How easy had it been back then.

Everything had been simpler, no weighing on a scale to see which of two sins were the worst to be committed, no confusion, and, most of all, no empty place in his heart from which his family had been ripped.

It seemed the trite phrase was true, then; ignorance was indeed bliss. For he hadn't the slightest clue as to what the 'banker' father he loved and trusted did on the nights he slipped away from the house, or as to the whispered lies of the conspirators throughout the streets.

It pained him now, since he should have known, should have seen, for he had been given so very many clues.

Many nights a spot had been empty on the dinner table, his absence always brushed off by his mother, saying his work was keeping him lingering. The words were truer than he guessed.

Aside from his mysterious disappearances, the opposite was also true; he would show up at the worst times for the troublesome boy, before Ezio even realized he was there.

Such as one night, when Federico, had, as always, beaten him at a game of chess.

He hadn't noticed that his father had returned from an evening gone until the familiar laugh sounded a ways to his right, directed, no doubt, to the boy's indignity at having to admit his defeat.

He had an odd way that he would speak of chess and it's strategy, of all things. It always struck Ezio as odd, even though he put little thought to it at the time, how his words seemed to be referring to one thing and his tone yet another. That night had been one of the times he spoke as such.

"Non aspettare per il tuo avversario spostare. Anticipare e sorpresa loro."

But he still did not see what should have been obvious all along. He remained in oblivion until the bastardi Pazzi changed it all for the worse.

Still guilt plauged him –he had merely stood there and watch as his father and brothers jerked on the rope they were hung by before they were finally still for the last time. He had made it his life, his everything, to draw the blood and steal away the lives of those who had betrayed his family, but it didn't compensate for his own betrayal.

Through that time when he was blindly trying to pick up the pieces of a shattered life, searching futilely for a way to try, just try to make everything better again, one man had stayed loyal to Florenzia's eagle.

He was eccentric, that much could easily be said; hands constantly moving and brain processing ideas and moving to the next quicker than his mouth could speak them, but he held something about him that was a calm amidst Ezio's inner storm. Leonardo didn't try and shower him with pity- no, quite the opposite; he had, several times, told Ezio with a well-meant harshness to stop wallowing in self pity and do something productive.

It kept him from slipping away completely, from destroying himself from within, and for it, he was grateful.

The man had noticed Ezio's blank look, it seemed, for he called out brightly, his interruption of bitter memories probably not coincidental. It almost seemed that Leonardo could read him like a book at times.

"Ah, Ezio, salve! Non è una bella serata?"

That ever-present smile stil lit up his face now as he glanced over the the canvas of his current project at the assassin.

He nodded and smiled in return, even though he knew the older man could tell that it wasn't mirrored in his eyes, speaking the courtesy stiffly.

"Si. Buono sera, Leonardo."

The artist abandoned his painting to join the assassin, following his gaze to the wide strokes of colors that subtly played across the sky, finer than any imitation his own paitings could ever manage.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye to the blonde-haired man, Ezio sighed.

Oh, for the old days.