I do not own Prince of Persia or any of the characters.
A.N.: Fair warning, I've only ever played Sands of Time, so I'm going off of only what I learned in that game and the wiki. Bear with me. Also my first Prince of Persia story.
1
Laughter drifted through the barracks, the soldiers laughing, drinking, flirting with concubines who pretended to be wooed by them. Among them, two of the three princes sat in the center of the room, drinking and playing with the most beautiful concubines and drinking the best wine. They didn't seem to have a care in the world. The youngest of them, however, sat in the darkest corner in the rafters. He sipped at a goblet of wine, but hadn't really even gotten a mouthful in an hour with the goblet. He stared off into space, mind exactly three days and six hours by horseback away. As it had been almost constantly for the last year since the invasion of India.
"Are you hiding away again, Brother?" the younger of the two celebrating princes asked.
"I am," the youngest said. "Don't allow me to distract you from your whores, Brother. They look about ready to do their jobs. You're doing well. I was starting to be afraid you would even strike out with prostitutes."
"Well well," the older of the two smirked. "Is little brother feeling tough? Well, how about you come down here and test your strength Brother?"
"Now why would I do that?" the youngest smirked, looking down at his brother who was swaying on his feet. "Why not come up here and prove your strength Brother?"
The older of the two grinned widely. Hook, line, sinker.
"You asked for it," the prince said, putting his foot on the wall.
The youngest wasn't really sure what happened next, though he suspected his brother had tried to simply walk up the wall the way he could make it look like he could. He chuckled until his eldest brother walked over, staring down at his groaning brother who had successfully landed on a bench and broken it, then up at his youngest brother.
"Brother, come down here," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
The youngest prince sighed, dropping to the ground and landing lightly beside his brother.
"Brother," the eldest said. "This is a celebration. Drink. Flirt. Lay with a concubine. It's what they're here for. I can even direct you to one who's from India if you want."
The youngest rolled his eyes. He was beginning to regret ever telling Malik about his real reasons for begging their father to pull back from India without a fight. He hadn't believed him, of course, but he had believed that he was in love with Princess Farah. And since then he had been a good brother and done everything in his power to make his youngest brother forget about the girl he loved.
"Brother, you know that's not going to happen," the youngest said.
"Then at least stop antagonizing your brother," Malik said. "He's drunk too much again."
"When does he not?" the youngest chuckled, tapping their sleeping brother with his foot, the sleeping prince snorting and rolling over. "I'll take Aryan home. Enjoy your party brother."
"Oh, don't go!" a concubine wearing a red sari but with her breasts uncovered pleaded, catching the youngest's arm. "You have yet to have any fun!"
"And I won't be tonight," he said.
"But you never do," the concubine said. "Please. Just for once? I'll make it worth it."
"Ah, you're one of the regulars are you?" the youngest prince snorted. "Then you should know by now that I don't have fun. And it shall not be different tonight."
With that, the youngest lifted his drunken brother from the floor and headed toward the door, then back to their home, dropping his brother into his bed then walked to his own room. He walked to his armor stand, resting a hand on his armor. Black splint mail with accompanying grieves, vambraces, and his two swords. The first he got when his father's army stopped at Azad on the way back from India, the prince trading a large amount of gold in exchange for the scimitar that he had once used to fight sand creatures. He trailed his fingers over the grey hilt and down the blade to the golden inscription near the tip. The other was the same that he had had when he had first assaulted India and found the Dagger of Time. It was a gift from his father.
He sighed, walking to the window and staring out into the night, The city was still celebrating. He smirked. The city had never needed a reason to celebrate. But tonight, it seemed to be even more lively than ever. He could hear the laughter and cheering from his window. His heart ached once again for the one person in the world he could never have. He turned, walking to his bed, changing himself into his bed clothes and got in, pulling the blankets up over himself and closing his eyes. Sleep claimed him quickly only for his dreams to be haunted by sand monsters and high towers and a scream as his world fell away from him. He sat up with a gasp, the scream ringing in his ears stilled, echoes of it overlapping itself.
He set his head in his hands, trying to clear the dream from his mind. Except, the screams remained. His head snapped up. That wasn't the scream from his dream. He sprinted to the window, looking out as soldiers flooded through the open gate of the city wall, flooding the city, the Persian Army only just now arriving to stop the slaughter. In minutes, the prince was dressed in his armor, sprinting through the hallways of the palace, shoving his swords into their sheaths on his back as he ran for his brother's room. He shouldered the door open just as his brother picked up his sword, spinning it in hand and smoothly sheathing it on his own back.
"Let's go," Aryan said.
