Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I heard that they found him as a baby by a church and raised him," says one hushed voice before another cuts it off.

"No, no, what I heard was that he was from this wealthy noble family, but the Assassins kidnapped him because they were Templars," the other says.

"Where are you two even getting your information? Sounds like tall tales from La Addormentata," snorts another. "You've been letting that thief Danté pull too many over you."

"Tullio? Let Danté drink him under the table and feed him bullshit? Never."

"Among doing other things—"

Struggle and rustling echo off the cool stone walls, tall silhouettes wrestling. One voice from the side encourages the scuffling, and then a thud hits the plush rug and three voices curse.

"One of you is going to catch fire, and I'm not putting it out this time."

"If Tullio would get his culo off me," wheezed another squashed to the ground. "Figlio di puttana, you're heavy."

More sounds of strife tumble through the room before devolving into pleas for mercy and shallow pants.

"Tullio, Bastiano, Nino, if you're done."

"Bazzi started it…" Tullio mutters under his breath, head dropped on Nino's outstretched arm.

"Anyway," says Adele pointedly, before the conversation can rail off into drastically different territory as is customary and inevitable, "he has to come from somewhere, he doesn't even have an accento romano." She taps her chin with a single finger, eyes raised towards the vaulted ceiling. "I've never been outside Roma, so I have no idea where it could be from—"

Bastiano obscenely spreads his legs with a scampish expression, waggling his eyebrows, "I can tell you where he did come from—"

Bettina shoves her hand in his cropped jet black hair and shoves his head down between his legs, responding to Adele all the while. Nino and Tullio snicker as he struggles under her unforgiving hand.

"We could always ask someone," she suggests, and then thinks on it a moment. "But I don't know who, like… speaks different here, sai?" By the time she's done speaking, all of her weight is rested on Bastiano's folded-over back, continuing to smother his face into the burgundy rugs of the lounging den. Resting on each other, Tullio and Nino continue to ignore his increasingly distressed and agitated begging.

Marzia pipes up from her outstretched lounge on the floor, head picking up from her hand. "What about Carlotta? She speaks lots of languages!"

They all stop to look at her, simultaneous expressions of pinched distaste flashing. Marzia's own face falls, head plopping back into her palm, "Yeah… You're right." Her bottom lip pouts in thought. "Who else speaks a bunch of languages, though?"

"I'unno about a bunch, but Signoria Ghita, Signore Lorenzo, Don Raffaele, uh… Christiano and Gabriela? And Rosalva—" Nino begins to list, ready to name anyone in the Order he can think of. Tullio pulls him out of the way of Bettina being launched off by Bastiano finally gaining enough leverage to do so.

"No, no, no," Adele cuts in, folding her legs on the iron-wrought frame couch. Her form sinks deeper into the cushions as she leans back. "Just because they know different languages, doesn't mean they'll know the different accents of Italia! It doesn't help at all."

"Il Nido has too many people now," Tullio whines, scooting away from the fire and closer to the couches as Bastiano and Bettina begin to wrestle. "I lost track after I joined." He nudges Nino in the side. "Five florins on Betti, eh?"

Bastiano's head whips up in offense, brows knitted, opening him up for Betti to wrap an arm around his neck and pull back. They crash to the ground, rolling.

"Okay, but we can definitely say Il Mentore is definitely from outside Roma," Marzia continues, watching Bastiano dodge a sharp elbow to the face. "I mean, with what he's done for us… You could tell me he was a gift from il Signore himself and I'd believe you."

Betti's fist bangs against the stone ground feet away as Bastiano pulls her other arm far over her back. Continued exerted pressure, and her shoulder will dislocate. No one moves to help.

"Hell, you could tell me Il Mentore was Christo himself, and I'd believe you," Nino exclaims, and the rest of the group laughs. Bettina bucks Bastiano off with her hips and they continue tumbling towards the far side of the room. "Have you seen the way he moves? Him, human? Per favore. It's impossible."

Marzia, Tullio, and Adele hum in agreement. The conversation lulls and their attention lands on Bettina and Bastiano still tussling, in the opposite corner of the room now. Bettina has a leg hooked around Bastiano's midsection and another arm wrapped around his neck, squeezing while he presses all of his weight onto her to squash her much smaller body into the stone wall. Their strained voices both demand the other give in.

Marzia flops onto her stomach from her lay on the carpet, midnight black hair flying out her face. "He really did, like… appear in Roma from thin air. It's not like we can just go and ask him—what would you even say?"

Two heavy thumps echo from the other side of the room, followed by silence in that direction.

"'Mentore, Mentore, were you hatched from un uovo? Where's your mommy bird?'" Tullio mocks, flapping his hands next to his copper brown head. Marzia and Nino cackle. He dodges when one of Adele's legs swipe out to kick at his shoulder. "Adele, you could always ask the ladies as La Fioritura, huh? Aren't you like, friends with every single one of them?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, take me!" Nino pipes. "I heard his sister works there too, she's the Madonna now!"

"He's got a sister?" Bastiano asks, panting as he hauls Bettina onto the matching iron-wrought armchair. He collapses next to it.

"No one's taking you to Rosa in Fiore, Nino. You don't even know how to act," Adele shoots off. Nino pouts.

"You owe Tullio five florins," Bettina pants, tossing her sandy brown head back onto the armrest and fanning her face. Adele reaches into her fabrics to pull out a fan and tosses it to Betti, who catches it with one hand. Bastiano drags himself to the front of the chair so the air hits both of them.

Nino whines. "Bazzi, you lost? Mio Dio! I didn't even take the bet!" He smacks away Tullio's covetous hand. "Tuli, you were a thief, go steal florins from someone who actually has them, we can't all be Signore Antonello!" He mock-cries. Marzia reaches across Bastiano's lap to pat his thigh in sympathy.

Tullio blanches, arms throwing up in front of him as a shield. "What, and face the wrath of his amati Signore Stefano? I think if he was disappointed in me, I'd shrivel up and die."

Bastiano shrugs, unable to be assed to turn his head. "Aliotti is a little shit, and she cheats. Of course I was gonna lose."

"Flatterer," Bettina giggles, lazily running her fingers through his hair. "Il Mentore's sister, is her name not, ah, Claudia?"

Adele nods. "She's among the girls a lot, and it's not like she's hard to approach, but it's weird to ask about her older brother! I'm not doing that. Forget it."

"...How did she become the Madonna, anyway?"

They all look at Adele.

"What? You think that I know everything about the brothel?"

"Yes," they chorus, and she struggles with amusement, surrendering with hands up.

"Okay but I'm serious, this, I don't know! The old Madonna used to be our ally before becoming decadent and funneling Assassin funds into all her partying, and she didn't even take care of the girls." Heat tinges Adele's face as if this is a personal offense of the deepest kind. "She was a filthy traitor too, good riddance," she enacted spitting towards the fire, "but even though Il Mentore tried to save her, the kidnappers didn't hold up their end of the deal and killed her anyway, and Madonna Claudia just kind of… stepped in? That's what the girls tell me."

"I've never heard that story before," Marzia says thoughtfully, wriggling up to rest her head on Bastiano's thigh. He's too worn to get her off and plops his calloused palm on the side of her face. "I just thought Madonna Claudia had been, you know, a working girl who had to because she had to pay off someone's debt? And then she made it all the way to the top."

"Whose? Il Mentore?"

"Who else?"

"I'unno, a dad? Other brothers? Sisters? I don't know!"

"Which brings us back around to the question of Il Mentore's background," Bettina says, dropping the fan because her arm is too tired. Tullio reaches up to take it from her and do the job instead.

Nino flops onto the carpet between the couches, head falling onto Bastiano's other thigh. "I'm out of ideas. Let's go with Tullio's idea. He was hatched from an egg, e basta."

Bastiano and Marzia groan at the same time.

"That's sooo dissatisfying."

"And dumb."

"Why did he become an Assassin?" Tullio asks, and the room goes quiet.

"...Why does anyone become an Assassin?"

"Revenge?"

"Justice."

Weapons whip out from under cushions and clothing and carpets, and six pairs of feet are on the floor before anyone can think. Nino has one of the fireplace pokers in-hand, pointed in the direction of the doorway where the heavy wooden doors had been slightly cracked open. The weapons get put away immediately.

"Maestro Machiavelli!" They all greet in a hurry, hands laying over hearts as they bow.

Niccolò, dressed out of his outerwear and down to his dark reds and steel-grays, has his hands folded behind his back in their usual severe manner as he scrutinizes their mob. Six throats bob and each of them shift awkwardly under the probing until Marzia speaks up, only floundering a little.

"Ah, Maestro, did you, um, need something from us?" She wills her voice steady. "Is one of us needed for an assignment?"

Tullio and Bastiano perk up at the idea, but heavy iron thunks onto the ground, startling everyone into looking at Nino. He fumbles with a squeaky, "Sorry, forgive me!" as he returns the poker to its place.

Niccolò pays him no mind, striding right in and around towards the fire. He doesn't mention anything about them unconsciously moving away.

"Not at all, Signorina Abano," he finally replies, sounding unamused. "I was merely passing by when I overheard your conversation. Were you all unawares of my footsteps? I was not trying to remain concealed."

They looked at his armored boots, which would've easily been audible against the stone flooring were he not trying to hide them. Bastiano scowls.

"Is it always some kinda test with you, Maestro?" he asks, stressing the title with cheek. Nino and Marzia look between him and Niccolò with wide-eyed alarm.

Before any of them can open their mouths to intervene on Bastiano's brash part, Niccolò replies.

"Of which you always seem to be failing, Signore Pulci," he says, and pays it little more mind. "Le pareti hanno orecchie, bambini. Do you always gossip so unreservedly about your maestri? Your time could certainly be applied more effectively, some of you more than others, I understand."

He doesn't name names, but Nino and Marzia shrink. Eyes narrowing, Bettina steps up.

"We're on standby leisure, Maestro," she says firmly, recalcitrant, most petite of them but broadening herself into a shield. "Operazioni has yet to issue orders for any of us, and neither have any of i formatori. We're all caught up on training for the day."

Niccolò regards her and the other apprentices she unconsciously gathered behind her palisade for a long moment before sighing through the small part of his lips with the barest shake of his head.

