By the time Altaïr, barely a teenager, reaches the northern city in America, it is already the dead of winter.
Snow blankets every inch of the place, and Altaïr likens it to the only thing he remembers from his restless days in Syria: the ochre sands of the silent deserts, the ones that stretch for miles beyond the sky-kissing towers of the compound. The Compound, a cut-off section of tin and stone training boys to become killers, a dilapidated matriarch raising orphaned terrorists who will slaughter mercilessly for the sake of the Law, the Way, and the Truth.
This icy chaos, though, is not like the sands, and after his initial surprise at being capsulated in the powdery stuff, Altaïr's awe turns quickly to revulsion and loathing. Stepping out of the forest of concrete and into the open expanse of white park, he meets the wind head on, and it bites through what little clothing clings to his lean and wiry body.
In the city, it's cold, and it's dark, and it's quiet.
Tired from hunger, tired from running, he seeks refuge on a park bench, curls himself inward on it, inward into himself where the faint thrum of his heart (survive, survive, survive) is the only thing that can warm him. An ember in his soul, burning as bright as his eyes glow, keeps him alive just long enough to be found. It's destiny, or fate. It's something he can't quite grasp just yet.
The man melts out of the cold air like a black phantom, dressed from head to toe in the most expensive three piece suit ever made, and Altaïr, as he looks up, thinks he may be fond of the red tie perched over the black shirt and vest. Kneeling, the man's knees creak, but the sound is muffled by the snowy wind, and a hand is extended soon, a glove removed, the backs of a few fingers brushing Altaïr's feverish and blue skin below the scraggly hair. Snow has settled itself in a little blanket over Altaïr's body, and the man casually sweeps it away.
Time is distorted then, and Altaïr thinks later, when he opens his eyes finally, that he has maybe died. He's in the back of a car, in the lap of the man from earlier, the man who may be God. "Ezio," the man whispers. Altaïr believes suddenly that this may really be God, one who knows his blurred thoughts without effort, and he only half understands what this name could mean.
He knows he should be worried, but somehow he isn't. The man is warm, inviting, cradling him like a child, and the car is warm, and all Altaïr can think before the drowsy and fuzzy heat takes him again is that, if this is death, it's not so bad.