The voice had offered to take him back to when his father was younger. Marcello didn’t allow it to finish, snapping up the offer and sorting himself out to do what had to be done. It wasn’t as painful as he was expecting, the Tuscan Villa vanishing in front of his eyes and in its place, stood Florence, but it wasn’t the Florence that he was used to. The square that had been filled with so much colour, and life, was grey and the atmosphere that he had heard so much about. It took him a moment to settle, his line of sight blurry and legs weak. He knew this time, he’d heard the stories. Glancing up to the front of the crowd, Marcello allowed his mouth to drop slightly. It couldn’t have been. The Younger Auditore had been sure that the ‘Animus’ was just a lie, and that it was something that come along with the nightmares, but it wasn’t.
This was the day his Grandfather and Uncles died. So that meant, that somewhere in the crowd was his father. Glancing towards his hands, and then towards the robes that he wore. He probably looked more out of place than anyone else here, and with a quick grunt, slipped himself into a crowd, eyes watching out for a familiar white hood. No, this couldn’t have been happening. This had to be a dream, something from the alcohol he had drank the night before. He couldn’t be... there. Of all places, he just couldn’t be here. What would happen if his father saw him? What would happen if anyone that knew of the family saw him? Volpe, Leonardo, Machiavelli. “Ugh.” He muttered quietly to himself, hands lifting to brush against the redness that had formed.
He turned to leave, hands resting behind his back. It was cut short, the crowd pushing him forward and it wasn’t until the sound of the Gonfalonaire’s voice caused the boy to freeze.
This couldn’t be good.