"You were… discussing Il Mentore's origins, I understand as I was passing by, surely with as many baseless rumors one could find among civilians about phantoms," he goes on, and the apprentices look at each other. "It is unbecoming to speculate such outlandish ideas when the truth has brought you all here to this very day."

Any fire any one of them had fueling defiance towards Niccolò quickly dies to embers at the implied weight of the truth. Silently agreeing, the six of them settle back onto the rugs and couches to fasten their attentions to their maestro.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze—" And his full name draws them in, because only older, more experienced apprentices use it, and even then, hardly anyone simply refers to him as that. "—was much like all of you at one point. Young. Inexperienced in the ways of the world. Concerned with themselves. Stupid."

Not at all a good way to retain one's audience, and five hands end up restraining Bastiano.

"A victim." Niccolò stares into the flickering fire, plumes curling up into the flue. "He was meant to be a banker, one in a long line of. A family with a genial, influential but admired name, and young Ezio has a steady future in front of him. Yet there are forces beyond his knowledge and understanding at work behind the scenes—a world he was not meant to see, not yet, not when he still plays and has a heart high in the clouds. The world does not stop for the young, nor does it soften for them, no?" He glances over his shoulder at them. Their eyes all shift away from his sharp gaze before unsavory memories can be drawn out.

"When you find someone in this world that you trust, you sink your talons into them and you do not let go, for when you do, it is then they may try to scamper away under the span of someone you may fall prey to," Niccolò says. "And there was not a person who did not know that Giovanni Auditore had a grip as tight as iron, punctured into names one could only dream of being connected to—Medici. Sforza. Then, perhaps he stretched too thin: Alberti. Maffei. Those who were prone to scampering like mice.

"Giovanni had stumbled onto something grand, mighty enough that unmasking it would roll across Italia; a storm so thick and tempestuous that it would be an age before it ended. Every man, woman, and child would know of it—not the true colors of the tale's tapestry, not the threading or needles that bore it, but the tapestry itself, hung high for the world to see. But Giovanni's talons had sunk into the wrong people who had already fled, who were already playing a different field, and young Ezio would discover that soon enough.

"The Auditore were betrayed, and Giovanni would have to bring Ezio into his world in all the wrong ways—alone, confused, without all the information, leading him into enemy territory with nothing but his wits and hopes. Young Ezio, with a catatonic mother and frightened younger sister, would have to shoulder this world all alone in hopes of freeing the other half of his family—his father, and brothers.

"On a limb of hope, young Ezio did not notice the poison coating his talons that sunk into the treachery his father unknowingly passed down to him, and when he would come to see his family freed for crimes they did not commit, he would only see them hanged instead."

Jaws drop and gasps are stifled. Niccolò's hands tighten behind his back as his stare hardens into the fire.

"A storm would unravel across Italia, but not of the same nature that Giovanni was once destined to unleash. No. This squall was not by a person, but of a person, and that person's name was Ezio Auditore da Firenze—and he did not rest until it drowned each and every cross in its own bloody red that saw his family at the end of their ropes. Pazzi. Babarigo. Baroncelli. Bagnone. Salviati. Grimaldi. All leading up to the pinnacle of the man who thought himself a gift of il Signore. The Spaniard… Borgia."

The name alone is enough to draw ire from six who are older than Ezio had been when this life had been thrust upon him, but not old enough to make it their path to the grave. They would, nonetheless; each and every one of them would lay their life down for even a chance to draw the blood of the man whose greed for power drains the very life from Roma's blood, taking pieces of them with him.

Niccolò does not go on for a long moment, as if contemplating his next words, selecting what he should and should not reveal about Il Mentore's confrontations with the Spaniard.

"...And now we are here. And now you are here, facing his spawn and his toxic roots gnarled into the very vitality this great land sorely needs. We are the storm that will drown the crosses in their own bloody red, the talons that gleam in the sunlight before diving, the hands that will unearth the roots and fell the entire tree."

He finally turns to level with each of them, gaze lowered instead of condescending. His expression is made all the more grave by flame-borne silhouettes dancing over his hawkish features.

"And you will do well to remember that."

Not a word is spoken as, severely as ever, Maestro Niccolò strides from the room, leaving the door cracked just as it was before. Only flames crackle in the background, but no footsteps are heard distancing themselves down the labyrinth of halls. No one looks at each other.

Finally, Nino speaks with a small voice.

"...I had no idea."

Hums of agreement buzz all around.

"Maestro Niccolò sure has a way with words…" Marzia mentions uneasily, legs tucking in closer to her chest.

"He sure has a way with something…" Bastiano mutters, picking at his cuticles.

"Making a problem seem like everyone's fault even when they're unrelated?" Bettina says unhelpfully, sounding just as humbled.

The others nod. Tullio rubs at his face.

"Now I really wish Il Mentore had hatched from an egg, che palle."

It sparks conversation again unrelated to ropes and blood and betrayal—meaningless drivel about efficient egg preparation or Ottavio's favorite egg dishes or something—and while it eventually drifts into less forced lighthearted territory, dolefulness lingers in the room with the young apprentices, who have all unconsciously huddled closer as if needing comfort and warmth. They will remember this story for the rest of their lives, regardless of how long they live, and will only speak it when it has become a tale too colorful to hold credence.

And when they look at their maestro, their teacher, their caretaker, they will know that he is a pillar not because he is skilled, but because he knows the strength necessary to build over such pain not unlike their own and up to the tower they aspire to.

Chapter Text

Three separate studies are available in the hideout. If an apprentice wants to use one, everyone knows the study on the second-lowest level is the best: resources are within reasonable reach instead of having to trek a floor or three down to get into the archives.

On the other hand, Ortensia seems to find herself an occupant of the second-floor study three floors up almost exclusively, which shares ground with the medical wing of all places. It's not that she prefers it, but it is closest to the recovery rooms—those beds, too, she seems to occupy often, making this study more familiar and comfortable.

It isn't lesser than the others—smaller, maybe, room for three desks instead of five or six or seven—but hardly anyone likes to be here; pained echoes off the stone day-in and day-out like fantasmi who don't know they aren't wanted agitate after a while. Some people just have poor pain tolerance, but Ortensia isn't one of them. She does wish Valentino would just up though.

"Ah, there you are."

Her brown eyes raise over mounds of journals and documents on the anatomy of wielding heavy weapons in high-speed combat to see Emiliana in the doorway, straight black hair pulled into a low ponytail with flyaways tucked behind her ears. She promptly squashes the annoyance at seeing her face.

"Yes, here I am."

If Emiliana notices the drab tone, she doesn't comment. Instead, her dark green gaze swiftly scopes out the desk, likely cataloging the research for the next time she hands Ortensia her ass on a silver platter. Ortensia wishes it didn't anger her so.

"You're the last one," Emiliana goes on, "you're having a field day with Il Mentore."

In spite of her damnedest, Ortensia brightens. It's not often any one of them has frequent field days with Il Mentore, being so many. In spite of Nino's insistence, he is not Christo and cannot be everywhere at once.

"Who else?" Reluctant eagerness tinges her tone while she begins stacking her materials to put up.

Emiliana waves a hand, beginning to turn away. "You'll see. Leave that, we can get Ercole to put it away. So much."

Ortensia's jaw grits, but Emiliana is of her veterano rank despite them sharing twenty-four years. Whatever. She isn't mad.

She follows Emiliana through the floors of the hideout, passing other apprentices that greet them (mostly Emiliana) on their way down to the assignment room.

She is begrudgingly curious about who else might be stalking Il Mentore in the field too. Depending on what trouble he's up to stirring in the city, they usually head out in groups of four or six. While he is a man who could handle all the demons of hell on his own, he brings them along for a reason, and the practical experience is invaluable. Even simply observing him as an unbelievably deft Assassin is an opportunity not to be passed up.

Still, it's the older and more experienced apprentices who see action more frequently because he trusts them. Ortensia tries and fails not to glare at Emiliana's back.

"Ah, you're here."

At one of the two large desks in the room, Il Mentore is pouring over maps of the denser areas of the Campagna district with Ciro and Bianca. Ortensia is surprised to see him, and immediately greets as customary: with one hand over the heart and a shallow bow.

"Saluti, Maestro," she greets.

Il Mentore spares her a glance and a smile. "Buongiorno, Ortensia," he says back, and she tries not to glow.

It's when he goes back to discussing today's assignment that she notices the other apprentices who will probably be out with her today—Letizia, Guido, Giovanni and, Merda, Tullio. Small blessings, though: at least Bastiano and Nino aren't here. He and they are attached at the hip, horrible little shits together Ortensia could wring the life from if it wouldn't land her on the shitlist of the entire Order.

"Ciao, Ortensia." Letizia smiles. Ortensia only nods back at her, and the other three pass on menial greetings.

Il Mentore concludes his convene with Ciro and Bianca (Ortensia is surprised they're not on international missions as usual) and turns to the five of them with a genial clap of his hands.

"What can you tell me about our goals today, i miei studenti?" he asks.

"We're going outside," Giovanni immediately answers, lips quirking. Tullio chokes back laughter, turning away to compose himself.

"Ha-ha," Il Mentore rolls his eyes. "Very astute, Migliore. Yes saccente, but where do we go?" He stands aside for them to access the map, and Guido steps up, tracing a circle with his finger around an area.

"Campagna," he answers. Ezio claps him on the shoulder and he shies slightly.

"And for what?"

Letizia cradles her chin between a thumb and curled index finger. "You want to steal something," she doesn't glance at Ezio for confirmation, but a small smile plays on his lips. "You don't want to be caught, obviously, but you're willing to put up a fight if you are, but this thing you're stealing needs to get away clean." She finally looks up. "No?"

His smile is fuller. "Sì, molto bene."

Ortensia presses her lips together, perplexity itching at her. Ezio glances over.

"Explain it to me, Letizia," he says, and her eyebrows bounce.

"Ah, well," her eyes shift around and then back to the map for anchorage, "we're three former thieves—Tullio, Giovanni, and I—and Guido is, well," she motions at his person, "he can be careful when he wants—"

"Hey," Giovanni snaps, "Guido is plenty careful, you just don't have appreciation for—"

Amused, Ezio raises a palm. "Calmati, Giovanni, no one is calling into question Guido's abilities—" Giovanni, none of his own twenty-four years, throws a petulant finger in Letizia's direction, and Ezio laughs with his whole chest. The room stops to look at him, even the apprentices who haven't left yet—Ciro, Bianca, Emiliana—until he wipes a single tear from his eyes. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," they chorus, stifling butterflies down in their stomachs, and Ciro, Bianca, and Emiliana promptly vacate the room.

