She was a fount of words, he was finding, one subject after another in rapid succession, and though he listened, he also thought - because a few things weren't quite coming together.
He had lived for many years. His hair and his beard were both white, he knew, and yet she declared he didn't look old. When he stood, drawn by hands that felt like a fighter's rather than the hands of a woman whose days were usually spent cooking or washing, he found that parts of him that he had grown used to hurting simply did not. And that was what possessed him to look at his own hands - five fingers and four, as expected, but he could no longer see the bones at his knuckles or have wrinkles across the backs. His fingers didn't look too long anymore, and his arms, where his sleeves were too short, had muscle instead of paper-thin skin.
His brows drew together, and though she introduced herself, he held up a hand once he was standing of his own power. "A moment, Shabbah." And then he took the single step over to the fountain, to look at his own reflection in the calming water, and what he saw had his eyes going wide. He lifted a hand to his cheek, finding his beard black, his hair black. In the water, he could see no lines around his eyes, his mouth, none across his forehead.
He extended his arms, looking at them, seeing the muscle there, the idle strength waiting to be used that he had taken for granted until fighting the Mongols-- "Ya Ibn il Sharmouta," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Apple has outdone itself."
But then, exhaling a deep breath, he turned to his new acquaintance and gave a nod of respect, hand at his chest. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. And until I found myself in this fountain, I was a man of ninety-two years, all of which showed."
no subject
He had lived for many years. His hair and his beard were both white, he knew, and yet she declared he didn't look old. When he stood, drawn by hands that felt like a fighter's rather than the hands of a woman whose days were usually spent cooking or washing, he found that parts of him that he had grown used to hurting simply did not. And that was what possessed him to look at his own hands - five fingers and four, as expected, but he could no longer see the bones at his knuckles or have wrinkles across the backs. His fingers didn't look too long anymore, and his arms, where his sleeves were too short, had muscle instead of paper-thin skin.
His brows drew together, and though she introduced herself, he held up a hand once he was standing of his own power. "A moment, Shabbah." And then he took the single step over to the fountain, to look at his own reflection in the calming water, and what he saw had his eyes going wide. He lifted a hand to his cheek, finding his beard black, his hair black. In the water, he could see no lines around his eyes, his mouth, none across his forehead.
He extended his arms, looking at them, seeing the muscle there, the idle strength waiting to be used that he had taken for granted until fighting the Mongols-- "Ya Ibn il Sharmouta," he muttered, shaking his head. "The Apple has outdone itself."
But then, exhaling a deep breath, he turned to his new acquaintance and gave a nod of respect, hand at his chest. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. And until I found myself in this fountain, I was a man of ninety-two years, all of which showed."