Five | As I had for her

[eaglesonofnone]

WHO: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
WHERE: Near his home, then the Inn
WHEN: Dec 21
OPEN TO: Initial discovery, Jacob Frye; then OTA
WARNINGS: Blood, death, severe depressive thoughts

---

He died thinking you had betrayed him:

He made it a habit not to stay too long in his house, even on days when he wasn't on a specific patrol. The village was a busy place in its own rights, even with winter setting in. He was worried about people being caught by the mice, worried about people not being able to get out, or avoiding the outdoors due to weather. Perhaps he was overconcerned, but he wanted to be certain everyone had food and water, that their homes were warm and they weren't giving in to the lack of sun.

He wasn't far from his own home, having wandered over to glance at the working of the forge, when he felt the little buzz of a notification on the odd device around his wrist. With curiosity, he tapped at it, having learned enough now to work it - but what he saw there left him nearly breathless.

The bald youth - his name had been Swami. Even now, he was uncharitable enough to think him ugly, especially with the sharp shadows cast over his face from the Apple's golden light. The little device spoke with Maria's voice, her face coming into view from the side - just as he remembered it. "Altaïr! No!" she cried, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and it was enough to break his fury, to make his anger waver, and the Apple's light waned just enough for Swami's knife to move from where he was raising it to his throat. It lowered, disappeared from sight, and then Maria--

If there was a sound Altaïr knew well, it was that of a blade entering flesh with force behind it. And the sound of surprise from Maria, the sound of pain--

The sound of his own hidden blade piercing Swami's neck.

She fell against him and he struggled to hold her. Rarely did he care about the dead, letting them fall where they would, but never before had the dead person in his arms been one he loved. Always, those he loved who were killed - they were distant from him, leaving him in a place where he could only watch. But here, he saw himself lower Maria's body to the ground, heard her whisper to him, "Strength, Altaïr."

And though the image faded, his voice was just as it had been all those years ago, caught in his throat, strangled by the loss. "Maria..."

Eyes burning with tears, breath coming rough, he remembered how he'd run, how he'd dodged the men he'd once called brothers, leaving behind his youngest son's body, the death of his dearest friend, and the still-cooling form of his wife. But there were no betrayers chasing him here. Only memory that he had mourned again and again. Seeing it again, though, so clearly, tore at that old wound, opening it wide to leave him on his knees, head bowed as he felt Maria's death all over again.

---

Strength, Altaïr:

Still raw, still slightly shaken, Altaïr knew that if he let himself retreat, it would be just as it was before. He had spent twenty years within himself in Alamut, listening and looking only into the Apple - and here, there was no Apple to distract him. There would just be himself and the silence of his house as he ignored all who would come.

He could not do that again. Not after what he'd learned, what he'd accomplished, and even the people who depended on him. It wasn't like when he returned from Mongolia to find everything changed, himself replaced, and so many of those he needed suddenly dead.

Still, there would be no flinging himself into company, either. Instead, he found a quiet, warm, dim corner to sit in at the inn, pulling over both a chair and a table. The walls behind him gave him a sense of security, that he could see all who would come. There would be no knives thrown, no crossbows shot into his shoulders or worse.

There was only him in his hood, a cup of tea between his hands, and the knowledge that those images were on that little wrist device, waiting to be seen again and again - which was a heavier knowledge than he'd ever thought.

Comments

Inn

[moderndayassassin]

Desmond was really trying to follow Altaïr's suggestion to attempt to meet people. At the least he was physically trying to leave the house every day, although most of it was just to get food and go back inside. He picked up some of the books from the schoolhouse, random ones that weren't always helpful, just to have something to do. He had to figure out something resembling a job some day, otherwise he'd just keep reading until there was nothing left and then what?

So he was going to the inn and intended to maybe talk to someone new, but instead he sees Altaïr and thankfully that means he can talk to someone he knows instead. His eyes narrow though. He knows Altaïr. Intimately. He knows that this is weird behavior for the man he currently was being. Unlike most situations, where Desmond would just go not my problem and leave, this was his problem. Family was always his problem.