"Anyway," Letizia continues with a clear of her throat and patting of her pinked cheeks. "We all know Guido will be the last man standing if it's having to escape, and then…" She glances, uncertain, at Ortensia, who tries slap away bitterness at implications of being the odd one out.

Ezio motions over. "Our muscle. I don't mind scrapping if you don't, Orlandi." He claps her on the shoulder.

Struggling, Ortensia forces all her sudden embarrassment into a cough behind her fist, hoping to il Signore that her face is not as red as it feels. She shrugs, playing nonchalant.

"I'm always up to make some heads roll," she replies.

He then narrows his eyes, setting suspense in her blood.

"You will be careful this time, sì?"

She opens her mouth to reply, only to find nothing coming out. Her teeth click shut and she scowls away from him. She is careful. Ezio smiles perceptively.

"Nice save," Tullio quips. It requires every ounce of Ortensia's strength not to pounce on him.

Mostly satisfied, Ezio addresses them at large. "I called on short notice because Zaccaria just came back with this intel, and time is of the essence, uccellini, so you have fifteen to outfit in the armory and coalesce on the rooftop. We leave with or without you. Congedato."

The encampment is the usual ridiculous—guards at every turn with a single blind spot. How they never learn is a topic highly debated and bet upon at the hideout.

Hidden in trees perched on ledges of the cliff the encampment is huddled against, the apprentices watch their mentor use his saber to pry at a weak stake of the palisade that's just a few feet above his own six. Patrol seem to have only this single corner unguarded, which means when things (inevitably) go south, this space is the one Guido will use to escape with the parcel. The rest of the camp is filled with milling soldiers, and it will be a handful if things go south.

Five pairs of eyes trace Il Mentore's every move, vision always being honed into weapons as deadly as their blades, cataloging each of his decisions to apply to their own maneuvers in the future. Vigilance is key to a quick reaction, and distraction can only lead to disaster, even if the final outcome is not negative.

Ezio slips inside and behind the tent conveniently tucked into the corner, leaning around to scope out the hostiles nearby. From inside his robes, he pulls out three feathers—each with a needle as the quill. The tree branches creak with bodies leaning in anticipation, and four pairs of eyes glare at Tullio.

"It's the wind," he mouths defensively, swinging down to hang by the hook of his knees.

"It'll be the wind that knocks you out of these damned trees," Ortensia hisses, and it's her turn to be glared at. She shoots them all a very crude gesture.

Guido is quick to refocus their attention when one of his knives slings through leaves, impaling a target deep in the back, next to a needle-tipped quill. Below, Ezio is quick to catch the soldier's body from collapsing and drags it to the corner tent. He reappears and tips his head up, and from the cover of his gleaming white hood, they can see his disapproving stare. Ortensia and Tullio shrink. He then puts up two fingers, followed by a series of signs.

The apprentices exchange glances: two more targets, and then Giovanni, Tullio, and Letizia will descend while Guido stations himself near the escape route. Ortensia must wait for her own signal.

Whatever they're here for is guarded in the tent hugged closest to the cliff, and Ezio's final two markers stick into the hats of the guards in front of it. Guido is just as swift, aim among the group unmatched, and his knives puncture the soft spots of the soldiers' necks. Ezio is quick to catch both of them, and the three former thieves agilely drop through the branches, easing their falls and distributing their weights light enough to save any wood from snapping.

Letizia and Tullio slip into the large tent while Giovanni pats down the solider Ezio lets him handle. He finds a gleaming key and shows it to Ezio, who nods at the tent. The bodies are put away, and Giovanni joins Letizia and Tullio in pillaging whatever it is they're here for.

"One," Guido murmurs, "trouble."

He quickly begins gesturing at Ezio after catching his attention with a well-aimed pebble. Ezio hurriedly signs back to get into position, and Guido begins sinking through the branches like water. He tells Ortensia to keep her perch while he hurries back into the tent where the bodies are being kept.

Left alone in the trees, Ortensia itches to get in on the action, but her skill set is best applied when the fighting starts. Desiderla would have her ass if she found out Ortensia jumped first because her instincts raved for blood.

Guido has slipped through the hole in the palisade and waits on the other side, and from the big tent, Letizia pokes out her head to gauge the surroundings.

"Where are they?" asks one of the approaching guards. Letizia's dirty blond head pops back in.

"Do you have it?" she asks, looking back at the other two. The sight of Tullio and Giovanni, arms full of everything, would be comical if soldiers weren't right at their doorstep.

Tullio worries at his armful. "Magari… How many?"

Letizia winces. "You don't want to know. Let's just hope Il Mentore and Ortensia can handle this."

At that moment, the curtain pulls back. Letizia whips around, wrapping one hand around the back of the intruding soldier's neck to drag him in and jam her knee into his stomach. She rips off his helmet and rains her other elbow down on the back of his head.

"Vai, vai, 'ndiamo!" She yelps, throwing the solider to the ground to stomp in his stomach. She shoves past Tullio and Giovanni with their hands full to the back of the tent, triggers her hidden blade, and then slices a new opening in the tent fabric after pushing away the tables. "Here, 'ndiamo! Tuli, give the box to Guido, Gio—don't lose the key!"

Just as they're out, two more soldiers bust in, but one of them is yanked back out, sounding like they're going down immediately. Letizia clashes with the one remaining.

Three bodies already line the ground outside and Tullio jumps over one while Giovanni ducks under a heavy ax swing. The encampment has been alerted, and all hell is breaking loose.

At the palisade, Guido is already bouncing on his feet, and from around the corner on the outside, guards are already coming for him. When he sees Tullio round the tent with the chest, among other things, he throws out his hands.

"Dammelo, dammelo!"

Not a moment too soon, Tullio hands over the box, jumping through the palisade gap. Guido clutches it to his chest, hoping nothing fragile is inside, and rolls out of the way of a heavy ax swinging down on him.

"He has the maps," screeches one of the guards. "After him!"

Tullio wraps up the remaining goods he's lifted in his robes and leaps into action, flipping onto one hand and spinning his legs out to catch one of the soldiers in the gut.

"Has Guido gotten out?" Giovanni demands when he breaks through the palisade, definitely not worried.

"Cazzo," Tullio spits as he barely dodges the sharp edge of a sword swung at his head. "Yes! Now can we please worry about us?! I have a bet to win with Spallone when we get back to Il Nido, and I have no plans to die here today!"

Back in the camp, Ortensia follows the signal to drop from the trees, weight crushing a soldier swiping his broadsword at Letizia. Her hidden blade isn't clean thrusting into his neck, but it does the job.

"How about that scrapping?" Ezio asks, sword drawn as he regroups with the two of them. "Leti, get out of here! Take Tullio and Giovanni with you, Ortensia and I will cover your backs!"

Shoving another soldier off her, Letizia nods and clears her own path out by ramming her shoulder into the armored stomach of another. It knocks him right into Ortensia's path, and she pulls out her short blade to slice at his exposed thighs.

"Stare con i tuoi artigli, Maestro, Ortensia!" Letizia calls back, and jumps through the palisade.

"Che le tue ali ti portino," Ezio responds, brandishing his blade. He glances at Ortensia, other eye kept on the creeping guards. "What say you, Tensi? Do we make haste, or are we scrapping?" He smoothly twirls around her back and shoots a crossbow bolt into the nape of a solider chasing Letizia's shrinking form.

Ortensia looks between him and the group of guards hellbent on taking their heads. Well, at least she doesn't have to worry about stumbling over anyone but Il Mentore and the bodies already at their feet. She fights best without much interference.

She grins, and Ezio thinks of how he certainly shouldn't nurture any bloodlust in his apprentices. Sometimes… Sometimes, it's okay.

"I won't count if you don't, Maestro." And she leaps onto the back of a brute.

Ezio, aiming his gun as he sticks an agile with one of his hidden blades, laughs. "Oh, I promise I will."

Rare silence chokes the hideout, suspending most signs of life.

As Assassins, death is intrinsic to their everyday lives; they are death-dealers, but it does not render them immune to their own. Il Mentore is a master of masters, a man more skilled than any of them has ever seen—but he is not invincible.

Field days often close in this way, especially when only part of the assigned return without their teacher in tow. It is quiet. It is waiting. It is bated breath.

The entrance hall sees more warm bodies during these times; cushions reclined on, armchairs occupied, stools taken, books and ink out for the I am busy in this particular chamber for no special reason effect, but one ear is always free for the door. It isn't always the front door—sometimes it may be the kitchen door, or the banquet hall door. The river entrances one floor below. The rooftop door three floors above. The tunnel entrance two floors below. Many doors require many ears, obviously.

Whoever nests in the hideout at the time, they hold their breath. They wait.

And then the door opens. No one moves, no one breathes, no one makes a single sound. You have to listen to how the footsteps sound, how the breathing echoes off the stone, quit making noise so I can hear if rushing to do the medical wing is necessary.

A book shuts as the first sign of life, and Fabiola gets out of her armchair to head over to the medical station tucked in the corner between the wall and the second-floor stairwell.

"It isn't Maestro." Her voice is soft, but those in the room all hear. One of their own injured is grievous enough, but an injured Maestro Ezio is pure torture. A collective breath is released.

Entering the main hall with one arm heavily wrapped around Ezio's shoulders, Ortensia grouses between choked groans. "It's not that deep," she grunts. "I can walk on my own."

Ezio's exasperated, thin voice follows. "Basta, uccellina. Yes, it is deep. You will need stitches. You were supposed to be careful this time."

"I made no such promise," she replies, straining.

Fabiola pulls her curly brown hair into a low bun and scans the room. On the other side of the room and at the wooden table, Guido sits close with Giovanni and Letizia, waiting. The three of them relax at the sight of Il Mentore and Ortensia, though not by much.

"Guido, find me Mino," Fabiola says, preparing antiseptics, compresses, and salves. "Tell him we're going to need stitching up in the medical wing. Operating room is fine."