The two sprinted out of the palace and through the streets toward where the battle was raging. As they made their way there, they shoved their way past throngs of people, shoving them aside and shouting for them to let them pass. Finally, they left the crowd, finding themselves at the battle. It was horrible. Persian soldiers were lying everywhere, soldiers wearing black clothes and turbans with their faces covered and wearing black steel armor fighting them hard. However, the Persian Army was beginning to gain a footing now that the shock and awe of the attack was beginning to wear off and with Malik fighting at the front. Aryan took a contingent of soldiers from near the rear and branched off to a less heavily guarded section of the city and the last prince drew his swords, holding the one from Azad in his right hand and wading into the sea of warriors, blades flashing. His scimitar tore through one soldier, armor and all, before he spun, his shamshir slicing another soldier's throat to the spine. A soldier slashed at the prince and he blocked it with his shamshir and dragged his scimitar up the soldier's front, his blood spraying into the air. He spun, flipping his shamshir around to reverse grip and drove it into another soldier's throat then spun the other way, ripping it back out and knocking a sword aside before decapitating the soldier with his shamshir.
Persian soldiers charged past him, reinforcements having arrived and those already present gaining strength from their prince. The prince charged with them and the soldiers reached a line of enemy soldiers and halted their charge. The prince turned, rapidly ascending the wall of a nearby building and stopping when he reached the roof, looking out toward the gate. They were only a few blocks from them but there could be anywhere from a hundred to two hundred soldiers between them and it and from his new vantage point, the prince could see more soldiers marching toward the city from the horizon.
"Brother!" Malik's voice shouted from below. "Dastan!"
The prince looked down at the sound of his own name. Malik split a soldier's torso wide open then rushed over, looking up at his brother, the group of soldiers he had had moving to help his younger brother's.
"Close the gate!" Malik shouted. "I'll handle things here!"
"Try and get to Aryan!" Dastan shouted. "He's that way and didn't take many troops!"
Malik nodded and Dastan turned, sprinting to the edge of the building and leaping off the edge, crossing the gap between buildings before he landed on the other side as three soldiers leapt up on the far side. One wielded a pair of scimitars, one had a short staff with a sword blade on each end, and the third had a long hair-thin wire whip with jagged metal blades along its length and a spear head on their tip. Dastan growled in frustration as the two with the close ranged weapons charged. The one with the staff slashed upward at Dastan who sidestepped it before the man spun, driving the other end at him. Dastan slashed it aside and then kicked the soldier away as he blocked the other soldier's two swords. He pivoted, swinging his foot around and slamming it into his side before slashing upward with his shamshir. The soldier leaned back, his blade carving a scratch into the soldier's armor. Then, the soldier leapt backward and Dastan ducked as the bladed whip flashed out over his head and swung to the side. He sprinted to the side, darting at the soldier with the whip. The whip swung downward at him from above and he jumped to the side, the whip crashing down where he was. Then, he reached the soldier, slashing only for the soldier with the staff the block his scimitar behind him.
Dastan jumped onto the edge of the building then leapt off of it, flipping forward and landing on the edge of the next. He tilted forward and back for a moment before leaping forward, the whip smashing into the building where he had been, shattering the low wall. Dastan rolled to his feet as the two close range soldiers landed in a roll, getting to their feet at a run toward him. Dastan met their charge, slashing one of the two scimitar upward with his shamshir while he blocked the end of the the other's staff. Both swung their other weapons and he ducked, the two blades flashing over his head before he spun, his scimitar crashing into the scimitar wielding soldier's blade and slashing the other's shin. Pain flared through his shoulder and he staggered forward then turned, seeing the whip's point plying toward him. He ducked under it and rolled to the side as the whip crashed to the ground, the blades sticking up from the ceiling before being ripped free.
Dastan turned, sprinting away from the trio again, leaping to the top of the next roof which was slightly higher and dropped down onto the roof, lying below the low wall. He heard a sharp crack before the staff-wielding soldier landed on the short wall. Dastan instantly flipped, kicking him backward and the soldier tumbled off the building, crashing down in the street below. Dastan took off running again just as the wall exploded and the whip shot out of the dust, slicing a gash across the back of his right. He spun, bringing his scimitar up in time to block the other melee soldier's blades. The time, without his partner, Dastan had the advantage of skill. He shoved the blades away and slashed his shamshir. The soldier blocked it and Dastan flipped over the other blade, driving his scimitar into the soldier's back on the way down, slashing downward, killing him. He ripped the sword out just as the whip wrapped around his left arm, the blades, each roughly two inches wide, burying themselves halfway into his arm in a spiral around his arm from the middle of his upper arm down to his shouted in pain, bringing the scimitar down on the whip and it smashed. He grunted, putting his scimitar away then picked up his fallen sword and took off, running to the edge of the roof and leaping onto it just as another whip smashed it under his feet. He began to fall but jumped, slipping through a window and landing on his good side and rolling to his feet, running to a nearby closet, slipping inside and looking down at his wound.
