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

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

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."

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It hasn't been that long since Ashley herself surfaced in that water, dragging herself up from the depths unable to breathe and panicking over what she left behind.

It is also when she realized she had gained some kind of power when she found herself falling from the fountain rather than hauling herself out as someone seems to be doing now.

At least that's her assumption when an arm comes up over the edge of the fountain. Dropping the bag of vegetables she's been out gathering with hopes of harvesting local crops in her backyard, she rushes to the fountain as she sees someone in a puddle moving to sit up beside the fountain.

Not the people she has been watching for, her mother especially but that doesn't change that she is there to try and help much as she can, dropping to kneel beside him. Dressed in a ragtag collection of items from storage including yoga pants and a jacket made from a zebra striped snuggie.

"Of course, a language I barely know," she sighs, canting her head to try and see his eyes, hoping he's breathing. "Tell me you speak English?"

Maybe it's wishful thinking, but she has to try.

Breathing, yes - deep, full breaths with occasional coughs, with what appears to be gills fading back into his skin on each side of his neck. He was wearing a shade of pinkish purple that didn't really suit him, his skin fading back to a more normal, natural shade instead of the paleness his brush with death had given him.

And when he heard a voice, he looked up, met her eyes with his own proving to be amber-yellow, and was immediately aware of three things: he was not in Masyaf, let alone his library; the young woman speaking to him was European, most likely British though her accent didn't match; and his vision was clearer than it had been in years. All three of these things were confusing, each in their own right, but the first thing to address, he decided, was the worry in the woman's voice.

"Yes," he half-croaked, having to clear his voice but then managing to say more clearly, "Yes, I do speak English. And I am... recovering from that ordeal." He motioned toward the water - a fountain, he belatedly saw - with a four-fingered hand. A fountain with surroundings so far from anything he was used to in his life that he looked about with a sort of wonder. Perhaps he would have to lend some credence to the idea of an afterlife after all. "I will be fine, given time. Shukran-- that is to say, thank you."

Druitt has never been terribly interested in languages as a whole. Not the way Helen has, at the very least. But he knows just enough to recognize that Altaïr's speaking Arabic, even if he doesn't exactly understand quite what the other man is saying. (He can makes guesses, yes, but those are based more on his overall tone of voice as opposed to any actual understanding.)

"It's certainly not the most enjoyable of arrivals."

This is offered with the briefest of nods. True, he's not aware of Altaïr's problems with regards to water. But it doesn't take much to see that he hasn't exactly enjoyed his little dunk in the fountain either. And perhaps somewhat more so than most people who have arrived in a similar manner. A moment later, it occurs to him that he might as well offer a little more assistance.

"And I don't suppose you'd care for a hand?"

If Altaïr would prefer to get up on his own, Druitt is hardly about to complain. But the offer is there all the same, should he want to take Druitt up on it.

A rough nod, a few drips of water escaping on a cough, and Altaïr lifted his hand - his right, with all of its fingers intact - in acceptance. "This old man thanks you," he managed, still trying to assemble pieces of this current puzzle. His appearance was... less than graceful, which was no surprise anymore. How often had Darim had to help him out of bed when the seasons changed? But now, on the ground, he would definitely need the aid. His knees didn't--

...His knees were bent nearly double. In pants a colour he had never before seen. But more, his knees didn't ache.

Altaïr's brows drew together in confusion as more pieces were added to this puzzle without any yet being connected.

Hawke spent a little time every single day sitting by the place she came out of. She knows there is no real point. She knows waiting doesn't make people come through, and also that it's selfish to even hope for it. But she's very honest with herself about her knack for selfish choices when adrift. Still, she sits by the water, using a knife to cut her own arrows since she plans on going scouting later and start a hunting ground. It's the least she can do after eating more food than she probably should, after a little too long on the roads without ready food.

Her head picks up when she hears the coughing, and stands entirely when she sees the man climb out. It's a questionable moment for her, willing to help someone out, but also having to remember that the last thing she wants is to be shanked by a stranger. Oh well. She sets the knife and arrow back into her makeshift belt and gives him a moment to recover on his own. Not that she's known for being silent for long.

"Ana ... kabir ... yourself?" Hawke doesn't know the language, and she's momentarily concerned that he'll struggle to understand the folks here. Except she's been told none of them are technically speaking the same tongue as her either. "Hello! Sorry. I have no idea how to make this moment any less awkward." She decides hovering over him is a bad idea, so she sits down again, cross legged. "Deep breaths, that's the last of your drowning experience for today."

Wanda had been heading between the inn and her home when the echoes of splashing water filled the shell of her hear. Arado barked and ran over towards the fountain with Wanda running at his heels. She saw the man pull himself up and over the edge of the fountain, coughing well water in the process.

"Here." She placed her palm onto his back and gently pushed the large dog away from his face. "Sitzen" Wanda spoke to the dog and he stepped back and sat, waiting for the next command. Clint had trained the dog which meant that all of the command words had been in German.

"Breathe. Steady. Are you okay?"

Wanda knew a few languages but most were countries around Sokovia and she didn't know what he was saying.