He walked over and took a seat across from his distant grandfather, giving him plenty of time to see it was Desmond and his intent to come over. He leaned his elbows on the table, frowning. "Okay, what's up? You look squirrelly."

[eaglesonofnone]

"Hafid." The greeting was quiet, without much of his usual confidence. If anything, it was... heavy. Still caught in his throat. He thought he should prevaricate. Take a breath, make an excuse, tell Desmond he was fine. But that was not how you treated family. Not when you cared. So he did take a breath, but then he spoke. "I... have been reminded that not all here is as benevolent as I had gotten used to thinking. These... things."

He motioned toward his left wrist where not only was there now a hidden blade in the old style but the requisite wrist device was fastened. "I had seen and heard of others having ... glimpses through them. 7 spoke with me of hers. Sayyida Margaery..." His voice trailed away and he shook his head. "I thought little of it in regards to myself. I am well acquainted with my own life."

The breath he took then was shuddering. He had to swallow down the tightness that followed.

"But to see Maria die again..."

Again the words faded and this time did not pick up. He only bowed his head. Swallowed again. He did not need more mourning.

[moderndayassassin]

Desmond would've called bullshit on him saying it was fine anyway. He felt like he could get away with being a little pushy now that they knew each other. He glanced to the wrist band and frowned at his own. He hadn't gotten anything yet, but great, good to know that it might happen. That was a problem for future Desmond. He was focused on Altaïr instead. He knew it probably had to be something rough to get him this upset, and yeah, Maria's death would be that.

Desmond experienced it himself. It wasn't the same as actually losing your wife, but he'd come to care about her from afar. He cared about all of them. "Being acquainted with your life doesn't mean wanting to live old injuries again. It's still going to suck." He spoke a lot more frankly than the formal way Altaïr did, but it still got the point across.

He wasn't great at knowing what to say. He considered it for a moment and scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "Tell me your favorite memory with Maria."

[eaglesonofnone]

That was something he'd not anticipated, and hearing it was enough to ease the tightness in his throat. His favourite memory...

Looking back at some of them brought the ache further forward. Others seemed so mundane, and yet so valuable. He closed his eyes for a long moment, letting his memory make the years slip away, until he knew. And he said softly, "Maria did not want children. Did you know that? She had no interest in them, had no wish to bear them. Both of our sons were given us by nature rather than her desire. I did most of their raising, the two of them barely two years apart."

But then, a small smile on his face, he said, "Yet one night, as I settled them in to sleep, Darim six, Sef four, she stood in the doorway and waited for me. I was concerned - and when I stepped outside, I asked her what it was that troubled her. And she said to me, 'I watched their lessons today and realised how little I know them.' It was the beginning of a conversation that lasted until dawn and ended in Maria finding that our sons were as much her as me."

[moderndayassassin]

He wasn't surprised to hear that about Maria. She was a tough cookie. She did seem to be a good mother in the future though, so there was that. Desmond smiled at the story. He was never going to get to be a parent, so he lived through that experience with the others. "I didn't know that. But I do know she was a good mother later on, and that they loved her." He saw that much. It made him think of his own mother, which hurt, but he wasn't going to get his shit involved in this right then.

"What happened to her was awful, I saw it myself, but you had decades together before that. A lot of good memories. Not all of them good, but a lot of them. So when you get in your head about her death, remind yourself of something you shared in her life." Apparently Desmond was better at giving advice than he was at getting it. It was just that he didn't have a lot of good memories to stay in. Some with Rebecca and Shaun. Some with his mother. It was a scattering at best.

[eaglesonofnone]

"I do try," he agreed, exhaling slowly. "It is usually easier than this, but usually, it is not shown so... vividly. Memories are not perfect, especially as age steals away the harsher edges before taking the entire. I will be well in time, Hafid."

He made an effort at a smile, but it was small and sickly and faded almost before it began. But he did reach across, touch Desmond's hand. "Thank you, though, for coming to speak to me. Much as I hate what happened to you, I am still glad to know family. And glad to see you."