He grit his teeth and gripped the topmost blade, pulling it out slowly. Pain made his vision flare white before he had it out. He took a couple of seconds before slowly pulling the next one out. He stopped after two as the soldier landed in the building as well, his second whip making a rasping hissing sound as it scrapped along the ground. Dastan slowly picked up his sword, waiting until the soldier had his back turned. Then, he burst out of the closet. The soldier flicked his wrist, the whip swinging around at Dastan. Dastan instinctively held up his sword and the whip wrapped around it before wrenching it out of his hands. He drew his scimitar as he ran, then hurled it, the scimitar spinning through the air before burying itself in the soldier. He sighed, looking down at his injured arm again before shaking his head and grabbing the scimitar, wrenching it free and putting it away then grabbing his shamshir and running through the building, taking a staircase to the street and looking around. The gate was nearby but there were a dozen soldiers in his way. They all turned toward him, most drawing swords but one having gauntlets with three jagged dagger-like claws extended from it and another had throwing knives at the ready.
Before any of the soldiers could do anything, Dastan heard the telltale hissing of arrows and dropped low, throwing himself backward into the building just as arrows began to rain down in the street. The enemy soldiers shouted in pain as they were felled, until finally the arrows stopped. Dastan grit his teeth rolling onto his good side then pushing himself up, grateful that he hadn't landed on his injured arm.
"Dastan!" Malik's voice shouted worriedly.
Dastan stepped out and Malik sighed in relief.
"Thank the Gods Dastan," Malik sighed. "I was so worried when I saw you step out that...Gods...what happened?"
"Long story," Dastan said. "Where's Aryan?"
"Here," Aryan said, jogging over with several small cuts and scrapes, Persian Soldiers following.
"Alright," Dastan said, looking through the gate as the enemy reinforcements charged toward the gate. "I'll get the gate. Hold the enemy here."
His brothers nodded and Dastan sprinted toward the gate house, skidding to a stop as the soldier with the knives stepped out, hurling two. Dastan dropped, feeling one stick into his left shoulder as he did as the other whizzed over his head. He bounced up from the ground, sprinting forward again as the one with the claws stepped out. The knife thrower retreated behind his ally and Dastan slashed, the claws blocking it. Dastan heard Malik's cry of rage behind him before ducking, Malik's much larger sword smashing through the claws and bifurcating the soldier. Dastan grabbed the soldier's upper half and held him in the way as several knives stuck into him then dropped him, grabbing a knife and spinning, hurling it into its owner's face. Then, he grabbed his sword from the ground and sprinted into the guardhouse. A thunderous roar began to rise outside before dying down, instantly replaced with the sounds of battle as Dastan sprinted up the stairs tot he gate controls. As he got there, he found one last soldier waiting, this one holding a weapon consisting of a scimitar blade sticking out of the back of the blade at the base in his left hand so that the blade ran up behind his arm, and a shamshir in his other hand. The shamshir was thin and mostly black with a gilded cross guard and pommel and gilded thorned vines reaching up the sides of the blade. The soldier pointed the shamshir at Dastan then stepped forward, slashing at him rapidly. Dastan deflected what strikes he cloud, dodging the rest. They fought around and around the room, Dastan knowing he needed to close the gate soon. Finally, he found himself beside the rope to the counterweight and ducked under a slash, allowing the soldier to sever it for him. The moment the rope was free of the weight, the gate crashed down, several strangled cries of pain ringing out as unfortunate souls were caught underneath.
The soldier slashed at Dastan again and Dastan slashed his sword aside then slammed his foot into the side of the soldier's knee, breaking it before stepping around behind the man and gritting his teeth, swinging his injured arm, slamming one of the metal blades in his arm into the side of the soldier's neck, blood spraying out. He pulled the soldier back off and grunted in pain as the blades shifted. Then, he let the soldier fall and sat hard against the wall. The battle outside the gatehouse raged as Dastan carefully pulled the blades out of his arm. It was torturously slow, and the most painful thing he had ever done. Then, finally, it was done and he released a pent up gasp of breath, breathing hard. He picked up his sword, using it to stand and stumbling to the window just as Malik surged out of the line of his troops, carving his way through the last of the troops inside the walls, the archers outside firing down on the retreating force outside. They had won. But he instinctively knew they had payed a great price for victory. He had never seen Malik so mad.
He made his way downstairs, stepping outside just as Malik finished, turning to him. Malik stared at him for a moment before dropping his sword, eyes wide. Dastan's vision suddenly blurred and he felt himself sway. Then, he pitched forward, landing hard against Malik, hearing him shouting but not comprehending his words. After several minutes, Dastan realized his eyes were closed and blinked them open, finding himself lying on the ground, a healer bandaging his arm. He looked around, seeing Malik kneeling beside him, worry aging him a decade.
"We were victorious Brother?" Dastan asked.