"Thank whatever gods may exist."

It's less a statement and more of a mutter as he pushes himself a little farther, up to his hands and knees. It helps with getting the last of the water from his lungs - but then he slowly sinks back down to one hip. He feels breathless. Dizzy. There are golden motes before his eyes, and he's uncertain as to what to do about them except hope he won't lose consciousness. And after a few moments, everything seems to stabilise. Even the gills that had formed below and behind his ears on his neck faded away to make it all the easier for him to breathe.

Still, he feels sore - and that is when he motions to her, a hand extended. "Please. Help an old man off the ground."

"Okay, good, that's a start." She takes a breath herself, exhaling slowly as if guiding. Not that he seems to need it. "I'm going to ask if you're hurt, but you can just nod. I mean, coming up out of those depths, it's nervewracking."

She's dealt with a lot of things, but waking up drowning just left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Take all the time you need," she says, shifting where she's kneeling, trying not to loom over him. Not that she truly does with her size, and dressed as she is. "If you need it, there's a medical clinic but I know a bit of first aid. Mostly field work."

But she suspects it will be useful over time.

"When you're up to it though there's a inn, and your bag there should have dry clothes in it." She knew that had gone a long way to helping her get her head straight. After she armed herself and bolted to try and find a friend.

Between the dog, the language, the accent - his first thought was of some of the men in Acre where he'd met Maria, and the moment... ached. But then she was asking and he was trying to soothe her concern with a soft, "I am recovering, Shabbah; do not worry over me."

But he wouldn't lie: it was nice to be worried over a little. Much the same way Darim had. And Tazim. Good boys, both of them.

But here, he was most sure he would need to fall into the part of the old man he was. The English were still not always friends, nor were those from the rest of Europe, no matter how he'd traveled. He had to be cautious first, even if some things couldn't be hidden. Not everyone would know what it meant for a man to be missing a finger on his left hand.

"Breathing has been.... harder of late than before, and the coughing is--" But he stopped himself as he spoke. Breathing was not so hard now, was it, now that the water was gone. His brows lowered slightly as the realisation came.

"This seems like advice you've given before," he answered, breath finally caught. He would need to get up before long, soaked as these oddly-coloured clothes were, shedding a near pool around him where he sat. "This isn't the first such... occasion, then. People appearing in this fountain."

It was an easier question to ask than any of the others swimming in his mind. Where this was, what was happening, where his robes had gone. He lifted a hand and found his head uncovered, something that made him frown, but he would survive. Malik had eschewed the cowl after losing his arm. Altaïr had only barely done so after his beard had gone fully white.

But this young woman was in clothing unlike any he'd seen. Her accent was nothing like the English who occupied the countryside, and especially not the French who had accompanied them.

He would have a flood of questions later.

Bull had been passing by the fountain on his way back to his house with a load of firewood on his back when he had seen the commotion of a new arrival but there had been plenty of people there and he knows he can be intimidating to most people so he holds off until it looks like they got the new arrival taken care of. He drops the wood off at his cabin and then heads for the inn, it was around lunch time anyway and he might as well see if this new arrival was someone he knows.

He steps inside the inn and looks for the face he doesn't know and then heads for him. "Hello there."

((OOC: I figured it was best not to crowd him at the fountain so I assumed he got to the inn at some point. If that doesn't work, let me know and I'll write up something else. ))

[OOC: That's fine with me!]

Once he'd been directed to the inn, that, at least, was simple enough for him to work through. After finding a bit of privacy, he had dried off, changed into the set of clothing in the pack he'd found nearby - the colour was still odd, but if it was dress in this shade or go naked, he'd dress, even if it seemed... not enough. He'd grown used to layers in his old age.

Of course, he had also grown used to old age. Being young again was more than a surprise, and one he was still adjusting to, looking down at his hands and seeing strength instead of frailty. He had heard an approach, but he had expected... Not what he saw. As Altaïr looked up, and then further up, one thing certainly became clear:

"If I had any remaining doubts that I have left the Levant, they have just been erased."

"I have no idea what or where that is, but I take it that is not somewhere with Qunari." He gestures to himself as he moves to sit down.

"You were the one who came out of the fountain not that long ago?" He offers his hand. "I am The Iron Bull."

A word and definition to remember: Qunari. Giants with horns and skin that resembles stone. The Apple had never shown him the like - which, to him, meant that there was no such people in the world from which he'd came. The structure of the word felt familiar, which was interesting, but sometimes, a coincidence was a coincidence.

"I am," he said, and though he did offer a gesture in return, it wasn't a handshake. It was the clasp of his arm, though his hand couldn't encircle this giant's the way it could a fellow human's. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. But to judge by the form of your name, perhaps I am better called Eagle, Son of No One."

Bull smiles and the clasp and quickly changes his grip to adjust for it. He likes it.

"Shanedan, Altaïr." He says the name with the tone of someone who speaks a similar language and the qunlat word before it gives the whole thing away.

"It is more a title. I chose it when I moved to the human lands since the title I had before wouldn't make much sense to them. Qunari don't have names, not the way you do. We have a title based on our job."

