They had checked every body.
Every single last body had been turned and checked, inspected within an inch of their life, and yet they were sure of it. Ettore's cold, lifeless eyes watched them from his pool of blood, neck slashed, mouth open in a silent scream as the trio went about their work.
Fiorentino was not among them. He was not a corpse or survivor; in fact, he had just vanished. Not a trace remained of him other than the thirty something guards with armour washed with crimson, and their weapons sprawled out at sporadic intervals as though they had been dropped in surprise.
"It's no use," Ezio sighed, rolling one of the lifeless heaps back into place; "He's not here."
"Where would he have gone to, Ezio? Davvero, he should have been waiting for us outside." Leonardo's calm voice was a guise for his worry. His heart had dropped when he saw the bodies, piled high and killed with an almost cruel precision, while what little adrenaline remained from the chase made sure to keep him standing.
It was determination that gave him the will to sort through them. As each face revealed to be someone other than his son, hope bloomed in his chest, flowering when he discovered Ettore propped up against one of the cells – all the proof he needed to think Fee successful.
"Perhaps he left to search for us?" Gian suggested, though his face had paled somewhat at the sight of the dead bodies and he steadied himself against the wall; "It would hardly be the first time he's done something like that."
"No…no, he knew we would return. I felt it. If he wanted us to find him, he would be right here." The artist staggered, finding a small seat left by one of the now-dead guards some days before, and sat on it with distraught eyes. In his mind, he worked out all the possibilities for his son to have fled. He had been victorious in his fight with Ettore, ruthless in his battle with the guards, a killer amongst lambs…
"Leonardo…" he looked up to see Ezio's eyes, so reflective of what had happened, and yet, filled with a sort of newfound wisdom, as though Fiorentino's suffering had given to his uncle an insight; "Perhaps…perhaps he…"
There was certainly a chance. Many times, Fiorentino had spoken of escape. He had described how he wished to walk free of his restraints, how he wished to feel the wind on his face and the sun kiss his cheeks. He longed to walk as a free man without fear of what lurked in the shadows, for it was him, his face that loomed there, like a demon in the darkness. Men's minds, he once said, had tainted what was beautiful. Instead of mountains, he saw arrows. Instead of clouds, he saw cover. And instead of people, so profound in their shapes and sizes, so unique in themselves that they were more like valuable statuettes, he saw knives, swords and shields, marching into war with prams still at their feet.
Had he finally turned tail and run?
"No, it can't be," the artist denied; "He would never leave me without warning. Never. I can't believe he would do such a thing."
"He asked for his life to end here," Gian pointed out, "He wanted to die. Perhaps he thought this was like death? Una bara per l'assassino."
Leonardo thought back. His son had looked so miserable, so defeated when last they met. A few hours before, when the trio had escaped and found refuge near the canals, where they sat in stony silence until they felt it was safe to return, those eyes haunted him. They were sapped not only of energy, but the will to carry on. One look at Fee, and he had almost suspected his son would lose his fight on purpose, just to feel death's cold embrace take him and make things quiet again.
But Ettore was dead. He had been killed, his neck slashed open like a ripe fruit, and his blood left to pool. If there were any last rites for him, they were not evident. Fiorentino had either done them hastily or in mind.
Ezio came to sit beside his friend. He crouched, head low, as though contemplating himself were his dear nephew could have flown to.
"We will give search," he decided; "Starting here, we'll work our way around Florence until he is returned to us. I won't have-"
"No, Ezio," Leonardo sighed; "You will never find him."
Two pairs of eyes rose to the artist. His voice was tired, like an old man's, and his figure slumped, so devoid of his usual etiquette that he resembled nothing of the man they were used to.
"Of course we will. Sì – we must. How else will he come back to us?"
Leonardo looked down. In his eyes, Ezio caught sight of unfathomable despair, so intense that in its very existence it sent shivers down his spine. It was silent, too, like a mourning bird with no voice to sing, and no wings to lift it in the air.
"He won't. Don't you see? He has left us."
"No, Leonardo; you can't think like that. Fee belongs with you."
"That he does," he smiled weakly, "but I can do little about it now. My boy is a free agent. If he wants to come back to me, he will. If not, I will never see him again."
A stab of pain took his heart at those words. He could never imagine looking upon the floors of the Villa without remembering Fee's footsteps, or the walls where some of his artwork dangled, edited and redrawn by Leonardo himself. He could never see a child without seeing his round-headed baby giggling at him, teetering on unsteady feet towards a table, a chair. It was impossible.
"Do you need anything, my friend?" Ezio asked, though it felt like a foolish question, for what could he do?
"No, Ezio, grazie. I think I just need some time."
With a nod of his head, the assassin moved, ready to begin the tedious work of body disposal. He would perhaps tie them up, give them the proper rites and burial, all with the help of the blanched apprentice that still recovered from the shock of finding dead. They would work in a tense silence, too, for they had naught to say to each other, nothing in common but a chance occurrence which had brought them on their quest.
For Leonardo, there was nothing but thought. A quiet contemplation of what had happened, and what would happen next. He thought of his son and the man he could have become; the opportunities he had and could never have again, which now seemed to be useless memories of a boy they could not bury, for he was not dead, but no more was he alive.
As the final rays of lasting sunlight died, Leonardo thought of the son who had vanished without warning, and would likely never return.