"Yes Brother," Malik nodded, smiling. "We were victorious."
"Where is Aryan?" Dastan asked.
"Aryan was wounded badly by the one with the knives," Malik said. "He was taken to the healers."
Dastan nodded then noticed Malik giving him a strange look.
"What's the look for?" Dastan asked.
"Where did you get this medallion?" Malik asked, lifting a gold medallion with a white jewel in the center from Dastan's chest.
Dastan realized his armor had been removed and stared at the necklace, eyes softening before he raised a hand to it, taking it from Malik and staring at it before resting his hand on his chest, thumb running lightly over the face of it.
"It was a gift," Dastan said.
Malik nodded slowly as the healer finished. Malik helped Dastan sit up and Dastan looked toward the gate, seeing three enemy soldiers pinned beneath the gate.
"Who were they?" Dastan asked.
"We don't know," Malik said. "We'll find out. And then the full might of Persia will be brought to bear on them. Come. We should go to our brother."
"They knew father was away," Dastan said. "They had to have. That's why they attacked now."
"I agree," Malik said.
They made their way to the healers, sitting beside Aryan's bed. He was pale with a light sheen of sweat, with bandages covering his chest. He looked up at them as they arrived and smiled.
"Dastan," Aryan said. "Good. You're safe. I'm glad. I'm sorry I was not of more use to you, Brother. I'm sorry that I always start fights with you and get drunk."
"That's enough Aryan," Dastan said. "You need rest. There's nothing to forgive."
Aryan smiled, his eyes sliding closed and Dastan sighed.
"You must rest as well," Malik said. "Lie down Brother. It would do you no good to waste what little energy you have left. After all, you leave to see your princess in the morning."
Dastan blinked, staring at Malik who grinned.
"What did you just say?" Dastan asked.
"We received word of trouble brewing on the northern border of India," Malik said. "You are being sent there to offer India your aid in resolving the situation with a contingent of soldiers as an offer of peace. We neglected to inform you of this, at my request, because I believed it would be better as a surprise."
Dastan stared at him before grinning. He allowed Malik to guide him to the bed and lay down on his good shoulder, closing his eyes. Sleep claimed him, and the scream rang out in his mind again. This time, however, the dream melted away as soon as Farah hit the ground, and was replaced by a new one. He had killed the vizier and told her his story. He had kissed her and reversed time, and now he simply needed to leave.
"What do I call you?" Farah asked.
"Just call me...Kakolookiya," he grinned before dropping out of her sight.
Dastan opened his eyes, light bleeding through the curtains around his bed. He didn't remember going to his bed. He looked down at his injured arm and saw fresh bandages. He pulled the covers back and got up, changing himself into fresh clothes, a simple shirt and pants, then left, heading to the Strategy Room and found Malik and his advisors standing around a map. They looked up as he entered and Malik smiled.
"Good afternoon Brother," Malik said. "How did you sleep?"
"I overslept?" Dastan asked, eyes wide and panicked. "What about India?"
"Don't worry," Malik smiled. "We delayed the trip a day. And we doubled the number of troops."
"Why?" Dastan asked.
"Because we found out who attacked us," Malik said darkly. "Hassansins."
"But there were an army!" Dastan protested, Malik raising his hand.
"We have already discussed this," Malik said. "The Hassansins have raised an army, going against their own laws to remain only seven. We believe they got their forces from Scythia. We will deal with them. You deal with India. Get yourself ready to travel."
Dastan nodded and returned to his room, calling in several servants to help him. Once prepared, he stood in his window, staring in the direction of India, fingertips resting against the medallion.
"You are excited, aren't you?" Malik asked, closing the door.
"It's been a year," Dastan said. "She probably doesn't remember me at all."
"Oh yes," Malik said. "A handsome young prince arrives in the night, kills the traitorous vizier who wielded magic to attempt to kill her, told her a fantastical tale of the end of the world and of falling in love with her, then turning back time, and then leaves, taking his would-be invading armies with him. Very forgettable."
Dastan grinned and Malik laughed. Then, they both stared out the window.
"What should I say if I see her?" Dastan asked.
"Say nothing," Malik said. "Act as though you have never met her. If she remembers you, and wishes to speak with you, she will do so."
Dastan nodded slowly, fingertips again on the medallion. Malik sighed, watching as the sun set.
"We have successfully wasted the day," Malik said. "Rest. Tomorrow you leave for India."
Dastan shook his head slowly.
"I can't sleep," Dastan said. "I've been having nightmares going on a week now. The same as when I got back."
"I see," Malik said. "Try to rest. If not for your sake than the sake of appearances when you reach India."
Dastan sighed but nodded and lay down.
"Wake me in the morning, will you?" Dastan asked.
Malik nodded and Dastan lay back, closing his eyes and slowly drifting off.
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