A Lost Englishman on the banks of the Ganga for the_cupbearer

Alex started awake. He wasn't sure where he was. Sitting up slowly, the early morning heat soaking into him and reminding him that he was no longer in a freezing trench in Ypres. He had passed out on the bank of a river. His head was still swimming. Vague recollections of a party rolled through his alcohol muddled brain. He was still fairly drunk. He felt around himself. The jacket of his suit was missing. And his tie. And one of his shoes. The silver flask in his hip pocket was still there. Just what he needed, a little hair of the dog, he thought pulling it out and unscrewing the cap. He put it to his lips and tipped it up. Nothing. He tossed the silver flask away from himself, disappointed. After a moment, he pried off his lone shoe and tossed it aside as well. He didn't need it anyway. The native Indians went barefoot, so why not?

"Fuck," he said quietly and stood, swaying for a moment, Alexander stumbled a few steps into the river. There was a sudden drop off and he was up to his waist. The cold water startling the last of his drunkenness right out of him. Alex's breath caught in surprise as a man emerged from the river, creating an arc of water as he flung back his long dark hair. To the Englishman, it seemed to happen in slow motion. He was transfixed as he watched the man wipe water from his face. It was as if the universe had manifested him from the river itself. Then his foot slipped and he fell. The water closing over his head.