Guido is gone before she can even finish, scouring the hideout for their needle-and-thread expert. By this time, Ezio has brought Ortensia to the stand, still bickering with her who has become increasingly incoherent. Fabiola sighs with a hand to her cheek.

"Blood loss," she laments, going to work on keeping pressure on the wound. "Why is it always blood loss?"

Ezio frowns, studying Ortensia's paled complexion and shallow breathing. "What can be done?"

She shakes her head. "The bleeding will have to be stopped first, then Mino will stitch the wound, and from there it will be mostly bed rest and nutrients for this one." She sighs again. "I may need mercury and silver dust for a cordial."

"Ah yes," Ezio says with a quirk of his lips, though worry dulls his eyes, "I hear she's trying for a record." He sweeps Ortensia's dark hair from her face, along with the sweat beading over her brow and sighs. He opens his mouth.

"No, Maestro," Fabiola interrupts, gentle but firm, "you cannot be present for the operation, nor will you sit bedside until she's coherent again."

Ezio is about to protest before she stops him again.

"I will mention in passing to Maestro Machiavelli that you have been neglecting recording your recent investigations in favor of gioco d'azzardo with Primo."

Head craning away, he narrows his eyes. "You wouldn't."

Feeling out the right amount of pressure to add to Ortensia's wound, a small smile pulls at her lips. "I would," she answers, and then more seriously, adds, "We will do our best, Maestro. Ortensia is strong and stubborn, I think she will pull through."

Ezio's eyelashes sweep his cheeks as he looks down at Ortensia's shallow breathing. "...Va bene, I will leave it in your capable hands." He rubs Fabiola's deceptively relaxed shoulder. "Buona fortuna."

She nods without looking at him, already beginning to mutter off materials for a poultice she'll need to stop the bleeding. He turns just as Guido hurries back in with Stefano and Mino in tow—the former for carrying Ortensia up the medical wing and the latter for stitching. The wait will not be easy, but he narrows his focus on his other apprentices as he crosses the room, not unaware that every apprentice in the room has an eye on him.

"I am fine," he announces to no one in particular, and they all turn back to what they were doing. "How about you four, were any of you injured?" He asks Giovanni and Letizia, gently clasping both their chins, turning their heads this way and that. "Ah, Giovanni, that will be a bruise for the books, uccellino." He rubs his thumb over the darkening bruise running up his cheek.

Giovanni grins. "I can just say I got it from Ugo and survived."

Ezio rolls his eyes. "It is not good to lie, stronzetto. Ugo will really give you something to cry about." He glances around for show. "Where is Tullio? How did he fare?"

Giovanni throws a thumb over to the staircases that lead to the lower floors. "He's fine, he's with Bastiano and Nino."

Ezio nods knowingly, and then looks at Letizia. She's been quiet, and her eyes are cast away now, distant. He guides her face with ginger fingers to look at him. "You did well, Leti, what I told you. Ortensia became my responsibility the moment I ordered you to leave. You did well, uccellina, sì? Tranquilla." Then, loud enough for the rest of the room to hear, "Ortensia would have not been so injured had she taken only what she could instead of too much, eh? Remember that."

A few bodies in the room cringe.

He turns back to Giovanni and Letizia with an amiable smile. "I'm glad you're both relatively unharmed. Andiamo, we'll steal Tullio from his cari and debrief, hmm? Guido, come."

They both smile back at him, Letizia's a little weaker, before getting off the table to follow him to the lower levels, Guido following soon after.

Ortensia ends up needing fifteen stitches, all of which she refuses to squeeze Stefano's hand for and does little but bite on cloth instead. This, of course, means that with the ample recovery time, she'll only be able to move as far as this floor without help—and the second-floor study.

Chapter Text

If secrets were currency, the Assassini would be broke. Secrets only have value when kept—shared, the entire world might as well know, and their value is lost.

"Did you hear?"

"Have you heard?"

"I heard this recently."

"I overheard this..."

"I have a secret to share with you, but you can't tell anyone."

Fingers crossed, grin spread.

"Okay."

Among the apprentices, this is a lesson hard-learned; a truth everyone knows but has to discover on their own. Community and Value your siblings—but every person for themselves. Living among such loose lips, finding someone to hold in confidence is not just a want, but a necessity.

A secret has three options to stay concealed.

Raffaele hears him coming before he sees him and knows he isn't trying to silence his steps as to not be a surprise, particularly since Raffaele has a weapon in hand. He simply hasn't had time to return it to his personal trunk in the living quarters and doesn't quite trust returning this specific dagger to the armory lest it should appear in Giovanni's hands.

He turns.

"Saverio, buona sera," he greets, and then blinks a few times.

Saverio, a mere few centimeters above him, is hunched at the shoulders as if to slighten himself. Raffaele masks his frown as Saverio glances around.

"No one else is here, Saverio," he says carefully. He places away his dagger, not within the sight of Christo. "How may I assist you this evening?"

This chamber was just large enough that Messere Ezio saw fit to transform it into a respectable chapel at a time before Raffaele had joined the Order's ranks. That said, no padre existed to lead it, and ordained himself, Raffaele had asked to take up the mantle, to which Ezio was more than happy to let him into. He's since noted that Messere Ezio never attends mass himself. He has decided not to inquire after why.

Saverio stops, a comfortable distance left between them that Raffaele elects to maintain. Living with so many other people means that personal space and time to think is a commodity by no means overvalued, especially when it comes to the chapel. Throughout the day, apprentices enter and exit; some slide into the pews before leaving for an assignment, some consult Raffaele himself, and some come to simply think.

Initially, Raffaele had been of the mind that the Assassini, being a league of killers, would have their backs turned on il Signore. He cannot understate how pleased he'd been to discover that hadn't been the case at all, and while some bear reluctance and others simply do not believe, every Sunday morning is a full house to deliver sermons to.

Saverio is one who rarely shows.

His dark brown gaze triangulates between the altar, another spot behind Raffaele, and Raffaele himself. His shoulders do not relax.

"It is safe to speak here, bambino," Raffaele addresses in what he hopes is a gentle tone—Rinaldo frequently reminds him of how "severe" and "intimidating" he can be. It wouldn't be a problem if the younger apprentices did not test his patience (and he knows they enjoy doing so). "I shall wait for you."

True to his word, Raffaele occupies himself with retrieving his dagger to finish cleaning it. He observes the blade in the candlelight; a nick mares the sharp edge, telling him he'll have to see Paolo about fixing it. He'd hate for this blade to break.

Saverio opts to spend the time studying the chapel. Despite the main hall leading right into this chamber, this is one of the only times he's visited. Though this is clearly a makeshift chapel, architecture made to fit the purposes rather than the other way around, it's comfortable and warm and has no reason to be feared.

He swallows thickly and forces his shoulders into a square.

"I... I've come to confess."

Raffaele doesn't startle at his voice but is surprised—confessionals are not a rare occurrence, but this is certainly Saverio's first time. Raffaele glances off to the right side of the room.

Ah, he must have been looking at the confessional.

Between the pews and apse, where one of the transepts would be, is an ornate confessional crafted from dark wood, courtesy of Filippo in his leisure not spent at the stables. Its polish gleams in the candlelight, rendering it smaller than it truly is, but it's big enough to accommodate even their largest compatriot (how Ercole can be nearly two hundred centimeters at only twenty-four... Raffaele doesn't want to know what his family fed him growing up).

Finally sheathing his blade and storing it away once again, Raffaele smiles in what he hopes is inviting kindness. Wordless, he approaches his side of the confessional, climbs in, and waits.

Again, confessionals are not rare. Some apprentices attend... worryingly often, usually with equally worrying sins; apprentices like Matteo, whose guilt seems to be ingrained into the very fiber of his being, he, Catholic down to his marrow. On the other hand, some apprentices seek guidance; those who are younger and disheveled by their rapid change of lifestyle, like Nino or Piero.

Raffaele is no miracle worker and that isn't why he offered both his blade and his services, and while some of his cohorts may vex him to the point of (Perdonami, Signore) homicidal ideation, aiding their souls soothes his own.

It takes Saverio several minutes to follow into his side of the confessional, and even when he does, he says and does nothing. Raffaele continues to wait until he suspects that because it's his first time, he may be hesitant and unsure.

He clears his throat feels Saverio jump on the other side of the lattice.

"If you require guidance, I will lead you," he offers. Saverio nods a small thing, and so it begins.

It is a long and arduous process, but Raffaele is patient, even when Saverio stutters over his words and chokes up with emotion. Rinaldo may insist that he has no tolerance, but he stores all of it for these times, for when others turn over their sins for him to bear so that their souls may rest more easily.

Saverio's breath shudders. "I can't remember anymore... Dio mi perdoni."

"Slowly, bambino, slowly. Don't hyperventilate," Raffaele advises. "You may return at any time if you recall more, do not fret."

He nods shakily.

"Now, I will begin to assign penitenza. Are you willing to act for absolution?"

More steadily, Saverio nods again.

Part of Raffaele is grateful to endure the admissions of anguish and turmoil and it not be the responsibility of someone blinded by ignorance. He is a holy man, but as he's been reminded often enough: he is un Assassino first. Where any other holy man would condemn each and every one of them to the Seventh Circle of Hell, Raffaele knows that it is they who seek the forgiveness of God the most. They stain their bloods so that the people of their home can be free, and if they must be the sacrifice for that, then so be it. His blade is not clean, and he's vowed to never think himself above anyone else because of it.

"If you return, you may try your own words to express your sorrow, but for now, repeat after me. Mio Dio..."

Somethings have to be taken into mortal hands. It is a very gray life they live, chapel be damned.

"...Nel suo nome, Dio mio, abbi pietà."

He gives Saverio a moment to collect himself, wishing he had cloth for him to blow his nose on. He reminds himself to ask someone about that—it's a thought that comes every time tears are shed inside the confessional. He takes the time to quiet too, willing his heart to ease under the new weights delivered.

When they are both eased enough, Raffaele begins the prayer of Absolution. The familiar words ground him and are a reminder that their choice to dwell in the shadow to serve the light is by no means unforgivable so long as they stay true to their Creed.

"And now, with a segno della croce, you say Amen," he murmurs.

"Amen."

