Gnarled, brittle hands clasp together, rubbing lightly to create some semblance of warmth. Leonardo tries to bring up his knees as he lays in his overly comfortable bed filled with downy pillows and heavy cotton sheets, tries to find a way to double the thickness of his quilt; everything is cold now—he is cold now. He tries to smile at the blossoming cherry tree outside his window, its flowers and scent perfuming the air outside—outside.
Leonardo cannot go outside. He is frail bodied and tired, now.
He is dying.
He had written Ezio a letter scant weeks ago, telling him to come and visit—he had accepted his own mortality and wanted to see his dearest friend before he died.
He coughed a series of hacking, painful, dry coughs, unable to fight miniature beads of tears that bordered his clouded eyes. He tried to breathe normally again; funny how before, it was he who knew every way to heal and restore people and himself.
Now he lay on a bed, waiting for his hour to come.
He remembered the times he and Ezio shared together: he had been an unwavering column of dependability to Ezio when they were especially young, then it was Leonardo's turn to depend on Ezio.
(Truth be told, the order never reversed again.)
He remembered the times Ezio had saved him: from the Florentine guards, the Borgia, the hooded loons called Hermetecists, simple thieves, even; Ezio had always come to his rescue.
What had he to show for it?
'He was my friend,' he told himself, voice creaky from under use. 'And that's what matters.'
He affirmed this in his mind: yes, he was his friend. He was his dearest friend.
And yet he moved to Franc, despite all he'd done to protect him. He'd moved to a foreign land where his craft could be appreciated; in the process he'd lost Ezio.
He remembers the last time they met, it was a few days before he embarked on the trip to Amboise.
'Let me come with you,' said Ezio.
'But you must care for your Brotherhood,' reasoned Leonardo. 'You are no longer a simple assassino—you are now Il Mentore. The order… It needs you.' he refused to let slip 'but not more than I do, for fear of sounding selfish.
Now he wished he'd let Ezio come along; what few memories they'd had that they were genuinely happy were overshadowed by the fact that they occured thirty years ago.
Leonardo pulled his quilt higher. The cold seeped through to his bones not to long ago; as much as he'd like to think it was just his imagination, the chill deep within him kept reminding him that the grains of sand in his hourglass were running out.
He stared out the window. Outside—dear god he wanted to be there—outside, the sun was shining, the wind just humid enough to carry the scent of lilies and cherry and sweet pea and rose, birds of any and every colour and specie hovering overhead, the horizon looking closer than ever. He could make out shadows coming closer from the lime of the horizon; he wanted to think that the shadows were falling so that Ezio could travel in shade.
The clouds advanced and advanced and advanced toward him until he could not see them anymore; he felt silly for thinking messages could travel so fast.
He rustled in his sheets, trying to turn to his side without hurting his hunched back. In doing so he faced a mirror, which caught without mercy the ugly lines and wrinkles on his face, his beard unkempt and greying, formerly fair toned skin turned into a faded pallor. He had lost his youthful features a long time ago: his eyes went first, clouding until he could see but limited splotches of things, then his hands, then the rest of him followed. Nature was cruel that way, taking away from him the privilege of seeing and creating.
He looked out again: this time he saw everything he couldn't have.
He did not realize it but he had begun to cry.
He was dying, that much he knew. And that Ezio most definitely was never going to come in time. He was losing the world and his friend and everything he once was; he was lost and there was nobody around to help him see that his legacy, his life, his friendship and everything else he left behind was beautiful.
Leonardo was sobbing and coughing loudly and dryly and painfully; he was leaving already.
He coughed and sobbed and tried with mangled hands to wipe his tears away.
He slowed his breathing and tried to calm down.
'Tranquilla,' he told himself.
'Tranquilla,' he whispered, the word coming out as a strangled puff of air as he breathed his last.