[moderndayassassin]

"Hey, it's fine to be thrown off, whoever's messing with us is clearly very good at it." Desmond was used to psychological warfare at this point, and what powerful beings could do to mere mortals. "Making you see her death again is vicious. But you two had something special and long lasting to remember." Something Desmond was certain he'd never get himself. Mostly because he stabbed the only woman he cared about, and now he was dead. All of his ancestors had people they loved and lost. That was just life for them.

Normally Desmond would flinch away but he willed himself to be calm. Be a person. He smiled back and turned his hand around so they were palm to palm. An open gesture of affection that was not natural to him but it seemed simple enough. "I'm glad too. If I have to die, I guess there are worse things than actually talking to you and Connor for real." He was more hesitant with others, but working on it. "I've tried to follow your advice and talk to people. It's been okay. Connor threatened to drag me out of my house if I was brooding too much, so."

Inn

[plate_builder]

Now, see, Reeve wasn't the sort of man who often meddled in the affairs of others seeking isolation in the inn. Normally he was content to give them space, to take what flat surface he could get, and enjoy himself as he sipped at faintly warmed water, considering the work before him. Normally he would leave well enough alone.

The issue, though, was that the table Altair had chosen normally sat in a nicely lit part of the downstairs. A table where Reeve often took his lunch while reviewing current work to make sure he's properly placed in support beams and things like that.

He almost considered being annoying for half a moment, trying to use it to get his table back. The seat he could live without. But, well, the world was more than work, right? The man seemed a bit tense and in that situation he supposed he suppose he owed an attempt to help someone.

"Excuse me. Forgive the intrusion, but do look a bit upset. Is there something I can do to help you?"

[eaglesonofnone]

He had been aware of someone approaching, but the exact person, he wasn't sure. Altaïr looked up slowly, eyes first, and then his head lifted before giving a slight shake. "I appreciate that you have asked, but there is nothing specific that can be done."

Nothing but time. Patience. And for his mind to take in the presence of people. He could not be alone. He could not isolate himself. He could not - would not - repeat Alamut. So Altaïr took a slow, deep breath and said, "It has simply been a difficult day. My pardon. Have we met?"

[plate_builder]

"Not unless you've asked for paper."

Reeve had hardly been a very forward and friendly person so far, not since that 'Altair' person on the network had suggested a few projects he could turn his attention to, which Reeve had dedicated himself to with a will. Or had so far. Perhaps forcing himself into this encounter now was unfair as well, but the man seemed... Well, Reeve didn't have a word for it. But he did hold his hand out.

"Reeve Tuesti. I'm a newer arrival here."

[eaglesonofnone]

Paper. The connection was made instantly, though he hadn't the energy to be as engaged as he would have wanted. "Ah, we have spoken, then," he said. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

And while Altaïr didn't exactly shake his hand, he did half-stand to clasp his arm in the way he was more used to - the greeting of man to man in his own home. "I do need to show you the way to the river of which we've spoken."

[plate_builder]

Ah, well, Reeve smiled at the arm clasp and nodded. He had friends who believed in that so he gripped back firmly for a moment before letting Altair go.

"That can wait, my friend," Reeve said. "You say there is nothing specific that can be done, but perhaps more general would be viable. I had a few friends given to sitting a bit too much in their thoughts, alone. I am wont to it myself. I would understand if the offer is unwelcome, though."

[eaglesonofnone]

He took a breath and had to think of what there was to say. The truth was a perpetual option and easier than prevarication. And so he lifted his left arm, tapped the device there.

"Some around the village are being shown moments of their lives on these. Today, I joined their number when I was shown the death of my wife." His voice was detached, distant, but calm enough - perhaps the false calm of shock, but still calm enough.

[relentlessness]

Whatever was happening throughout the village, it somehow had left Jacob without the vibration of the device, without some sight into his life that could well hurt him. So he is unaware that there is a disruption throughout the village, one that will do much more harm before it offers anything good. If ever anything good at all.

There is talks of patrols in the village, and many who are trained and fit for the duty. It's not a requested patrol that has Jacob out and about but his own restlessness. Since he and Evie had come to London, life had been constantly on the go. Templars to fight. Minions of their dark ideals to stop. He had Rooks to gather and direct, leads to follow, and even the street urchins to check in with. Here in this village he has so little of that and the inactivity burns under his skin.