Quiet falls between them as Raffaele contemplates what to follow up with. What Saverio confessed to, he never would have guessed, but the more he accepts the weight of sins from throughout the Order, the less he is surprised at what a single soul can bear when subjected to the most heinous acts of people. They are survivors of humanity's atrocities, and that is what he's noticed: because of such unspeakable acts and being let down by the world around him, they have united here to assure others do not share their fates.

He breathes deeply.

"Do not fret, bambino, you did all you could. You freed yourself of the shackles of a hateful cycle, and it is what il Signore would have wanted for you. When put to the test to survive, we all must sometimes perform drastically. Your survival of your father meant that you succeeded, and it was not your time to join His side. Remember that." His voice is firm. "You are here with us now, as was His plan, and with us you will stay until He calls you home."

Saverio shudders and slumps in exhaustion, eyes swollen and stung.

"Remember, you are always welcome back here. We all need a place to assuage our grievances. Non sei solo, bambino."

After that, Raffaele murmurs soothing blessings and then sends Saverio on his way, who makes his escape hasty and near silent. His feathering of his weight is coming along very nicely; Signorina Natalia is doing a fine job as a trainer there.

Alone once more, Raffaele steps out of the confessional. He breathes deeply again and ignores the thickness of his throat and burning of his nostrils. Folding away any turmoil before it can bud, he sets out on methodically snuffing out each candle in the chapel.

Nothing in life could have prepared him for this being his destined path, and even less could have prepared him for the people he'd meet and come to trust with his life, but he is here for a reason. These are not normal lives they lead, but they lead them because their Father willed it.

He stops at the altar and picks up his sheathed blade to turn it over in his hands.

They all have their reasons, and even if they are trapped in a cycle of staining their blade and having to confess and repent, they all believe they are doing good. Raffaele wonders about it at times, but no other life exists for him but this. He will harbor as many sins and secrets and channel as much forgiveness as his sanity will allow if it means others can experience relief.

And when his time finally comes, every one of those secrets will go with him to the grave.

"Ah, there you are."

Raffaele looks up from his book to see Ezio leaning on the door frame to the makeshift vestry. He is, in a rare occurrence, dressed out of his Assassin robes, dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail as his eyes smile like they tend to do at apprentices. Raffaele closes his book and raises in respect. Ezio quickly puts up a hand, half-smiling.

"No need for that, amico mio," he says. "Is that another new Bible already?"

Raffaele looks down at the holy book in his hands and promptly coughs into a fist. "Did you need something, Maestro?"

Amused, Ezio shakes his head. "Per favore, Raffaele, 'Ezio' is just fine. Why do you all insist on being so formal?"

Raffaele pointedly doesn't answer.

Ezio sighs, put-upon, but when he notices Raffaele is waiting in earnest for an explanation, he responds. "No, not at all. Lorenzo told me I might find you meditating in here." He glances around the coziness that Raffaele admittedly uses as an occasional escape. "A last bastion, eh?"

Raffaele smiles wanly. "It is... a gradual progress."

Ezio chuckles. "I applaud your hard work." Wistfulness then levels out his features.

Cautious, Raffaele ducks his chin a little. "Is everything alright, Mae—Ah, Ezio?"

If he remembers correctly, Ezio has never been inside the vestry (though it's more of a large storage closet that became a vestry since it was connected to the chamber that became the chapel). Him being dressed down also means this visit is social, unless something has happened with another of the other apprentices.

His voice breaks through whatever thoughts hold Ezio. "Ah, yes." He clears his throat, straightening. "Forgive me, nothing is wrong. I was just curious; are you alright?"

Surprised, Raffaele blinks. He quickly files through thoughts and recent memories for any incident that might have indicated him being upset at all. Aside from Giovanni and Bastiano testing his patience in turns, nothing stands out. He shifts his weight.

"I am fine, thank you for asking." He almost doesn't ask after the question; Ezio sometimes has strange reasons for doing things and he himself doesn't even notice. "Have I seemed fretful lately?"

Ezio's keen amber eyes rove over him once, as if searching for visible injury. When he finds everything as it should be, he sighs. Tension leaves his shoulders and exhaustion takes his demeanor.

"I hear that you take confessions often, how do those go?"

Without meaning to be, Raffaele is taken aback. He's not shocked or offended, but confessional as an act is not often spoken of. Involved parties tend to agree on isolating a session to when it's happening and never past that, partly to preserve confidentiality between the confessor and God. In addition, Ezio is not often found anywhere near the chapel; Raffaele has often wondered if their line of duty has turned him away from faith.

"You'll understand if I refuse to expose what transpires between a sinner and their merciful Father," Raffaele says slowly.

Ezio puts up a hand. "Ah, forgive me again. I didn't mean to make it sound like I was, how to say, being nosy." He smiles faintly, and then mutters to himself something that sounds like, "Leonardo always said I was bad at this..."

He looks at Raffaele directly. "What I mean to say is... I realize that these are not easy lives we lead, and many of us have secrets not shared so easily—ones that erode at the mind and spirit. You, being the leader of this perish, bear a lot of weight by accepting confessions, and I just, ah..." He shakes his head in self-deprecation. "You're doing your fratelli a great service."

He sighs heavily, leaning back on the door frame. Raffaele is weary by way of watching him. It's half-amusing and half-rueful to see their esteemed leader in such a fuss.

"Messere, please, you don't have to trouble—"

"It's no trouble," Ezio says, though it obviously is. "I just... would like to make sure that, with all of what you must hear, you're still faring well. It's thanks to you all that I realize taking care of one's spirit is just as important as maintaining one's physical form."

Raffaele can't help it—his cheeks warm. He's seen many apprentices charmed by Ezio, who's playful at least and downright affectionate at most, but this is the first time he's experienced it.

"I do fare well, messere—"

"Ezio."

"Of course."

"No one listens—"

"It isn't that simple—"

"Of course it is—"

"Maestro," Raffaele huffs, exasperated. Ezio chuckles, and he realizes that he'd been giving him a hard time on purpose. "May I continue?"

Ezio slides a hand through the air, quite pleased with himself.

"I am fine, thank you for inquiring. I hope you won't worry too much. I admit, it can be... taxing. The other apprentices hold much to themselves and only come when they are on the cusp of cracking, and their troubles are not a pleasure to help absolve, but I feel it is the very least I can do."

Ezio absolutely glows, and Raffaele looks away, coughing into a fist again.

"I'm glad to hear it." He smiles. "But please remember to take care of yourself, too. We're many, but you are only one, and invaluable to us."

Bashfulness surges over Raffaele and he has to turn completely, pretending to occupy himself with putting away the Bible he'd been referencing and tidying his makeshift desk.

"You are quite liberal with your words, Maestro," he concedes, ready to sleep.

Ezio shrugs and continues to smile, satisfied. "So I have been told," he replies lightly. "But, Raffaele,"

Composing himself, Raffaele turns again. Resolution colors his stance; a jarring contrast to his youthful-like amusement.

"If you find yourself needing someone to confide in, I hope you won't hesitate to seek out a friend." He looks into the torchlight off the wall. "The world has left us all alone once before, and it is not a kind place to be. When you find someone you trust or love... hold onto them."

Distant forlornness shades his words, and Raffaele wishes it were his place to learn more.

"I... Grazie, Ezio," he finally responds, hoping his voice isn't as hoarse as it feels. "I will remember that."

Nodding, impishness smoothly replaces Ezio's solemnity.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bother Ottavio into making me a midnight snack." He playfully rubs his hands together. "I hope he's still awake. Get some sleep soon, Raffaele, eh? Buonanotte, amico mio."

"Buonanotte, Ezio." He nods at him as he disappears from the room as quickly as he'd come.

Raffaele frowns. He hadn't even had the opportunity to offer the same advice—he doubts Ezio would have taken it anyway. Perhaps he would have brushed it off, somehow.

Regardless, he is a good man, and Raffaele is honored to know him and have him as a teacher. They are all of them very lucky.

He just hopes Ezio takes care of himself as well.

Chapter Text

Initially, it'd been an ideal setup. Laying low in the countryside? Not a problem—preferred, even, because la guardia patrols were much more lenient the farther out into Antico one moved. In the city, they'd be hounded left and right, especially those who still hadn't learned to master a crowd as their cloak. The inconvenience of having to travel back and forth between Antico and Centro was mostly negated by the underground tunnels in most cases, and Ezio didn't mind unless he was in a hurry.

He'd been quite pleased with himself, finding a safe house they could operate out of without constant vigilance. It had also gotten Machiavelli off his back about caution and organization, short-lived as that pleasure had been: Machiavelli refused to let his feathers be smoothed about the entire recruitment notion and process. Words were useless with him, so Ezio forfeited any attempts to convince him verbally. He's more a man of action anyway.

No matter; Machiavelli's perpetual distaste for his methods for reconstruction of the Italian Brotherhood has nothing to do with the current problem. It's recruitment which is the problem—not that candidates are few or hopeless cases, not at all.

In fact, gathering numbers is going far better than he could have hoped. Borgia rule has mercilessly paved over Roma without realizing the resiliency of the life it's tried to smother. Their iron grip is not loosening, but the people are beginning to realize they have opportunities, no matter how small, to begin prying it open. Ezio has made it his job to let them know they can cut off the hand entirely.

Not only that, but they are fast learners too, eagerly absorbing everything he has to teach them and always ready for more. Them sharing general age areas also has an added effect of fostering a somewhat healthy sense of competition in them as well.

So no, the issue isn't that too few are rising to the occasion—it's that too many have burst forth at once.

Before he'd known it, he'd ended up with ten recruits to train into a new generation of assassini.

Unfortunately, he'd not been wholly prepared for what this meant.

"I just think we're not considering all our options," Ciro puts forth for the umpteenth time.

Bianca groans, throwing her head into her hands. "What is there to even consider? Either one of us goes, or none of us at all. We can't all go."

"No one can go by themselves," he replies patiently. "What if someone is hurt, and we aren't able to get to them in time?"

The group exchanges glances. Bianca glares at the tabletop.

"We'd have to leave them behind," Laura eventually replies.

"No." Stefano's stern voice cuts her off. "No one gets left behind."

Laura rolls her eyes at his stubbornly set jaw. Tense silence settles over the group.