'Shabbah' Her brow furrowed at the name and Wanda logged it away for later.

The man was coughing but stringing together coherent sentences. He was probably fine but Wanda was going to stand sentry anyway. "I can't help but worry." Her lips twitched into a light smile. "It's a bad habit."

"You were in the well. It's how we're all brought here. It should get easier." Wanda removed her hand from his back and sat back, waiting for the stranger to rise on his own. Arado was being a good dog and standing back though he released a short little whine of protest at not being allowed to help.

"You're somewhere new. I don't know where it is but it's on an island."

Hawke springs back up and takes his hand without question. She's both lithe and sturdy, strength in her arms from carrying a bow and callouses all over her hands. "You? Old?" She laughs. "I have a few friends who would grimace if they knew you considered yourself an old man." It's not that he looks young precisely, but she knows old folks. She can almost hear Varric's droll commentary on the matter. Somehow Hawke herself manages to look young, or vaguely around her age, but the scars and eyes tell a different story. Survival against all odds has a way of wearing on anyone.

"You'd think the people behind whatever this is would pick a nicer way of introducing us. Hello, welcome to this giant lush cage we've put you in, make friends, stay alive, watch out for the drowning and the wild weather and monsters." Hawke read up at the inn. Mostly she skimmed and got bored, but she does have an eye for the dangerous notes. "Oh! I'm an idiot. Also I'm Hawke. Hello."

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."

He didn't try to stand. Not yet. It was as if time had taught him not to, with the way he looked around, and then extended a hand toward the fountain. "I knew I would be somewhere else, but I did not think I would find myself in water. I have never bothered to learn to swim; I have never needed to. And so of course the afterlife finds me on an island."

There was a little softness, kindness in his eyes, even a touch of amusement, even if his expression only hinted at a smile. But there was thought there, too. His breathing was easier. What of the rest? With the hand at the fountain's side, he took hold and started to pull until he was on his feet. His arm felt... strong. And when he looked at it and saw youth instead of the age he'd gained, that softness faded in favour of further confusion.

"As-salāmu ʿalaykum," he answered. "It seems odd to me, to take away someone's name in favour of their purpose - but that is something I shouldn't protest. More people have called me Mentor for the last years rather than my own name. Perhaps the practice is not so alien as I first thought.

"But I wonder. If you chose the title 'The Iron Bull' to reflect your work, what sort of work is it that requires an iron bull?"

If he looked closely, there was a bit of humour in Altaïr's face, mostly at the corners of his eyes and a bit around his mouth, one corner slightly tightened, as if almost ready to smile.

"Well-" Her lips curled together as he slowly rose to his feet. "You aren't dead yet."

Wanda gave him space to rise though she hoovered close in case he decided to take a sudden fall. He looked heavy but Wanda was ready to catch him anyway. She was stronger than she appeared and could at least stop him from cracking his head onto the stone pavement.

"How are you feeling?"

Probably not well but he looked worried.

"I am dead," he gently corrected, his voice kind and patient - older, it seemed, than his face. "Before I was in that fountain, I was a man of ninety-two years. My lungs and heart were weak. I knew my time was short. Hours, if not minutes. I know I am dead - but I didn't expect to find youth waiting for me again."

He clenched his hands, turned them over to see, and he very nearly laughed. Youth. Wet, nearly drowned youth - but.... life. A second try. But memories came, vague hopes that he only barely dared admit, but he had to know. "Is there a woman here - Maria? A young man named Sef? Malik? Or Abbas Sofian?"

He had outlived too many others. And with his past, he knew better than to truly hope they would be here, but he needed to ask.

Wanda shook her head. "No." She exhaled a slow breath and thought passively of Steve and how jarring it had been for him to wake up from the ice. This was more confusing than that but the sentiment felt similar.

"I am not dead, nor are the people here. There are about fifty of us, give or take." The number has been fluctuating recently. "No one of that name but if they're here then they would have passed through the inn. Most new people end up there for a time to get used to this place."

She pointed at the large inn-like building behind her.

An inn. That, at least, he was familiar with. This mode of dress, her accent, so much greenery surrounding the village - all of that was still alien. But the concept of an inn was simple. He nodded with respectful gratitude. "Thank you, Shabbah. A dry, warm place will be good following that... unfortunate beginning."

Dry. Warm. Perhaps with just a cup full of water to ease a throat raw from coughing. The thought came to him of honey, but he decided his luck had been pressed as far as it could be without becoming demanding.

Her brow furrows together and she waved a hand to release Arado from her command. "Shabbah? What does that mean?" As Wanda asked her question. The large dog walked up to the stranger and wagged his tail with a bright happy smile. "This is Arado. I didn't want him to crowd you while you were trying to breath but he likes meeting new people."

She turned towards the inn and lead him through the front door. Altair will notice that Arado continued to pad happily at his side while Wanda walked ahead. The pair had been together for a long time and Wanda didn't have to worry about the dog misbehaving.

"I can find you something to eat or drink?"

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

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