking them under his armpits to stave off the cold, fixing her with what he hoped was an amused expression. "I spent twenty years wondering who it belonged to, and now knowing that it's a lovely lady like yourself, I'm quite reluctant to separate it further than necessary."

He didn't know if the flush across her cheeks was from the cold or not.

"We should..." She cleared her throat. "We should probably go."

Ah— now it was his turn to smirk. Not the cold, he deduced, seeing as Tristan's cheeks were now a bright rosy red as her hand fumbled with a borrowed cloak as she pivoted.

His smirk fell.

Her previously bandaged hand which looked as clean and smooth as when they first met. Nary a bandage to be seen and not a single trace of the gash she had received the night prior. In other instances, he would have chalked it up for mistaking the severity of the injury. But he had seen it; hell, he had brought her to his home for the sole purpose of seeing it taken care of. And no one, not even him or his brother, had that kind of uncanny rate of healing. He wracked his mind for any logical explanations, but he found none— because there were none.

"You used it, didn't you," he blurted. Too late did he realize it came off as accusatory, and he stifled a wince, but the words tumbled out regardless as he continued. "I... I believe I saw you," he said slowly (apologetically), his voice hushed as he gaged her body language. She stood stiffly, like one of the great gargoyles standing guard in the city towers with the only movement stemming from her snow-littered hair blowing freely in the breeze. "On the statue." Dammit, why couldn't he stop talking, he clenched his hands, but the last of his voice dipped in that of a hushed whisper. "You... you startled the birds."

He left it unspoken that there had been no other way she had cleared that much ground in such a short amount of time.

After what felt like agonizing hours, she eventually turned her head to the side, not quite looking at the ground, but she wasn't looking at him either.

"...yes. I did use it." She eventually replied in a low whisper. It was so quiet, he had to strain his ears in the whistling wind. Her shoulders slumped, and she combed a hand through her hair as a raking sigh made her figure shudder. "It... it wasn't intentional, but I suppose that it doesn't matter in the end." Her face drew into a pinched look as she finally turned. "Although, I'd argue it was the other way around, and it used me."

She gave him a passing glance before shaking her head, a waved hand dismissing the topic altogether. "It's hard to explain. But I promise we can discuss it later when we're safe and back at Paola's without a bunch of jackasses hounding us. We can't dally too long. "

Federico wasn't sure how to take that type of response, but he voiced his agreement. He had heard tales of how powerful Pieces of Eden were and the damage they could wreak in the wrong hands. But... to actually witness it? For himself? It left him reeling. Awed, even. Federico's gaze ventured to where they came from, noticing the sudden tempo of footsteps clearly running in their direction. When he turned back, Tristan had already started walking. At first, her steps were wobbly and unsteady like that of a foal's, but with each one, they became stronger until she was finally briskly setting a pace, albeit with a slight limp, already drawing a hood around her face.

He was somewhat taken back, if not amused, at the irony of it all. Not an assassin anymore? She and her actions could have fooled him. She certainly fought like one.

Federico, so lost in his own mulling, barely noticed when she stopped to scowl, seeing that he hadn't moved a single step. Oops.

"Rico!" She hissed, jerking her head in a 'come on' manner, her tone carrying with it a sense of urgency and a hint of anxiety. "Hurry it up, will you?"

He was glad he had this... scarf around his face for a hint of a smile twitched at his lips. He followed after Tristan barely a breath later, pausing briefly to lay a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, which earned him an inquisitive eyebrow. He said nothing because, truth be told, words would fail him if he so much as tried. She did so much for people she barely knew. She saved his life, and by extension, that of his brothers. And as they cleared a corner and saw Annetta and Ezio with Petruccio still in his arms, it was then Federico promised—no, swore— he was going to do whatever was in his power to pay her back ten-fold.

~*End*~

And thus, Federico was saved. (And got a scarf out of it.)

That doesn't belong there: Right so, for starters. The statue that Tristan was standing on is historically inaccurate. Benvenuto Cellini's Perseus did not exist during this period and was not put up until the late 1540s. To say I was... frustrated is a little bit of an understatement. I mean granted, the game didn't have the Baptistery in front of the Duomo despite its existence and importance either, sooo... you can't always win, I guess. Despite its inaccuracy, I kept it in regardless since it's accurate for the game. (Still, what the actual crap, Ubisoft?) Today, you can still see it in the Loggia dei Lanzi, a free walk-through museum featuring some other pretty wicked statues. I have pictures on my Instagram if you're interested because they are so freaking cool. (my IG is topkicker26)

Overcompensating for something, am I right?: The sword that the brute is carrying has a few other names in history due to either differing world views and modern touches. Most recognizable would be "hand-and-a-half and "bastard sword." (which stems from the French words "epee batarde.") Regardless of their name, they all had the same traits: a long sword with a long handle used with one or two hands and belonged to a classification of long swords prevalent in the 13th-19th centuries. They often had more rounded tips, and despite their name were pretty light, only weighing about 5 to 8 pounds (2.2-3.6 kg.)

Hangman's coming down from the Gallows (NSFW): Hangings were often treated as public city events. It was not unheard of for entire families to attend since they were witnessing the death of criminals like murderers and rapists. The purpose of hanging itself was considered a swift and humane death by the snapping of the neck as the rope is suddenly pulled taut by the body's weight. Of course, it wasn't always perfect. One wrong weight distribution and the death becomes a long, drawn-out, and painful process. In some witness testimonies, it took up to fifteen minutes for the sentenced to pass.