One | Altaïr Can't Swim (it's a trending tag on AO3)

[eaglesonofnone]

WHO: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
WHERE: South Village fountain
WHEN: Beginning October 28
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants to find a half-drowned and confused Assassin.
WARNINGS: Arabic cursing. (Both cursing in Arabic and an Arabic man cursing.)

---

Water.

It would permanently be his bane.

He had expected his afterlife to be anything but that, if he was to have one at all. After all he'd seen, he'd more suspected that after death came nothing. A lack of existence. An ending, and nothing more. If he ascribed to the Christian notions, he would surely be relegated to their hell for the lives he'd taken, and for a moment, it occurred to him that this was it. A form of eternal torment by the water filling his lungs, his hands finding no purchase. Was he to spend the rest of time dying over and over again in water?

But his body had panicked for him. Fighting against the water, struggling, flailing wildly and completely without skill. He could feel his lungs burning from what he'd inhaled before he'd begun to hold his breath, the ache of a cough wanting to break free but he knew that if he opened his mouth, only more water would rush in--

He coughed. His lungs filled further, and fear took hold of his heart. No. No, he could not spend eternity this way, dying again and again with what looked like sky past the water's surface. Again, he coughed. His lungs were getting heavier, his vision dimmer. No!

And then--

And then, even in the depths, he could breathe, except it... it wasn't breathing. Water was still passing into him, but his vision began to clear and his limbs felt less sluggish and his mind slowly climbed away from the base reactions of survival toward true and rational thought.

He was breathing water. How?

His mind sought reasons, but with his calm came buoyancy. He began to rise toward the surface, a hand reaching out toward the nearest wall, touching stone, able to use it to push upward, and when he broke free and took hold of the stone with his entire arms, he bent over it. He coughed once, twice, water pouring from his mouth and nose in a painful rush, but then he was breathing air. Clear, cool air.

Willpower pulled him over the edge, onto the ground, where he laid on his stomach and relished the simple act of breathing. He'd been short of breath for years, coughing with any exertion, but never had it felt so horrible as that. "Al'ama," he groaned, head turned sideways to rest on the ground before, with excruciating slowness, he pushed himself up to sit. "'Ana kabir fi alsini lihadha."

Comments

[eaglesonofnone]

"The ability I had was rare even amongst my Brotherood. I believe I was the only one in recent knowledge to have it," Altaïr said, having to weigh his words. What she'd said had its merit: He did tend to take care with his answers and his words, and for good reason. His position was precarious at best. Here, he didn't know if he was surrounded by Templars or if the situation was brought about by a Piece of Eden. He didn't have enough knowledge to judge.

But she seemed honest and earnest in her way. He would give her a small amount of trust, prefaced by, "I ask that you tell none of this. I don't doubt they will learn in time if they show themselves worth the trust. But for now, I tell only you: I had the ability to judge others' intentions toward me by sight alone."

[championofsnark]

Hawke does love hearing secrets. She's excellent at keeping them too. She has a treasure trove of secrets she keeps for her friends and from them. Varric knows most of her own, her only real confessional of a sort, but that's how they are together. She would still not share with him what was told to her, nor would he ask her. There's been a few exceptions to that rule, when someone's life was at risk. So she understands he's trying to let her in on something and nods, somberly, to indicate she can take it.

The ability is a fascinating one, and her eyes widen and then narrow. "So you looked at someone, and you could tell if they wanted to kill you or not?" So he could strike first in that case, although Hawke stops from saying that just in case he's not someone who likes taking advantage of something so helpful. Sometimes she's aware that the way she talks about fighting makes it seem like she's a psychopath. "That is a handy power. Was it just toward you or toward anyone?"

[eaglesonofnone]

"Only toward myself or the cause I fought for," he clarified. "I could see if they intended me harm or help, or if they needed dealing with directly. I could see if I could trust them - and that, here, I miss." But then, after an exhale, he shook his head. "I will have to learn to cope without it.

"But for now, the air grows chill and my clothing is still wet. Is there a place I might dry? Perhaps change clothing into some that haven't been soaked?"