Summary:

Through circumstances beyond his understanding, Ezio finds himself alive once more after his supposed "death"- two years before the conspiracy that took his family from him.

This is his chance to set things right, but he isn't sure that he has the strength to take it.

Memory 1: Boys Will Be Boys

Ezio isn't sure if it's just his presence here in the past that has caused things to change, or something else, but regardless, he finds himself caught unawares (foolish, foolish, foolish, when will he ever learn?) and on the receiving end of a rock to the face much earlier than he'd expected. For a moment, his vision swims, and his mouth blossoms with a pain so familiar that he is young and 17 again. (Nevermind that this body is only 15, or the Young Pazzi across from him younger still, it is close enough that his mind refuses to acknowledge the differences, such as they are.)

And then Vieri steps forward, all cocky, youthful arrogance, and, suddenly reminded of just what the little bastard had done (would do), Ezio sees red. He has not been this angry in a long time, not since he was very young (older, but younger than he was before this) and found that the blood of Uberto Alberti coating his hands utterly failed to slake his desire for revenge.

There is no entourage of 'friends' bought with coin and charm and family influence to back him up this time, but that is fine with Ezio.

He is no longer the young man his body insists he is, and he has no need for any aid save that of his fists.

He moves through the Pazzi's mercenaries with a brutal but restrained ease- they are not his targets- the pale red-tinged-with-fear of their auras far outshined by the looked-for-and-found-enemy red-gold that is their leader.

He could kill any of them with ease, with nothing but his fists and cunning and skill, but "stay-your-blade-from-the-flesh-of-the-innocent" is ingrained into his very subconscious, and so he merely tosses them aside, groaning into the dust of the stone street, as soon as he is assured they will not rise again anytime soon. All too soon, the fight is over- clearly, quicker than Vieri expected, as he makes a bid to run for it, shoving the last two mercenaries at Ezio like the coward he is.

But Ezio is quicker, faster, with decades of experience over the other man, and Vieri is not and never will be, 'innocent'.

"Ezio…" Federico starts, and although Ezio pauses at the apprehension in his sibling's voice, he doesn't bother looking up. His gift shows no trace, sight, or sound of enemy-red, save for the lingering auras of the unconscious figures around them. "...what are you doing? You took their money already, we can go now. Which we should. Preferably before the guardie come."

Ezio merely grunts as he hefts the unconscious fighter into his arms. "Can't leave evidence." He drawls, irritation seeping into his voice. Really, how hard is this to understand.

"...Right, right ." says Federico, in a tone that implied he thought Ezio was notright at all, either in the head or opinion.

Ezio merely rolled his eyes and continued with his task. His eagle sense picked up the faint, familiar chiming noise he had come to associate with valuables and he paused, shifting minutely as he felt for the source of the sound.

Ah,there.

He dropped the man unceremoniously next to the haystack, squatting as he re-assessed the contents of the man's pockets. He frowned, tilting his head. Had he perhaps missed an inner pocket?

"So," Federico broke the silence. "This means ...lifting every valuable you can carry off these poor imbeciles and… then…. dumping them…. In the haystack ?"

Ah, not a pocket then, but the boot.

"Well, obviously. " Ezio drawled, a small, triumphant half-smile flitting across his face as he pulled a throwing knife from the man's boot, examining it briefly before carefully tucking it into his own.

"I can't just leave them lying there in the street. The guards would notice . What else should I do, throw them over the bridge?" He scoffed as he looked up at Federico, his eyes glowing a molten gold under his borrowed hood. "Brother, please, I'm not an animal ."

Underneath him, the mercenary groaned and started to try to sit up, and Ezio turned his attention to him at once, swiftly cuffing the man sharply about the head. The man flailed feebly, trying to break free of his grip, and Ezio leaned forward, using the full force of his weight to pin the man by the throat to the ground until the thrashing stopped and the man slipped back into unconsciousness.

Satisfied that the man was no longer a threat, he returned his attention back to Federico, who was watching his little brother with a look of mild horror on his face.

"Rii-ight. Ok. Sure."

Ezio snorts at him, and politely pretends not to see the hooded figures- one wearing the bright white of aMaestro , and the other a distinctly familiar brown- watching them from the end of the alleyway.

It's rude to acknowledge a Brother when they are obviously working, after all.

Giovanni's son was not a violent person by nature, he knows. Ezio has gotten into his fair share of scraps and fights, like any young man, true, but this... This is something new.

The way he'd had Vieri pinned to the ground, the way he moved- Giovanni had very little doubt in his mind that, had he not seen and sent Federico to intervene, the young Pazzi would not have survived the encounter. Giovanni knew killing intent when he saw it, and he ill-liked seeing it on his son's face.

