With the two recruits riding very closely, they made the slow journey back to Tiber Island. They were given a few looks, but not many. The moon, whistfully floating high above them, cast it’s ominous light over the hooded novices, shrouded their faces further. Every few moments (read: seconds) they looked to Ezio, making sure he was alright. He leaned forward slightly, holding himself up over the pommel of his saddle by his forearms. By God did this hurt!

Eventually, they stopped at the miniature stable across from the entrance of the hideout. The novices dropped first, herding the horses to a corner, save Ezio’s. Cirino ran inside, shouting for the others to come.

Tired, beaten, and about to just give up and fall over into unconsciousness, Ezio was vaguely aware of the now five sets of hands helping him down, and ushering him to the door. However, when they reached the stairs, Cirino growled, moved in front of Ezio, and hoisted up his legs like a dead man. The others guarded on all sides; since Cirino and Luciano were the biggest, it was easier for them to carry the master themselves.
In his pain-enduced stupor, Ezio could hear the muffled words of someone shouting incredulously.

“What in God’s name! What happened to –”

“Out! We will tend to him!”

“Are you mad, boy? He needs a doctor!”

“We will see to it. Now, go!”

The assassin couldn’t be pressed to care who it was they were shouting at. He was just aware of being carried up more stairs, till, finally, he was laid on his stomach in his own bed.

And, it smelled of a few things.

Leather, metal, the faint waft of soap, but mostly, home.

(captcha: enraged wledoph ... ok it sort of fits??)