In the corner, Ezio sits with legs kicked up on a nearby chair and arms folded. A little over an hour has passed of him observing the strategy meeting today, and it's gone nowhere but in circles... Just the same as the last three days. Time is thankfully on their side, but the progress they're making is not encouraging.

His presence is softened into natural concealment, but it may be in poor judgment; the group has either ignored or forgotten his offer for advice should they find themselves stuck. Which they are. Stuck, that is.

Very pointedly, he ignores Machiavelli's voice echoing in the back of his head about his assumptions of this gathering being correct.

"The point is to get in and get out without being spotted," Bianca argues.

"Yes, but you have to consider the body count and your conservation of energy." Lorenzo finally speaks. He smartly folds his hands on top of the table. "Your blade cannot be wanton for blood, not when the path is thorny and confirmed to change every hour. Once you're inside, time is of the essence."

Bianca's hands come down hard on the table. "That's what I'm saying! A whole group can't navigate the grounds, what's the point in trying that?"

Fingers grouped, Ciro taps the table. "Backup," he emphasizes. "Whoever it is will need backup."

Laura taps the side of her face with a finger. "It runs a higher risk of being caught, though."

Strength of character ensures none of them will back down. Ezio likes that about them—it's what led him to them in the first place. Unfortunately, it's also what led them here. That sense for competition is looking a little less healthy recently.

"Why do you champion a solo effort, Bianca?" Ciro asks. "Is it because you'd like a second chance?"

The table collectively stops, eyes dancing between he and Bianca, whose face begins to tint red. Ezio physically stops himself from smacking his own face. Ciro just had to bring up the glaring mistake she'd made a week back that cost valuable information and time.

"Dio mio," Laura murmurs to herself.

"Ciro..." Stefano warns, gauging Bianca's rapidly declining expression.

"A second chance a what?" Bianca snaps back, face chilling.

"Bianca—" Ghita speaks up for the first time.

"No," Bianca hisses. "Ti prego, Singore Ciro, dimmi. We'd all love to hear exactly what you think."

"Okay," Ezio calls out, and the clap of his hands echoes like thunder.

Stillness sets upon the room at his stern voice from the shock of realizing he'd been present all this time. Ezio huffs and gets to his feet to walk into the lamp light. Each of them avoids his gaze out of either being properly chastised or stubborn avoidance. Hands to his hips, he considers what to do.

"Someone explain to me the problem with this scene," he says, leaving no room for argument.

A few of the group exchanges glances again. Laura wrinkles her nose.

"We're not children," she says slowly. He looks directly at her, and her shoulders square as her head stiffens on her neck.

"No?" He asks skeptically. "Because I feel I most certainly wasn't observing adults." He looks at each of them to avoid absolving any of guilt or part in the childishness. "I'm dissolving this council for now. We'll recongregate tomorrow at the same time. Congedato."

No one moves at first, almost dragging an incredulous laugh out of Ezio. He's about to reinforce his command with much less patience before Stefano rises from the table and quietly excuses himself. After that, the rest naturally slink away to lick their wounds. As coincidence would have it, Bianca is the last of them. He doesn't let her reach the door.

"Bianca, un momento," he calls. She visibly cringes, paused with her hand flat on the door's wood to push it open.

"...Yes, Maestro?"

"Vieni qui." He beckons her back over. Her hesitation makes him feel a little guilty at the thought of how she must think he's about to scold her, so he clarifies. "No, you're not in trouble. I have an assignment for you."

Pleasant surprise replaces caution, and Bianca blinks a few times before making her way back to him. She taps a closed fist over her heart. "How may I serve today, Maestro?"

When they exit the meeting room, Bianca stalks past everyone in the main room of the building. The sound of the front door closing after her resonates. Ezio follows, and the others look at him as soon as he comes in. He pauses.

"...Do you all not have anywhere else to be?"

They look at each other before Ghita answers for the collective.

"Ah... No, Maestro."

Ezio's brow furrows.

Normally, it wouldn't be such an issue, but a blade could slice this atmosphere with how thick it is. They have no one to blame but themselves, he knows, but he should have intervened sooner. Being around those you've just shared an argument with isn't good for unwinding—it's why he'd sent Bianca out on a courier assignment. Fresh air and something to focus on will do her good.

Still, the dangers of sending out multiple apprentices dissuades him from sending anymore; the less of them out roaming, the better.

It would be less of a problem, he thinks, if we had more space.

This thought occupies Ezio's mind for the next few weeks, louder when every few days another explosive argument breaks out among the apprentices. So few of them are under his wing at the moment, but he being a new teacher and Machiavelli—the bastardo—performing the bare minimum of assisting, his work is cut out for him.

That so many of them refuse to back down is a good sign; out in the field, it will serve them well. In the Order, however, this is not so pleasing—not bickering over every small thing, and not challenging each other for the sake of it at every turn. How can so few of them know compromise? This isn't the case with all of them (Annetta is allergic to confrontation, Filippo prefers horses to people, and while they joined at similar times, Rinaldo hasn't acclimated quite as fast as Luciana), but with the ones it is... Meetings have become a breeding ground for argument and sleights rather than strategy.

The problem is beginning to burst through the restraint of meetings, too. Every hour or so it seems, a jaw-gritting, words-bitten argument is breaking out somewhere on the property, various parties involved. Any of them have yet to need separating, but it's only a matter of time from here. Ezio knows they're scaling that tower from which the fall will be long and hard.

Voices once again raise outside his office.

Dio mi aiuti.

When apprentices begin to actively approach him about it, he knows the problem is intensifying. It starts with Laura.

Ezio looks up from his files from the knock on his door.

"Entra," he calls out. Laura leans her head inside first, and he watches her eyes dart around to take in every aspect of the room. He masks a smile at the newly forming habit. "Come posso aiutarla, how may I help you?"

Her unease is palpable, so he straightens his spine and sets everything aside to give her full attention.

"I..." She glances back outside the room and then quickly shuffles in, shutting the door behind her. Her steps to the desk are hesitant, leaving Ezio to gather that something is wrong and she feels guilt.

"...I made a mistake," she finally admits, almost too quiet to hear. He raises an eyebrow, but then motions to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

After she takes it, she shuffles her fingers together before looking at him, but she's avoiding his eyes. He can tell; her gaze is trained on his chin instead.

"I left my sketchbook in one of the table drawers," she begins, trying not to sound nervous, "but since I just came back from exchanging information with a few of La Volpe's ladri, I couldn't remember where I put it."

Something crashes outside the door, and Laura winces. Ezio rushes to stand, but she stops him.

"Signore Lorenzo is taking care of it!" The words fall out of her mouth all at once, and she slaps a palm to her face, slumping in shame. "I made the mistake of asking the others if they'd seen it—oh... They'd definitely seen it. In different places."

Ezio grimaces.

Stefano and Ciro end up having to do laps around Acqua Marcia.

Next is Stefano, and accompanying him is a nasty, discolored welt around his left eye under disheveled blond bangs. All Ezio can think is, At least his dominant side was spared, because he truly doesn't wish to know more.

"Il dottore wanted to put leeches on it," Stefano deadpans as soon as he sees Ezio's expression.

"I've been there," Ezio sympathizes. "I am... skeptical of these leech practices."

Stefano laughs with little feeling. "Aren't we all."

A moment of loaded silence passes before Stefano sighs in exhaustion. Ezio abstains from pity, but his lips twist in sympathy regardless. He puts away his compass with a self-reminder to acquire more maps. Unfortunately, the best ones seem to be stored in Borgia towers, which he's taken upon himself to clear Roma of with the intentions of revitalizing the city.

"Cos'è successo, what happened, Stefano?"

Hesitance screws Stefano's mouth before he sighs again.

This seems to be a conversation not had without alcohol, so Ezio grabs a bottle of grappa (a recent gift for saving a farmer's daughter) and two small glasses. Stefano takes his gratefully and knocks it back with fervor that makes Ezio wince.

Before, it could have been that the blackened eye was a trophy of a training session well done, but he has his doubts now.

"Bianca punched me." He finally says, flat. Ezio tries not to hiss in through his teeth.

"On... purpose?"

Misery visibly burdens the shake of his head. He cradles his face in one hand. "I got in the way of her grudge match with Ciro because it was getting out of hand. Obviously it did not end well."

"...The state of things now?" Ezio slowly asks; he's almost afraid to know.

On fingers, Stefano begins to list where everyone is.

"Bianca left... again. I am told she went to a trade-off at the Tevere, though for what, I'm not sure. I sent one of our promising recruits after her for field practice—Signorina Emiliana?—along with Rinaldo for good measure. Lorenzo enlisted Ciro for some work on his ranch, so they will be gone for the rest of the day—hopefully—Ghita returned to her home for her daily work, and the rest are doing chores around the property."

He takes his second glass much slower.

Ezio shakes his head. "Why did you not come get me?"

The chair creaks with Stefano's slumping weight. Ezio raises his chin.

"Do not tell me it was because of your pride again," he warns. "Stefano, we talked about this."

The bow of his head tells Ezio all he needs to know.

"They made me the di fatto leader and I... I can't let them down..." Stefano mumbles, rubbing his temples. "Maestro, we can't run to you every time we have a problem. We should be able to solve this among ourselves."

Heart clenching, Ezio stays his tongue from an impulsive reply and measures his words. They are so much like him from so long ago that seeing them stumble through problems like working with others and combating useless pride is an arsenal of arrows through the chest. The difference is that he had several teachers who were long detached from understanding this side of the life but did understand the meaning of being an Assassin—he both understands this side of the life and the meaning of being an Assassin.

He breathes out evenly and then places a light hand on Stefano's shoulder.

"Stefano, guardami." He says firmly, and Stefano does, mismatched eyes tired but open. "Being a leader does not always mean doing everything alone. Being a leader means knowing when to turn to another for help if they are there. Shouldering all burdens alone is a sure way to meet an early end. We can all of us only carry so much weight before we collapse." He puts a hand to his chest. "I am here for a reason, Stefano. Allow me to help you, sì?"

Stefano's next breath heaves out in a great shudder.

On Ezio's desk, maps display circled buildings larger than this one. All of them are exed out.

They share a few more glasses of grappa.