Giovanni could only guess at what the young noble might have said to provoke such violent reaction from his son, but even what he imagined somehow felt as though it fell short, undeserving of the depth of such a reaction.

Something is deeply wrong with his son, and the way he stoically accepts Giovanni's scolding, not even making a single effort to protest or defend himself only confirms it.

He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and turns on his heel.

Ezio dutifully follows after him.

They've not gotten very far before Ezio mumbles something under his breath, and Giovanni is forced to mask his relief under a stony authority. " What was that, Ezio?" He demands sharply.

Ezio has stopped once again, and looks up from his hands to look his father directly in the eyes. " I could have killed him." The horror and surety in his son's voice send a chill down his own spine, for all he welcomes the fact that Ezio recognizes this. "He is ..so young . Little more than a child- and I would havekilled him!"

Memory 2: You Should See The Other Guy

Ezio stared blankly down at the sketch in the open book before him: Sofia, Flavia, Marcello, all with open, doting expressions on their faces. He sucked in a deep breath, and carefully shoved all his emotions to the side, clamping down on the anger and grief that raged inside his chest.

Fate is cruel.

He had given up this life, exchanged blades and hooded robes for a vineyard and loving wife, a family, exchanged battle and the rhythm of death and loss that had eaten up 40 years of his life for stability and a chance at happiness.

Surely, whatever higher power that had caused him to be here- be it God, or Juno, or Minerva, or hells, even Cesare's Fortuna, surely they owed it to him to allow him some small measure of peace, not to throw him back right into the heart of all his sorrow and pain.

And, yet.

And yet, …..stranded as he is, Ezio cannot stop himself from cringing at the feeling of raw, too-exposed vulnerability. He flexes his hands on instinct, the non-hiss of not-there blades grating on his nerves just as much as the lack of a hood. He sighs, the wistful, mournful sigh of the very old ill-fitting to his too-young mouth, and resolves, quietly, to procure both as soon as possible. His hands itch for blades, for climbing, and he wants desperately to move, to hide.

These streets no longer mean safety- had not for decades of his past-life-not-yet-lived, even when he was grown old and tired and grasping at peace. He had returned many times, but he could never again find it in himself to love his city again, not even as he died in it. Though the first 17 years of his life were spent running and loving and playing on the streets and rooftops of this city, those years are now long past by his reckoning- and he spend far longer stalking these streets hooded and cowled and angry- so long that to be anythingbut an Assassin when in Firenze feels almost sacrilegious.

A rock wizzes by, clattering noisily against the roof tiles a good two feet away from him. Unperturbed, Ezio merely grimaces and looks down over top of his sketches to find…. Duccio standing in the street below him, one hand shading his eyes, while the other clutches another rock, ready to throw. "That was a lousy throw. Your aim was off." He sighs, and closes the loosely bound book, tucking the charcoal safely away in a pouch on his belt. "What do you want, Duccio? If this is about my sister-" he warned, eyes narrowing as he stood. He'd been quick to take the little brat to task for his lecherous ways, and had no qualms about issuing further ...advice if it proved necessary. Preferably with his fists.

Duccio snorted openly at that. "Teach me to fight and climb like you do, Aquila." he demanded, raising his chin defiantly, and Ezio blinked in mute surprise at the familiar nickname his brothers in Roma had been so fond of using, sounding strange and foreign coming from Duccio's mouth. Ezio almost didn't recognise the second, taller figure behind Duccio as Vieri de' Pazzi until the other boy spoke up.

"And me, as well! Anything an Auditore can do, so can a Pazzi!"

Ezio could not help but gawk incredulously. Had he… had he perhaps simply hit Vieri too hard, or maybe his hearing was finally going in his .. old, no- youn- whatever. Age.

Ezio considers the robes thoughtfully. There are subtle differences, true- the hood lacks the distinctive beak of a true Assassin's hood, and is deeper to compensate, and the cut is angled differently, more akin to the Ottoman style robes he'd last worn, but they are just similar enough when he pulls them on to trigger an absurd wave of nostalgia.

The fabric itself is a dark, rich brown that looks almost black at first glance, heavily padded, and of such a fine, sturdy quality that had drained his funds, and had had Federico mockingly questioning just 'what he'd spent all his money on' one moment, and complaining that Ezio had "forgotten how to have fun' the next.

Ezio had had to stop and remind himself what he was doing there, and he suspected he'd given the tailor and his assistante quite the headache as he hemmed and hawed, almost choosing the pristine white fabrics several times only to change his mind again at the last minute, opting for darker tones instead.

