You woudn't think, given how short this is, that I'd struggled a lot getting it written.

I did.

It was also originally a lot longer, but I got to just past where it currently ends and stalled completely, so I figured I should end it at a natural(ish) stopping point rather than dragging its corpse through five more paragraphs or whatever.

... Lorenzo doesn't get enough fic.

Disclaimer: the Assassin's Creed series and all characters and plotlines therein are the property of Ubisoft. I am making no profit from the writing of this fanfic.

Lorenzo de' Medici had never given much thought to how he might die, but if he had, he probably wouldn't have pegged it to be during High Mass on Easter Sunday.

But, it seemed by this point, this was surely how it would be. He was bleeding quite heavily from the neck and torso, and even though he had managed to disarm one of his attackers and wrest his sword from him, he knew that unless he got to safety—quickly—he would soon be lying dead on the ground.

He needed help, and fast. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that he would be dead before his guards had the chance to arrive. Francisco de Pazzi was not a fool.

Merda! If only Giuliano were at his side—

Don't think about that!

A soldier lunged towards him; he turned the sword back at the last second. His own blade bit into the renegade soldier's arm, then shore into his side with a meaty crunch. He kicked the corpse off his sword.

It was only a matter of time, now.

He would surely die here. But whether he bled to death on the cobblestones or whether he was cut down, he would not make it easy for them. He would sell his life dearly indeed. And he would cut his price from their flesh.

A thought wormed its way through his concentration. Dying before the eyes of God. An irony indeed.

A vengeful shout, and he realized too late that someone was behind him. Too late to turn and block the attack. In vain, he raised the sword and turned, but the expected blow did not come.

Someone else had gotten there first.

The man in white barely stopped to make sure the bodies fell before he dashed away, all flashing steel and white cloth almost glowing in the sun.

Giovanni? Non è possibile!

No, it could not be Giovanni. His dear friend was dead. But whomever this hooded man was, Lorenzo now had the help he needed. Though the renegade soldiers might not have realized it yet, the tide of battle had just turned on them. The man in white seemed to be everywhere at once; where he danced, he left corpses in his wake.

Lorenzo turned to take on the next attacker—only to realize that there were none left. In a wide circle around the two allies, there were only cadavers. For a moment, the unnatural stillness rang in his ears.

Then the rest of the world came flooding back in on him like an ocean. The piazza was a pandemonium of noise and movement; ever more soldiers rushed in from the streets, from the shadow of the church, and were caught up in the fighting.

And in front of him, standing like a sentinel before the doors of the church, was the man in white. His face was obscured by his hood.

Awareness of a burning pain in his chest followed on the heels of his awareness of the noise and motion, and Lorenzo swayed unsteadily. "You—saved my life."

Suddenly, as though it had taken those words for him to realize he wasn't dead—not yet, anyway—the rush of battle ebbed away, and his legs wouldn't support him properly. His sword clattered to the ground as the man in white strode over. He moved with such deadly grace, confidence marked in the sound of his steps—an assassin. He had to be.

As the man neared him, one corner of his mouth curled briefly into a self-assured smile. In an instant, Giovanni's face flashed before his eyes and was gone. The man held out a hand to steady him.

"It was nothing."