Lorenzo and Ghita approach him together. Ezio speculates that Filippo has finally snapped and thrown Bianca and Ciro off the Pantheon like he's been muttering to himself to do these last few weeks. Ezio hopes not; their development in that time has been phenomenal. Granted, they still quarrel over Bianca consistently trying to fly solo while Ciro breathes down her neck about it, but he'll take whatever growth he can get with them.

"Please do not tell me someone is dead," he says when they reach him. "I've yet to figure out the process of dealing with that."

"You're quite dramatic, has anyone told you that?" Lorenzo responds, not unkindly.

"No." Ezio narrows his eyes. "Did Machiavelli tell you to say that?"

"Maestro," Ghita interrupts seriously. He clears his throat because he senses this will be worth paying attention to.

"Yes, alright. Is something the matter?"

Ghita and Lorenzo look at each other with silent agreement before looking back at him.

"Signora Ghita and I have been talking," Lorenzo replies. "As you know, we both own property not far from here—"

This conversation is going one way fast, and Ezio feels little but guilt over it.

"—and recruitment has been fruitful... Sfortunamatamente, that means space here is thinning." Ezio opens his mouth to reply, but Lorenzo halts him with a patient hand and smiles with understanding. "It's no fault of your own, si prega di non fraintendere, please do not misunderstand. However, we are in urgent need of more elbow room."

Again, Ezio attempts to reply, but Ghita cuts him off next.

"We will host a few of the apprendisti each for now, to clear the air," she says. Her voice is gentle but leaves no room for argument. He has to wonder if she picked that up from him or not, and pride tickles his chest at their resolution. It's clear in their posture and eyes that no defeat is to be seen on their horizons on this matter.

He sighs, resigned, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I hope you'll forgive the imposition. If the both of you sincerely insist..."

"We do," Ghita replies firmly. "And we are among the oldest, we should have thought of this before Stefano suffered a black eye."

Ezio winces. No one had been happy about that.

"It will have to be a temporary arrangement," he insists. "Your lands are not exactly close, and there are not tunnels near enough in case of emergencies... You keep horses, sì?"

Lorenzo puts up another hand. "I do, quite a few. I will lend two to Ghita."

"Va bene, and Filippo tends to the few horses here. Hopefully nothing sneaks up on us until I can find a better situation..."

Unfortunately, something does sneak up on them.

Ezio already has a sword in hand when the front door slams open. Everyone is on their feet and turned to see the invader—only for it to be Stefano, gasping, soaking wet, and pale as a phantom.

"B-Bianca has been gravely wounded," he all but sobs.

No one else moves until Ezio begins barking orders.

"Filippo, my horse! Giordano, hold down the fort until I come back. You all listen to him, dico sul serio, I'm serious. Annetta, no issuing assignments for now, and take a headcount. No one is to leave until I return, hai capito?"

"Sì signore!" The room choruses.

Ezio hurries towards the door and yanks on his hood in spite of it likely not being much help against the downpour. "And someone fetch Machiavelli! Send him in the direction of—"

"Ghita's farm," Stefano answers readily.

"Ghita's. Non me interessa what he's doing, just make him come. Tell him I'm dying, say what you must!"

By the time they're outside, Filippo is already hurrying around the building with Ezio's usual horse. Stefano scrambles back onto his, upsetting it and clumsily trying to calm it. Ezio is considerably more controlled, but every muscle in his body is taut towards snapping and his heart bangs in his chest.

These last few months have been empty of any life-threatening injuries, lucky for them—considering how headstrong the apprentices are, it surprised Ezio; he'd just never spoken on it to avoid damning themselves. It seems that helped none at all.

"Lead the way, Stefano!" He calls over the shattering sky.

Regardless, he'd prepared for this. Since his arrival in Roma, he has made good acquaintance with Agatino, the doctor he saw after leaving the contessa Margherita dei Campi's house, and enlisted him as trustworthy ally and resource as a medical professional. What's better: He convinced Agatino to set up shop closer to "home" as it were, so instead of having to chase all the way to the other side of Roma to northern Campagna, he can send someone to retrieve him out by Palazzo Laterano.

Ezio sees now that one doctor in a single location won't do.

Visibility is poor in the storm, but he keeps his eyes trained on the lantern dangling wildly from Stefano's hold as they ride westward towards Ghita's property. Time seems to move far too slow and a voice in the back of Ezio's mind warns that they won't arrive in time, but he smothers it down and focuses on not toppling Agrippa over the landscape.

When they arrive not a moment too soon, Ezio leaps off his horse. Stefano doesn't follow.

"I will go fetch un dottore," he says, already rearing his horse, but Ezio harshly snaps his fingers at him.

"No you will not," he responds sharply. "You have been too long in and out of this storm—I will send someone else. If we're lucky, someone has already gone for Signore Agatino."

Even in the rain, Ezio can see the strong emotion flooding over Stefano's face. He goes over to help him off his horse, offering his hand up.

"Hai fatto abbastanza, you've done enough," he says more gently. Stefano's expression doesn't sway, but their lack of time has him nodding and dismounting his horse. They hurry inside.

"Maestro!" Several voices chorus at once. Ghita's cuts above the rest, hurrying to join he and Stefano as they stride through the door. On their way, Ezio is stripping away his drenched outer layers to worry about later.

"Lorenzo has already gone out to retrieve Signore Agatino," she says, leading them towards a back room.

"Okay, bene," he replies, already taking point. He doesn't have time to smile for his correctly placed trust in his students because inside the door is the overwhelming stench of sweat and iron. It smacks into him in a way bloodshed hasn't in a long time.

At the table's side, two backs face him. One is Ciro's, shoulders a rigid line as his stiff arms press down onto Bianca's body on the table, and the other he isn't familiar with, but belongs to a young woman. Ezio points back towards the door.

"Ghita, please have Stefano change clothing. He will catch his death like that."

He doesn't wait to see if they've listened because he approaches the two others with steps loud enough to alert his oncoming. The woman turns.

"Maestro," she greets briefly. Ezio recognizes her as a recent recruit but is a little too distressed to put a name to her face. He nods at her.

"Ciro, please hold this over the wound," she asks. In one hand, she has a clean white cloth for Ciro, and in the other is a stained one with fragments of metal cupped inside. She answers Ezio's questioning look without waiting. "Remnants of a sword we had to break off."

His stomach churns, but he nods again and reaches Ciro's side. His hands are white from the exerted pressure of trying to keep Bianca's blood insider her body. Her breathing is dangerously shallow and her skin is paler than their robes. Ezio gingerly slides a hand onto Ciro's shoulder.

"Permettetemi," he says. Ciro stays rooted, sweat rolling down his brow as if hanging onto a lifeline. Ezio's fingers press in deeper. "Ciro, you have been here too long, switch with me. You need rest."

He whispers something unintelligible. Ezio reaches down for his hands to pry them away, noting that the hold isn't efficient in any case, born from desperation rather than familiarity. Before he can touch them, Ciro snaps.

"It was my fault!"

Dio mio, Ezio's mind suddenly babbles. Children, his thoughts go on, they are children and you've done this to them. Stupido. Idiota. Babbeo.

"No time for that," he says aloud, firmly. Whether he's talking to Ciro or himself, he can't tell. "We need to focus on Bianca, and the best way for you to help her now is to let me do what I can until Lorenzo returns with Agatino."

Hands free of the bloody cloth, the young woman helps Ezio pull him away, and Ezio's hands are quick to put pressure on the stomach wound. His thoughts spiral quickly.

He has seen many—caused many—a stomach wound, and very few have walked away from it alive. He himself has suffered a few minor to moderate stomach wounds himself, the most recent being the siege of his home, but his healing had been out of his hands. It's not in him to drag Contessa Margherita back into his troubles.

If the circumstances are wrong enough, Bianca may bleed out. She may never be able to walk again. She may die.

His heart jumps.

He's not ready for that.

The amber of his eyes flashes bright golden. Bianca's aura is blue—but dimming. He knows it; corpses do not give off auras. Her breathing is too harsh and heavy under his hands and her face is scrunched in pain, though she must be unconscious.

Pensare! He scolds himself. What has he done when no one had been around to treat his wounds? What worked? What did the journals he forced himself to read say?

Nothing comes to mind. Panic's undercurrent sweeps away all rational coherency.

"Merda," he mutters to himself.

She will die and it will be his fault.

"Ezio."

A hand comes slides up from his shoulder blade meant to be gentle and warning, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin. He wrenches his head over his shoulder and there stands Machiavelli and Agatino. Instinctively, Ezio raises a finger at Agatino.

"Do not use leeches on her," he hisses. Machiavelli's other hand comes down on his other shoulder, leaving he and Agatino to switch places.

"Calmati, Signore Ezio, calmati. She has already lost enough blood, as one of your bambini has told me. I intend to stop the bleeding, not assist it." Agatino says, voice filtering through his crow's mask.

All at once, solutions flood Ezio's mind, and he sighs at himself.

"I see you still shut down under pressure," Machiavelli remarks as Agatino orders them to bring over another table for him to sort his supplies on.

"Sta zitto..." Ezio moves around to Bianca's head, placing the chilled cloth he's been handed.

"Oh," Agatino says with a tone of being impressed. "It seems shards of a blade had been here—your bambina did a commendable job."

Ezio opens his mouth to say, They are not my children, but Agatino goes on.

"Would the owner of this house happen to have any pomegranates and broadleaf plantain? I have everything else I should need."

Machiavelli looks pointedly at Ezio.

It's a farm, Ezio tells himself, of course there are pomegranates and greater plantain.

He'd left it to Ghita to deliver them to Agatino and promised he'd compensate whatever she'd have to give up for Bianca's treatment. She outright refused him.

The one to take the metal shards out from Bianca's wound had been a young woman named Fabiola, a recruit Annetta introduced him to not long ago. At least someone had been thinking straight—and he isn't talking about Ciro, either. He'll have to thank her.

Agatino emphasized the precious time wasted retrieving both he and Ezio, that it would have been better spent on immediate medical assistance on Bianca. He not-so-subtly mentioned that a position in Centro might benefit them.

The rain has yet to stop, so while Agatino treats Bianca in the back room with Fabiola's surprise assistance, the rest of them—he, Lorenzo, Stefano, Ciro, Laura, Ghita, and Machiavelli—wait in Ghita's living room by the fire. She's a fine host, Ezio thinks, having provided them with cloth to dry off with, quilts, and warm drinks. She even offered some of her late husband's clothing, but the men of the room had all been larger than him, and so the blankets had to be cover enough.