Crouched atop the roof of the Inn, still much more street youth himself than assassin in the scavanged clothes beneath the heavy coat that had been in his bag, Jacob spies a form he knows. In some ways in every sense but the biblical one. It's still odd knowing the man he had learned of since he was a child as a man there with him in the village, not many years older than Jacob himself was. Odd, but intriguing. A word that guided Jacob more often than not.

Especially when he is more still than Jacob often sees him, standing there watching the device, moving with less determination than Jacob has seen.

Rising easily, moving to the edge of the roof and staring at the form, unmoving, shoulders moving oddly with his breathing. Jacob drops down, away from where the other assassin's stands, coming around to approach him from the front. Horses and assassins, it's never good to come from behind and startle them, is it?

"Altair?" Calling out his approach, pausing a few paces away, head canting so that the mock hood he wears casts his face a bit in shadow as he watches the other man intently.

[eaglesonofnone]

He knew the voice. Put a name with it immediately: Jacob. He distantly remembered thinking Evie was the planner of the two while Jacob was given more to impulsivity.

Now, he wasn't sure what he thought besides knowing that Jacob was there, and he was kneeling on the wet ground, his pants, his robe, his face all wet, his heart feeling torn in so many more pieces than two. He reached up with a shaking hand, pulling his hood further forward. Nothing felt real. This place, the air on his skin - it all felt like a dream, like he should be running from Masyaf despite knowing the citadel was far, far away.

He said something. What was it? He didn't even know, but he thought it was Jacob's name as he looked up, the shadow of his hood obscuring his eyes. His shoulders were slumped and he wasn't sure what to do or how he felt. Everything seemed to be farther than he could reach. Just slightly... off...

"Jacob?"

[relentlessness]

Making sure that he announces himself, not taking a chance that he might startle an assassin and risk the damage that might well come with that action, Jacob moves in closer for the sake of the older assassin. A deep frown curves his mouth, reaching up and pushing the cloth of the hoodie off his head so that it pools around his shoulders.

Not bothering to nod, or agree, just moving to come to one knee beside the other man, reaching out for him slowly though not hesitantly. Something in his heart tightened, not wanting to think of what might happen to someone from such a time as Altair in a place with people from so many places and all that they might carry to infect another. He didn't want to think about it for himself either.

"What's happened? Are you hurt?"

Trying to assess from just looking at the other man, to try and determine if there is a treat nearby and what danger there might be.

[eaglesonofnone]

He started to shake his head, but the gesture was aborted after just the first movement. Physically, no, he was not hurt. "Old wounds," he managed instead, voice heavy, low, hoarse. It sounded odd to his own ear, and the attempt to dismiss it as nothing did no good. The next breath he took was halting, leaving him to close his eyes against it.

"Again, I saw her die."

And where those words came from, he wasn't sure. The truth, but not one he needed to admit, not to a young man with enough worries on his shoulders. Not to a fellow Assassin who needed to see him strong instead of struck down this way. And yet, when he was touched, it was the one thing that started to bring the world back into focus. He had written of her in the Codex. Maria Thorpe. His love. His wife. The mother of his sons.

Again. Because of him.

He folded further, the clench around his heart taking his breath away.

[relentlessness]

There's little thought for manners, for respect in the sense of giving a man space in a moment like this. There is only a sudden sharp stab of empathy, something that Jacob doesn't always feel often, but when he does it's deep and true and complete.

Enough that he moves down to kneel at Altair's side, moving to wrap an arm around the other man's shoulders and lean in close to him. Offering comfort and stability as he can, as those words stab sharp and swift. Jacob has never known love but he imagines what one day it might be like, and the thought of suffering time and again knowing that person is dead and gone is a pain he suddenly hopes he might never feel. Even if it means not loving as Altair has.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, knowing that while they're heartfelt, they're words that are likely hollow to Altair as Jacob tightens his arm around his shoulder. "I don't know how you say it, but I'm sorry you have to live with that again."

