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"Are the winters in Venice always this cold?" Ezio muttered, curled up in an armchair.
Leonardo added some logs to the fireplace. "I don't know this city much better than you do," he said helplessly, "but your terrifyingly low body temperature probably has little to do with winter."
Roughly a quarter of an hour ago, Ezio had suddenly appeared in the workshop. Almost instinctively, Leonardo had pulled him into an embrace, a reunion after a long separation, only to be shocked by how astonishingly cold his body was—as if he had spent three days and nights submerged in the frozen-solid Grand Canal. Finally growing alarmed, he noticed his friend's lips were tinged a dark purple, his right arm—accustomed to wielding heavy swords—was trembling, and even his fingernails had taken on a nasty bluish-purple hue.
"The weather isn't great today, is it, Leonardo?" Ezio forced an awkward smile with stiff facial muscles, attempting to reassure his visibly distraught friend. Equally obvious was that, under these circumstances, Leonardo wasn't having any of it. "Don't speak for now, Ezio." He guided the young man, who never seemed to know how to take proper care of himself, into the armchair by the fireplace and immediately reached for the other's sleeve. Unexpectedly, aside from the fine texture of silk, Leonardo felt nothing. He looked down and saw that the familiar metal device was indeed gone, causing him to frown in puzzled concern. "Aren't you wearing your Hidden Blade, Ezio?"
"Hidden Blade?" Ezio tilted his head to glance at his bare sleeve. "Oh, right, I'm not wearing it. I think I took it off, put it somewhere… How strange, I can't remember. God, did I lose it on the way?" His face was a picture of apology as he curled himself up even tighter in frustration.
"It's alright, I was just curious. After all, I've never seen you take your Hidden Blade off before!" Leonardo quickly explained with a laugh.
"But you spent hours making that one with your own hands."
"Don't worry. As long as the design remains in my head, I can make a new one—as many as you need! It actually saves me some trouble now, because first I need to get you out of these wet, cold clothes—" Leonardo moved his hands towards Ezio's collar, then suddenly stopped, his expression freezing, "Your clothes are dry?"
"Of course, is something wrong?" Ezio asked, confused.
Leonardo, surprised, felt him over thoroughly. "It always rains in winter; almost everything is damp and chilly. The primary cause of abnormal drops in body temperature is exposure to cold. But as it stands, you're dry all over, as if you've just stepped out of summer."
"Oh, perhaps the fire dried me. " Ezio mused.
"That wouldn't be nearly enough time. " Leonardo chuckled disbelievingly. "I thought you might have fallen into water, or a snowdrift, or hidden in a haystack for too long. It seems I was completely wrong. What happened?"
Ezio shifted closer to the fireplace and blew into his cupped hands. "I ran into an ambush. There were many of them. The snow was falling so heavily, the wind stung my eyes, made it hard to keep them open, but they still pursued relentlessly, as if they felt no cold at all… To see such tenacious quality in Venice's guards is truly rare." As soon as the words left his mouth, another chill seeped into Ezio's neck. The cold pierced through his palms, seeped into his chest, devouring the scant warmth he had managed to gather until none remained. Under the assault of the cold, Ezio instinctively hunched his shoulders further.
A layer of worry settled on Leonardo's face. Suddenly, the firewood in the nearby fireplace crackled loudly. He turned his head in surprise and saw the flames burning fiercely, leaping straight and vibrant. He glanced at the pitiful boy curled up in the armchair beside him, pondered for a moment, then tentatively reached a hand towards the flames. His fingertips, merely coming within inches, were swiftly enveloped in the orange warmth. Yet, for some reason, Ezio, pressed close to the hearth, remained tormented by the dreadful low temperature. He let out a heavy sigh and buried his head even lower.
Every vessel in Leonardo's body seemed to pulse with panic. He couldn't stand idly by while his friend suffered. Without a second thought, he bent down and placed his palm against the other's pale, bloodless cheek. The warmth from that touch began to melt the stiffness that the cold had stiffened on Ezio's face. The assassin suddenly raised his right hand—the hand he had once used to clutch enemies' throats, sending them to meet death. But now, he only gripped his friend's hand tightly, clinging to the last remnants of warmth from the depths of memory.
"The sunlight doesn't help, even that fire feels icy… Only you are warm as ever, Leonardo." The young man gently nuzzled against the elder's palm, "My body temperature must be lower than ice right now. I know it's a rather unreasonable request, but… could I trouble you to stay with me a while longer?"
"I'm not afraid of the cold, Ezio."
Ezio suddenly looked up, blinking.
"I'm not afraid of the cold. So, whenever you want a hug, I won't refuse." Leonardo smiled gently. "Whenever you want."
In a span shorter than an instant, the artist, who was never good at refusing, found himself enveloped in an icy embrace. Ezio's arms wrapped around his neck.
He was cold. So very cold. Any random block of ice would be warmer than he was.
At this point, further thought was meaningless. The master of the warm workshop ultimately chose to follow his instinct, holding the ice-cold guest in his arms tightly.
Ezio pressed his cheek against his friend's warm neck, almost greedily absorbing the heat from the superficial blood vessels, even as the pervasive chill around him didn't lessen in the slightest. "If only we could be young forever, Leo," he mumbled, his voice muffled. "No need to think about the distant future, no need to mourn ordinary times—just like this. We walk slowly, so slowly, with plenty of time to spare, because we are still young."
Leonardo was silent for a long while. A few strands of sunlight leaked through the large glass windows high in the workshop. He glanced at the motionless cloud suspended perfectly in the center of the window frame. This Venice workshop was a replica of the original in Florence. It was complete, perfect—complete enough to hold a nostalgia heavier than the heart, perfect enough to make it difficult to discern accurately.
Close to Ezio's ear, within the stagnant, cold bitterness, Leonardo faintly heard the howling of wind—a roar he had never heard in Venice, so distant it seemed to come from a valley he had never visited in his life. He could imagine a world constructed in monotonous black and white, where even the sky was only a gloomy grey. Soon, he realized this wasn't an illusion, for the frantic sound still echoed in his ears—in his, and in Ezio's.
"Ezio… do you remember how you got into the workshop?"
Ezio's movements noticeably stiffened, then he tightened his embrace. And Leonardo understood, a resigned smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The suspended cloud still rested in the window, utterly motionless, reminiscent of a flock of unwilling-to-leave pigeons from a story. In contrast, the distant wind grew increasingly frenzied, its clamor almost drowning out the crackling of the firewood.
"The weather in Venice is always good. Just like now."
Leonardo lowered his head regretfully. Facing his long-lost dear friend, he left a trace of warm breath against his neck.
The orange flames gradually faded; the howling wind grew sharper.
"It's time to move on, Ezio."
…
Startled and disoriented, Ezio's eyes snapped open.
A cold wind carrying snowflakes swept past his face. A dark cloak obstructed his vision.
Before he froze completely, he struggled to rise from the snow. A throbbing pain shot from his ribs—a sharp reminder that he was no longer young.
Towering black mountains stretched before him, range upon range, their icy peaks tearing at the sky.
Istanbul was still far away.
For the remainder of the journey, he would have to learn to face the piercing chill of the long road ahead, alone.