Stefano has posted himself at Ciro's side, murmuring things that Ezio is not privy to while Ciro continues to stare into space. Ezio hasn't asked what happened yet and knows he'll be better off waiting until Ciro's brain communicates with his mouth. He doesn't feel much like speaking himself either.

As usual though, Machiavelli has other plans.

On the other side of the room, Ezio can hear him asking Ghita if there's someplace they can speak privately. Ezio is on his feet before the question is finished, and then follows Machiavelli to the room Ghita offered.

"Whatever it is you have to say, I am not in the mood to hear it," Ezio grumbles when they reach a garden veranda caged by lattice. He plops into one of the wicker chairs, grateful for the thick cushion under his butt.

"You have grown too attached to them," Machiavelli states without preamble.

"If this is another of your attempts to convince me of disbanding them, it will fail just as the others did before. I thought you learned better by now." Ezio responds tiredly. "I tire of this conversation. Let's speak of something useful instead—we need a larger space to operate out of."

"Is that so?" Machiavelli replies, clear with disinterest.

"È così?" Ezio mocks, rolling his eyes. "Yes it is so, stronzo. This whole situation could have been more easily navigated—negated, even, if we had a locale with closer resources. Even Agatino said so."

"Allow me to remind you that it was you who selected the headquarters near Porta Praenestina," Machiavelli says.

"Yes, alright, lo so." Ezio grouches. "It was perfect at the time, a good treeline to hide behind, out of the way of la guardia—you cannot tell me it wasn't a good location to raise new assassini. I was unaware that we would grow numbers so fast, but it will benefit us in the long run. Sfortunamatamente, it is not benefiting our living situation right now. They are a mess with how cramped they are."

Ezio sinks further into his chair, burrowing into the blanket and wishing he was drinking more of Ghita's tea. It was quite warming.

"I am too tired to argue with you, Machiavelli, and I know you have little interest in arguing with me over this topic for the thousandth time. La prego, I'm asking you... Can you offer any solutions?"

"You sound akin to a child asking if they can keep a stray," Machiavelli deadpans.

"Machiavelli, lo giuro su Dio..." Ezio warns, expression darkening.

He lets out a little laugh. Ezio considers how much effort it will take to run his blade through him—too much from where he sits.

For a long moment, Machiavelli considers him.

It's a rare occasion to be able to tell what he's thinking; even how he thinks is a mystery Ezio hasn't bothered unraveling. The clearest conclusion is that they have vastly contrasting thought processes, and though they arrive at similar solutions more often than not, their methods clash uncomfortably. Nevertheless, Machiavelli knows as well as Ezio that this partnership must work. Roma needs it to work. Ezio is the head of this Order and cannot crack under pressure's bludgeon.

"Va bene," Machiavelli finally says. "I have recently been in contact with a man—in fact, it was Bartolomeo who put me in contact, believe it or not—named Fabio Orsini. Have you been around Isola Tiberina?"

Ezio scouts out the location in his mind, knowing it's position nicely in Centro.

"From time to time," he replies, "but not for any particular reason but to cross it. Perché?"

"I was aware of your... issue of space, so I decided to search while you were busy after seeing the headquarters of our allies. Signore Fabio has a storehouse—perhaps not enough of a word for it." Machiavelli raises an eyebrow, and Ezio can't figure out what to visualize. "He wishes to aide our cause and is willing to give it to us. At first light and clear skies, we will go there." He opens his mouth again, but someone knocks first on the door. "Entra," he sighs.

Agatino steps in, and Ezio is instantly on his feet. How much time has past, he has no idea, but it has to have been a few hours at least.

All that time could not have been for nothing, his hope insists. Cynicism cuts it down. Or it could have been prolonging the inevitable.

"Respiri, messere." Agatino laughs, but it does not ease Ezio. Doctors always have such morbid senses of humor; they'll laugh on any occasion.

"I'm in no mood to humor you, Agatino. Just tell me what has happened."

Waving him off, Agatino pulls off his mask and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his face with. Ezio can't even mull in the novelty of seeing his face for the first time, heart once again thumping in his chest as the storm rages on outside.

"I was able to stop the bleeding and stitched the wound up, but there's no way of knowing how much blood she's lost." He shakes his head. "Tuttavia, if she survives the night, then she will likely see recovery the rest of the way through. We can talk over it more tomorrow."

It is not good news, but it isn't terrible news either. The most they can do is wait.

"Va bene. Grazie, Agatino," Ezio sighs at last. He looks towards the lattices where rain has been finely spraying in and keeping the room cool. "I'm not sure when this storm will let up, so allow me to ask Ghita if she can spare us all some rooms. It's dangerous to move around like this at night."

"And yet, here you are," Machiavelli says.

Ezio shoots him a very crude gesture.

How very funny, Ezio thinks as he drifts towards Bianca's resting room, that we'd been so pressed for space before and arguments were a constant, yet Ghita's residence is smaller and not a single fist has flown. The small flame of his candlestick flickers precariously off the walls, casting long shadows. Rain still cascades outside, though the lightning and thunder are fewer and farther in between.

Entirely silent, Ezio opens the back room door. Another candle flame already dances off the walls. He closes the door behind him.

"Ciro," he calls softly.

The chair next to Bianca's bedside rattles in startlement. Ciro scrambles out of it to place a hand over his chest in respect.

"None of that," Ezio gently chides as he crosses the room. "I'm too tired for formalities, I'm sure you are too. Siediti."

Only slightly hesitant, Ciro does as told while Ezio pulls up another chair. Quiet settles between them, the space only filled by muted rain and distant thunder.

Ezio studies Bianca. She is still pale, uneasily so, but nothing like the gray translucence disturbing his spirit earlier. Her breathing is shallow, but the fact that she's still breathing at all is a miracle he'll wholeheartedly accept. It will be a long night.

"How long have you been sitting here, Ciro?" He quietly asks.

"...Since Dottore Agatino allowed anyone back inside."

That was hours ago, Ezio doesn't say aloud.

"You need your sleep," he says instead. "Annetta is not assigning any missions until I give the word, but that is no reason to slack on your physical well-being."

Silence is his reply. They sit, side by side, and watch Bianca sleep. Ezio speaks up again.

"I'd like to know what happened."

Ciro audibly tenses.

"This is not an order from your Maestro. I am asking as a concerned party," he amends. It won't do well to force Ciro to tell him what happened, not with their dynamics so far apart as commander and soldier. "So when you're ready to tell me, I will listen without bias."

It's a long time before Ciro speaks.

"We were... following a lead on the Assassino stalkers that Bianca learned about at the Tevere, but our informant set us up. Bianca killed him—I tried to stop her, but it cost us a precious escape window, so we had to fight." He explains, tone dull. "There weren't many of them, but we'd been staking out all day because we knew the location but not the time... Bianca was already anxious for action even though she knew we'd be waiting—I—I thought it would be fine, you've seen her, è dotata. She's got so much promise and skill, she's just—" His posture has been tensing until he clenches his hands in the air, but he catches himself to slump again.

"Ad ogni modo, in any case... Space had been tight to begin with and I hadn't been aware of anything other than what was in front of me—I... I spun around at a bad time and I b-bumped into her—we were still fighting, but we—we started arguing, there weren't many enemies left but they were still cornering us, and one was coming for me and I sh-shoved her out of my way and she—she—they—"

"È abbastanza," Ezio shushes, and gently clasps Ciro's quaking shoulder.

Under the weight of his grief and guilt, Ciro doubles over and chokes on a sob. Functioning without thought, Ezio rubs his back with a comforting weight to his hand, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

Children. Children. You did this to them. Children. Monster, Ezio Auditore, you're a monster.

"Don't blame yourself," his mouth says before his mind can stop him. "I am at fault—I should have stepped in sooner. I knew that our issue of lack of space was the root of the tension building between especially you and Bianca, and I left you to deal with it rather than being more present guidance as I'm supposed to. You are my students and your well-being is my responsibility—"

"But we are also adults."

Ezio hadn't even heard the door open, but Lorenzo, Ghita, Stefano, and Laura have entered the room, all in various states of dress and wakefulness. Ciro tightens up and scrubs at his blotchy face.

"You should all be resting," Ezio admonishes without feeling.

"It's late enough that it's early." Laura shrugs, coming around the side to settle against one of the bedposts.

Ghita has a tray with a tea set. "I don't believe any of us have slept much, not with that storm outside." She smiles gently and brings the tray over to a nearby table, preparing the cups.

"Maestro," Lorenzo continues as Stefano makes himself comfortable on a cushioned chair off to the side, "I know that you're much older than all of us—"

"Not that much older—" Ezio instinctively replies, scowling.

"—but we are not children." He goes on without humoring him. "You may be our teacher and commander, but we are responsible for our own actions as well."

Noises of agreement follow his words.

"We should have worked out the problem sooner so that it wouldn't have come to this," Stefano adds on, slightly abashed as his chin tucks into his blankets. "Ciro can't have all the blame. Bianca is ultimately the one suffering for our collective foolishness... But when she wakes up—"

Ciro sniffles loudly. Laura lips tick up at the corners.

"—then she can collect her own part of the blame too."

"Laps?" Ghita asks in good humor as she begins pass out warmed ceramic.

"So many laps," Stefano agrees, carefully taking the offered drink.

They're trying to abate his guilt, Ezio knows, but he won't free himself of it so easily. He'd not been wrong: If he'd just intervened more decidedly and put a stop to the conflict sooner, this could have been avoided.

It's not a mistake he'll be making again, space or no space.

"I think we could all use some laps," he says without much thought. "Someone can just carry Bianca for extra punishment."

Objections chorus at once.

"I am afraid I'll have to reschedule."

"I'm automatically exempt."

"Is there perhaps a day this is scheduled for? I may be very busy then."

Shaking his head at them, Ezio turns to Ciro.

"When she wakes up," he speaks so that only he may hear him, "the both of you can make peace, va bene?"

Ciro's nod is imperceptible. He drinks with a liveliness from his tea cup.

Gentle conversation murmurs in the room as they welcome the morning together, but when no one is engaging him, Ezio's eyes melt into gold.

Bianca's aura has brightened.