And he is. Honestly and truly. Losing someone you love is hard enough. Reliving it is a pain no one should ever have to face.

[eaglesonofnone]

Thought is far away.

Jacob is close.

That is why it's so ... so simple for him to reach out and take hold of Jacob's shirt. To hold on, fist clenched, to refuse him the option to leave because, just then, he wasn't sure what he would do if he was alone. Again.

As ever, whispered a part of his mind, images of the twenty years spent in Alamut swimming into his thoughts. Sef's family. Darim's. Both gone, leaving him alone. All of them having given up on him while he sat, embroiled in the Apple, seeking something, anything, that would bring them back and finding nothing--

Two hands, then, fisted tight in the fabric, stretching it, likely warping it for the rest of the garment's life, but that was far from his thoughts. He couldn't be alone. Not again. Please, not again.

Inn

[rebornpaladin]

Shiro shouldered into the inn with single goal of getting something, anything, hot to drink. He'd been bathing, just a quick wipe down with cold water, when his wristcomm had pinged and he'd seen it, and it was as if his bone marrow had frozen and the cold had seeped outward from there. He couldn't shake it, and he had no intention of watching it again or discussing it with anyone.

Even if he itched to watch it again. To see if that memory lived inside his head, now that he'd seen it in the surreal, digitized footage from the Galra's security feeds.

He almost didn't see Altair until he was through the kitchen doors, and he stopped. It would make more sense to join him once he had his own drink, he figured, so once it was steeping he emerged again, coat undone, and padded over to the empty chair across from his friend.

Something in Altair's posture was different.

"Looking for company?"

[eaglesonofnone]

Thankfully - to a credit he didn't know he was finding so necessary, Altaïr didn't startle. It spoke to how much he'd gotten used to Takashi's company that he'd seen him and simply accepted his presence rather than becoming far too aware. What he did do, though, was take in a breath and then motion to a seat nearby. "I fear I am in need of it," he answered, shaking his head slowly. "And yours is welcome."

He had proven himself a good friend, reliable, and someone Altaïr could speak to as well as listen. Perhaps he would also prove to be a balm, though now that he was looking, now that he could raise his head without half-fearing what he would find, he could see that Takashi had his own worries as well. What a pair they were.

Given what had happened to him, he could guess what had happened to Takashi. And he did, lifting his wrist to tap the device there. "You as well?"

[rebornpaladin]

That more or less figured. As he sat next to Altair, Shiro looked away, expression unchanged; neutral; blank. He nodded, glancing down at his cup before sipping the tea and setting the cup on the table top. So it was going around. That eased some of his paranoia, at least. It meant the Galra hadn't sent that to him. Probably.

It also meant whatever source it was coming from was a third party, and that was deeply uncomfortable. He looked over at Altair, the line of his mouth settling into a grim line of acknowledgment.

"Are you all right?"

[eaglesonofnone]

He took in a deep and slow breath and exhaled it just as slowly. "When I saw in truth what I have been shown, I retreated to Alamut with what remained of my family: my one living son, my dead son's wife and children. And I shut myself away for twenty years," he answered. "I have mourned it. But that does not mean the wound is not still there."

He knew his own propensity to depression. To shutting down. To slowly letting himself go. He couldn't afford that here, and he had learned better after years and years of living. "So I have come here. Where there are people who will make me talk and engage with the world. Like you."

[rebornpaladin]

An old pain, then. Shiro reached the short distance to rest his hand on Altair's forearm in a gesture he hoped was even fractionally as reassuring as the many Altair had made for him.

"I don't understand where the transmission comes from, but I'm sorry it caused you pain. Or made you relive an old one."

[eaglesonofnone]

"Her death," he said, explaining - unashamed, unafraid. "When I was stubborn and impulsive. She died trying to stop me and paid the greatest price." His hand settled over Takashi's, taking the contact for what it was and silently anchoring himself to it. Touch was uncommon. He knew he didn't tend to encourage it, more often touching others than letting them make contact with him. This was different, though. He needed something to keep him in the present. Not in the pain of the past.