In the dead of night, when the whole world slept, Leonardo watched his son huddled in his favourite chair, looking into the crackling flame in the fireplace as untold horror flooded through his eyes, and washed all that had been pure and innocent in a deep, bloody glow.

Two days ago, he had just been a little boy with an odd hobby. His life revolved around lessons and preparation for a future that might have never happened. The only odd thing about Fee, other than his lack of rowdiness and his wide, kind eyes, was the way he had come to live the comfortable life of an artist's son.

But that was over now. All sense of comfort was gone, all sense of belonging vanished, and for the first time in his life Fiorentino felt like a bastardo. The fire he sat in front provided no warmth. In the flames, all he could see were the guard's cold, dead eyes, staring up at him as the bloody pool became more like a tar that would swallow the body whole.

"Fee…" Leonardo tried to find words that would comfort him. But when his son raised his head and fixed him with a silent stare, the artist fell silent, realising that nothing could banish the horror from his mind.

There was a moment in which all was still. The firelight crawled over the room to chase dark shadows into the corners, where they lingered as though to taunt the boy. Leonardo had lit some candles, but these mingled and were lost to the stronger light thrown out by the fireplace, and so no one noticed their soft and unobtrusive glow.

Then; "Am I a bad person, Maestro?"

"No," he replied without hesitation, "Not at all."

"Then why do I feel like one?"

"Because your nature was never meant for this path, Fee. But sometimes, we're victims of circumstance, and caged by the times."

Fiorentino comprehended what he said for a moment. As he brought his knees closer to him and clasped his hands together, Leonardo thought he was trying to make himself as small as possible, like he could disappear into thin air if only he were smaller.

"It was never your fault, Fee. You did what you had to do to survive. They would have executed you."

"So instead, I executed him." The boy opened his hand again, and the bloodied blade appeared as a dark silhouette in front of the fire. He turned it, reliving the horror in his mind. "It was worse than a hanging would have been. He died by my hand. He…would still be alive, were it not for this blade."

It disappeared again with the sound of sheathing metal. Fiorentino pulled his hand back to his body once more and stared into the flickering flames, which were slowly dying, the logs deep within disintegrating into ash.

Leonardo had no idea what to say. He had hoped Fee would be much older when it was his turn to assassinate, if he had to at all. But an eight year old boy? Eight years old, and already with such a damning experience to haunt his mind?

"It hasn't changed you."

Fee looked up. His eyes were dull, but still kind, as though it was something intrinsic that couldn't be squashed in one night, perhaps not ever.

"What happened tonight hasn't changed you," Leonardo repeated, rising slowly from the table stool to walk over to him, "At least, not in my eyes. You're still Fee. Il mio gentile Fee."

As he approached the chair, his mind mused that Fiorentino shrunk away, terrified to be touched in his disturbed state. When he crouched down to the boy's eye-level, though, there was no hiding himself; just a desperate plea in his eyes that never quite reached his mouth.

"I killed today," he reminded him, as if he needed the reminder.

"And Ezio kills every day – still, I remain his friend, not because I have to, but because I believe in my heart that he's not a bad person inside. His actions are born out of love."

"My actions were born from misjudgement."

"No, that they were not. If you had allowed yourself to be arrested, and then executed, my heart would have withered and my love would be dead with you. There's no such thing as an absolute right or wrong, Fee; a questionable act can lead to a good consequence much the same as it can lead to a bad one."

The boy shook his head as he tried to understand all that Leonardo was telling him. He had believed, in the childish manner, that there were no questions when it came to morality. Good men would do good things, and it would lead to goodness. Bad men did bad things, and that would lead to evil. Now his father, the best man he knew, was telling him things were not always so black and white.

"I don't understand."

Leonardo smiled and ruffled his hair; "It's hard, but you will. Just remember what I've told you, and this."

The boy leaned forward as his father lowered his voice. It was as though he was imparting a secret that wasn't meant for human ears – he half-turned his face away to check the door, and peered at Fee with his left eye just a little closer than his right, hand up with index and thumb pressed together as he gave him a surreptitious smile.

"No matter what happens, no matter who comes into our life and tries to make a mess of things, you will always, always be my son. Do you understand?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Fee nodded.

Leonardo stood up, ruffling his son's hair once more as he languidly moved back to his chair.

A shadow across the window caught there attention, and when a frantic knocking sounded at the door Fiorentino was certain he had been found. Someone had seen him fleeing from the body. He was unafraid as Leonardo went to answer it; it was a life for a life, murder met by retribution, and he was ready to accept his fate for what he had done to Ambrosi.

But when the artist let the door swing open, there was no battalion. It seemed for a split second that there was only darkness. But then he saw a silhouette almost black in the small alcove the entrance was built into.

Ezio had returned.

"Grazie, Leonardo, for the use of your machine," he said to the artist as he strode in, his manner quiet and subdued, when he noticed the little boy huddled in the chair; "And you, Fee. If it weren't for your quick feet, I never would have gone as far as I did."

Leonardo noticed the difference in his friend's air. There was something off; the hunched shoulders and the angry glint in his eyes, even the smell of regret and anguish.

"But I suppose it didn't go as planned?"

Ezio managed a weary smile; "Leonardo, you know me too well. The Doge was killed, but I was able to avenge him, at the very least."

"So our mission was in vain."

Fiorentino slouched back in his chair with a look of unmasked defeat. It was one of the first times Ezio had seen him like it, for his usual passive nature was always presented in a smile or a straight face, with mistrust lingering in the recesses.

"I don't understand-"

"Ezio," the assassin turned back to his friend, who moved until his shoulder was at his chest and his lips were closer to his ear; "There was a guard."

A moment's pause, and then the news clicked. Ezio turned in shock as he realised what must have happened; the eight year old had come across trouble during his journey and, in the face of prosecution, had had to defend himself. It was…horrific. Not that someone had died, but by the hand of someone so young, someone with such an abhorrence for violence.

"Fee…I'm sorry."

The boy didn't look up from the fire.

"If I had known you would be seen or caught, I would never…" the assassin let his words trail off. What could be said? The damage was done. Fiorentino's actions would stain his mind forever, like the death of his family stained Ezio's, and misdeeds gone by stained Leonardo's.

"What's done is done," Fiorentino's voice caught their attention, the dark bulk of his body shifting in his chair; "I killed a man."

It was Ezio's turn to be silent.

"My training is tomorrow. I suppose now, there's no other path for me. I'm an assassino."

Leonardo wanted so to tell him that one mistake didn't mean his future, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood beside his friend in a muted, shocked state, hands holding one another as he swayed imperceptibly on his feet.

The boy looked up at them, that dull horror in his eyes as he muttered; "Our order is a noble one. Our methods…not so."