Even in death, he could not die. It was never-ending. The sting of death.
Altair had lost count of how many times he had experienced death. Had tasted the cool edge of a Vale wrought sword, cutting him down. He never won a match. Yet the Vale King's lived experience with Iliana was his to wield. Each time he killed him and proceeded to challenge her, he'd die, and the cycle would repeat for five hours. After five hours, when the fragment of the Vale King would sizzle out, he had the honor of dying on his own.
If he needed rest, he had to die. If he wanted to eat, it had to be done in combat and die. It was all hell. Hell, that often pushed him past his limit until he fainted. He would always awake through the confines of resurrection.
Death had a unique sting, one that often left him paralyzed and confused by what happened.
