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.