This had gone on for several more minutes than he'd like to admit.

Now, though, the robes completed according to his specifications and in his hands, he found himself feeling quite satisfied with his choice. During his long years spent in service to their Creed, Ezio had come to quickly realize, that, while symbolic of the level of skill necessary to exist as one of their Brotherhood, wearing white robes in their bloody line of work was simply, for the most part, impractical- both for mundane, laundering reasons as well as the delicate matter of attempting to pass unseen to the eyes of actively searching guards.

For that reason, he'd encouraged his students in Iola Tiberna to have their robes dyed or altered however they felt would best suit their tasks- though once they achieved the rank of Maestro they were also given a set of white robes as well. Many, seeking to follow their Mentore's legendary example, proudly chose to wear their Master's robes despite the inherent difficulties and added risk they imposed. Ezio, while flattered, nonetheless did not envy them on laundry day.

Memory 3: Nightcap

The thunderstorm is obnoxiously loud, rolling and booming thunder followed by lightning more piercingly bright than the fireworks of Carnivale, so Ezio is disinclined to remove the pillow from over his head when the door to his room slams open, and merely grunts in acknowledgement of the intruders.

Claudia and Petruccio are just young enough to seek comfort from an older sibling in terror of the storm, and Ezio just old enough to have not yet lost that hard won skill of remaining half-asleep yet comforting in the face of the frightened and very small.

Unwilling to expose himself to the storm, Ezio merely groggily blinks his second sight into place in favor of removing the pillow, and smiles fondly at the familiar two gold-blue shapes of children. Sleep threatens to claim him, and for a moment, the world slips sideways, and he forgets when and where he is.

His voice, muffled by the pillow, is infused with warmth. "Children? And what are you doing up at this hour, hm?"

A moment of silence, and, then; "...The storm is very loud. We-" Ezio stifled a chuckle as the girl hastened to correct herself. " He was scared." She gestured to her younger brother.

"Oh?" He frowned, and shifted, throwing out his senses, searching for….something. "Does your mother know you're here?" The bed to the right of him is empty, and cold. "... No?" the confusion in the younger boy's voice throws him off, but the difference is small enough that it is easily dismissed, and Ezio sighs fondly.

Sophia will run herself ragged in pursuit of a new book, eschewing sleep and food in favor of knowledge. Dio, but he loves that woman….

He almost gets up to go and find her, but the children in front of him shift impatiently, spooked by another loud roll of thunder.

He chuckles, and pulls up the bedcovers, shimmying his way closer to the center of the bed. "Well, come on then."

The two dart forward eagerly, the younger boy nestling between his sister against Ezio's chest, and his heart swells with love.

He presses a kiss to the crown of the boy's head, and he - Marcello, his sleep-addled mind insists- giggles sleepily and snuggles closer, slurring out a goodnight.

"Goodnight, Marcello, Flavia." He reaches out, and gently pulls the sleeping girl closer.

The storm has blown over by the time Ezio wakes.

He gently ushers his younger siblings out of his room and into the hall where Anita waits. Claudia passes him with a sleepy yawn, and Ezio is busy stifling one of his own when a soft tug at his elbow draws his attention. He blinks down at Petruccio with a mumbled "Si, bambino?"

Petruccio looks up at him with those big, clever eyes and says "Ezio, who're Flavia and Marcello? "

Ezio goes still, and then, remembering Anita in the hall beyond, fights to maintain some sort of composure. He considers his answer, choosing his words carefully. "They are…..children.. Of a ...friend of mine."

Petruccio blinks up at him, a canny look on his face, and for a brief, absurd moment Ezio thinks Petruccio must know and will call him out on his lie.

"Oh." is all Petruccio says, seemingly satisfied with the answer. His face brightens slightly, and he turns back to his older brother, half hopeful and half shy. " Do you… d'you think I could meet them sometime? To play, I mean?" He wrings his little hands nervously, and Ezio is reminded, for the first time, how lonely Petruccio's existence must be. He has very few friends his age, having been pulled out of schooling only a couple of years before, and, as sick as he often is, what little time he is allowed to spend outside offers little in the way of play. "Do you.. Do you think they'd like me, Ezio?" he inquires, deflating slightly when Ezio does not immediately answer.

The question jolts Ezio out of his thoughts, and he kneels so that he is level with the youngest Auditore. "Of course they'd like you, Petruccio!"

"Really?!"

Ezio winks, "I know that for a fact. They…. My friend doesn't live here in Firenze, not ye- not anymore." he amends hastily. "They, ah. They moved. But- when they come back, you will get to meet them, Petruccio, I promise."