Dark sand fell in her eyes. It stung her, and battered her already dry mouth. She was hanging on with all her might, her delicate dark hand gripping the strong, tanned, and slightly scarred arm. She looked up, and saw his face, the face that had journeyed with her, the face with the scar, the slight coarse beard, the light Persian eyes, as blue as the Mediterranean Sea. Those eyes were bright with pain and dark worry.
She was hanging, his dark, slightly sweaty hair sweeping across her cheekbones, so close she could count his long horse's eyelashes. The frail sandstone that held them both produced a loud groan, and he, Dastan, roared, half out of sickening worry and half out of pure rage against Nizam. The Dagger was strapped against his worn burgundy sash. Tears streaked down her grimy face, the salt stinging her wriggled her hand furiously, and Dastan shouted,
"I'm not letting you go!"
She felt the kohl running down slightly across her screamed as loud as she could,
"Dastan, this is my destiny! I wish we could have been together."
She felt so sad at these words, even though she was the one who spoke them.
"No, Tamina! No!"
She twisted free. She felt rushing wind, and suddenly, so, so afraid.
"Dastan!" she screamed, high and terribly, her throat hurt. Then an even more horrible sound.
"Tamina!"
His voice was so thick with a horrible, horrible pain, a sickening thick fright. She had never heard her name in such a way. Soon, it faded, yet the sound still rang in her ears. She fell.
Tamina woke up gasping for air. Her wavy ebony locks were damp and uneven, her dark golden olive skin a sickly color. She bent forward on her pallet, and rubbed her amber eyes. She felt like throwing up. Through the thin sheet of her ivory tent, it was still night, the bare moon shining through and hitting her thin shoulders. She was cursed, cursed with restless hours of sleep, with horrible nightmares, and mostly of screams and falling and Dastan. Especially Dastan. It haunted her, how his face was twisted with so much horror, how his voice was distorted with pain. She rubbed her palms together, and saw the slight gold finish on her dark red henna, the five pointed star in the middle, to represent the five walls of Alamut. Now, the star was the center of a more ornate design, with swirls and runes that stretched like ivy on her feet and hands. Wedding henna. The tent was now a claustrophobic environment, so thick with her angst.
She could not tell him she loved him so such, so much it hurt her with an ache that hurt just below her ribs. Tamina clamored out of the soft pallet, and wrapped herself in an airy cream gown. Peeked her head out of the tent, and silently slipped out, barefooted. It hurt, like a physical pain, so badly. She was guardian of the Dagger, but she is also the Chalice, the Priestess. She held all of the Dagger's memories, all of them locked away. But, she is vowed, sworn by the Gods, to never reveal her memories. She must lie to Dastan, to see his heartbroken face every time he caught the eye of her. To see the horrible pain in his eyes, so horrible, to see his rugged face, with the singular scar, be living in the moment where she fell, how she let him go, how he let her go. She could not tell him, she had to be cold to him. Tamina shivered slightly under the pale gown. Looking up to the heavens, she saw the starry, a web of delicate diamonds in the air.
She ran towards the gardens, her raven hair streaming behind her. She reached the gardens, the quiet burble of the fountains interrupting her. She leaned against the wall, her breath caught in her throat. Her olive skin matched the color of the stone wall. Brushing the small of her back against the rough sandstone, it brought back bad memories. Tamina peered over, and saw the familiar figure, the one she had despised, grow to love, and now forced to hate again. In the stark moonlight, she saw his long hair fall in a dark curtain in front of his face, a glimmer of the silver bead he wore hidden in the mass of locks. He ran his fingers through his hair, allowing his face to be shown. Faint tear tracks ran down his slightly hollow cheeks, marking his familiar scar. Tamina's face flushed a delicate pink color, highlighting her freckles. She fought the urge to grin stupidly, even though he was sad, he was so handsome. Scowling, she thought angrily to herself, 'Now, you can't act if you do this every time you see him.' Her nose wrinkled, and she slid down the wall. The rustle of the dress must've startled him, and Tamina's breathing rate was now at a very soft and slow level. He wiped himself, and put on a brave face. He grabbed his sword, the one he always wore, so hard that his tan knuckles turned ghostly white. Tamina slowly moved along the wall, trying to make it towards the gate. Dastan was quicker, in three steps; he was there, his sword against her throat, and in the shadows, her form lost.
"Well, you seem to be quick with that sword, Lion of Persia."