I have FM requests open on my writing blog right now, shotgunsandstars on tumblr. This is one of them, yes, it is canon.


sometime in the thirteenth century, Cairo, Egypt

He could feel it in his limbs. A sort of deep, sinking feeling that made everything just sort of heavy and hard to deal with. Only it wasn't part of his body anymore, not really. It was in his mind. It was a consuming force inside him that gnawed at every inch of his skin inside and out. Shadows, ghosts, and shades slid back and forth across his vision though he didn't sway or bat at them. He only watched.

Altair had forgotten what number of beer he was on. Dozenth. Or more. Probably more. One hundred and twelve years old. A dozen beers didn't do much anymore. No. Had been a time when one would get him drunk, because Muslims didn't drink alcohol. At least not under their caliph, back then.

Altair grabbed his mug and drank from it deeply. He didn't taste what he was drinking. He didn't know if it was fabulous or if it was swill. He didn't care. He just didn't want to feel, or know, or be able to remember. Remembering made him hurt in ways he thought he was beyond hurting. His wife, his children, his best friend…

He drank again, not bothering to finish the thought. The waiter put a fresh mug on the table and Altair flipped a coin onto it. The coin was scooped up with the empty tankard of beer.

He drank until he didn't think, until he couldn't feel. He'd come in here when it was light out, the sun still rather high, and was vaguely aware that it was dark out now. Altair had been here a while. The bartender knew him. Knew he kept to himself, didn't keep a tab, always paid for his drinks up front, didn't cause a fuss, and drank beer like it was water. Then when the tavern closed Altair would get up and walk away on his own accord. He'd always be back though. Because the times he wasn't drunk he was hung over and the times he wasn't hung over he was remembering what he'd lost and it led him to slipping his hands into other people's pockets and purses for coin for yet more beer to start the cycle all over again.

Altair eyed a pair of men who were having a confrontation in front of his table. He didn't like them, he wanted them to leave. "Eh," he said, not slurring. He wasn't drunk enough for that yet. He was only on his thirteenth beer, he had to drink more than that to slur. "Take it outside."

He didn't know how it happened. He hadn't meant to be an asshole. Maybe on the way out of his mouth the words had gotten confused about what they were supposed to say. Because next he knew he was getting dragged out of his table and in the middle of a fight. Oh such a bad idea. He wasn't sure if for them or for him. He was so painfully out of practice in fighting. But he fought back.

He looked down when he felt something prick his chest. It wasn't a prick. There was a knife in his chest. Damn it all. He grabbed the wrist attached to the knife handle and yanked out and then stabbed himself again. That freaked out who'd initially stabbed Altair. But damnit if he was going to die might as well get it over with. He didn't fancy bleeding out all over the place and trying to pretend he wanted to fight to live.

He took five stabs to the chest before he collapsed, once he managed to puncture his lungs and his heart and rupture his stomach. He didn't remember hitting the ground.

Some time later, Altair opened his eyes. He was laying face down in ditch. Fabulous. He rolled over and sat up

The haze of alcohol was gone, and he wasn't even hung over. For a moment the world was beautiful and crystal clear. Why would he want to forget this world existed by seeking solace in a tankard? Then he remembered and it was like all the colors were leeched from the world. His everything was gone. Why was he still alive? What was the point?

A shadow passed over him. He looked up and saw a big man standing over him, the sun behind them, making it hard to see. "Hello there," they said.

"Hello," Altair said passionlessly.

"Quite a death that was," Altair looked at them more carefully. "Why don't we get you something to eat? Must be starving after healing all those stab wounds."

Altair squinted at them, "Who're you?" he asked.

The man smiled, "A friend. C'mon now, before someone sees," and he offered Altair his hand. Altair hesitated a moment before taking it and was hauled to his feet.