Obligatory author's note: This is a fan fiction, and all that that entails by way of intellectual property rights, etc.

Shami's sister Tamina believed in destiny; a greater purpose set forth for her by the gods. For the priestess-princess of Alamut, it was easy to believe in destiny – one had been provided for her since birth. Tamina knew with a certainty bordering on smugness that her fate was to protect the Dagger of Time, to safeguard time itself. Tamina's fate was the fate of the world. And the moment of her destiny was upon her.

The Persian believed that we make our own destiny. Shami had heard him tell her sister as much as he escorted her in to meet his father, the king. Bright eyed and buoyed by his recent military victory, Shami could see why. Dastan clearly had no problem taking what he wanted, even from the gods.

As for herself, Shami did not believe in destiny at all. The second daughter in a monarchy that required only the one, and weakened by a childhood bout of scarlet fever, Shami had carved out a life for herself on a scale too small for words like "destiny" to apply. Superfluous to the running of Alamut's theocracy, Shami instead dedicated herself to running the royal household. She oversaw the kitchens and laundry, settled petty disputes among the servants, and ensured that diplomatic protocol was followed when receiving foreign guests. There was no higher purpose to her life, Shami thought, just an endless succession of the mundane to be handled with whatever grace and skill she could muster.

And today, Shami's skills were being put to the test. However they had got there, the three Persian princes – Tus, Garsiv, and Dastan - still expected to sleep and dine as royal guests, and Shami's pride would not allow her to see them ill served. And so she sat in a corner, a piece of brocade embroidery in her lap as a shield against the great and good, and through quiet conferences with stewards and sculleries, ensured that everyone had enough to eat and drink as they decided the fate of her palace, her city, and the world.

Shami looked up at her sister, standing defiantly in front of the Persian king. Tamina's eyes shone with the brilliance of inner resolve, spitting insults as the king's youngest son introduced her. Tamina was to be married to Tus, the eldest of the three Persian princes, but Shami thought that Dastan seemed a better match for her feisty sister. They were alike in a way that Shami could not quite describe – a free flowing ease in themselves and their surroundings, perhaps. Perhaps it was the certain knowledge that, however arrived at, each of them was destined for greatness. Both were undoubtedly handsome. Tamina tall and strong, yet somehow also feminine, a rounded face framed by flowing black hair. Dastan's well-muscled chest betrayed a body as deadly as the swords that adorned his back. Shaggy hair and a casualness of countenance hinted at a devil-may-care vitality. Yes, they were well matched, and if it were up to Shami, they would wed. But it was not.

Tamina, she knew, had no intention of marrying anyone. And normally, she would have declared so outright. But behind Tamina's haughty pride was, today, an uncertainty that Shami had never seen before. Only a sister would even notice the momentary flashes of doubt. Tamina wasn't sure what to do. Shami had seen Dastan return with the knife, and she knew that Tamina had, too. The Dagger of Time, Tamina's sacred trust, in the hands of infidels. When Shami had been ill as a child, Tamina would visit her in bed, showing her with reverence the object she, on behalf of Alamut and the world, was sworn to protect. In her less charitable moments, Shami thought her sister motivated more by smug pride than sisterly affection. But she had not been jealous then, and was certainly not jealous now. Shami could not imagine how Tamina planned to retrieve the dagger without alerting the Persians to its true power or how she would protect Alamut and its citizens from the harsher consequences of conquest. She thanked the gods that it was not her up there, confronting the might of Persia, for if it were, she had no doubt that Alamut would fall. Tamina would know what to do, though. She always did.

The voice of the king pulled Shami from her reverie. Tus had enough wives. Tamina was not to be his; his prize was in the victory itself. "But what of the hero of the hour, what of Dastan?" he asked, "His actions won the day, does he not also deserve a prize? I had heard there were two princesses in Alamut. Come, where is your sister?"

Damn. Damn damn damn. Tamina's eyes were boring down on her "please Shami" she could practically here her say "please get this right". Shami knew her sister had little faith in her, and gods knew Shami would have stayed where she was if she could, but she could not. And so she rose to meet the king. Or tried to. Damn again. Of all the times for her strength to fail, curse her feeble body. Alamut would fall because she couldn't get out of a chair. Across the room, Alamutian servers quietly put down their trays and gathered around her. Two young men on either side of her took a hand each and gently lifted her to her feet. She leaned heavily into their strength and slowly moved forward. A wave of gratitude washed over Shami as the servants surrounded her, concealing her weakness in the guise of an honor guard, escorting their mistress to the center of the knot of Persian soldiers, until she stood in front of the king, her sister, and the Persian princes.

Shami prayed that their ruse would work, at least until she regained control of her legs (these bouts of debilitating pain never lasted long). She had a feeling that the Persians, might of the world, had little patience for physical failing. She drew herself upward with all of the majesty she could muster, avoiding the anxious glare of her sister (hardly helpful, at a time like this) and met the eyes of the king. And was surprised by what she saw in them. His gaze was sharp and hard, as one might expect from the leader of the world's largest empire, adept at taking the measure of enemies and allies alike, but Shami also saw kindness there, and understanding. She found that she hoped he would think well of her, knowing he would not. "My sister, the princess Shamarak" Tamina announced tenderly, but with a note of skepticism in her voice. "She keeps my house".

"So we have you to thank for this delightful banquet?"

"Majesty", Shami acknowledged, with a nod of the head.

"A job well done, my girl, and a harder job than many here will know."

Shami blushed at the praise. She had never though of her little activities as being of any importance at all, let alone a difficult job to be acknowledged by the ruler of the known world. The king moved his glance from her face down along her arms to her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her retinue, and then back to her face, and Shami knew the game was up. "Perhaps you had better sit down, my dear". Panic consumed her, and she looked around wildly at her sister, who reassured her "Sit Shami. It was inevitable, I will take care of it". So Shami sat, grateful that the servants remained at her side. The king was seated, too, and now on the same level, he reached out and touched her arm. "Fear not child, there is more than one kind of strength in this world" (but I don't have any, Shami thought). "But where were we?" the king asked, changing the flow of conversation. "Ah yes, Dastan. Yes. Yes." The king's piercing stare penetrated Shami's composure once more. "Yes. Dastan should gain a wife from this adventure."

"Father!" Dastan shouted. Shami, startled, looked up at him, and in the disgust she read on his face, she realized the king's intention. He meant for Dastan to marry HER. Surely not. "Father, you can't be serious", and although Dastan's utterance echoed her own thoughts, she could not help but be hurt by it. She knew she was plain, and he could be none too thrilled at a wife whose legs occasionally gave way, but still. Was she really that bad? Brow furrowed, she leaned in to the king. "You are mistaken sir, surely you meant for Dastan to marry my sister, to marry Tamina." A stroke of brilliance, Shami thought. If Tamina could get close to Dastan, she could get close enough to reclaim the dagger, and this whole nightmare would be over. The king's voice brought her down to earth once more. "No" he said firmly. The king leaned in, and spoke softly, so that only Shami could hear. "Look at the loyalty you command," he said, gesturing to the servants still huddled around her protectively, "If I knew nothing else, that would be enough. But I can see it in your eyes, young lady. You are the one. The matter is settled. Let us speak of it no more."

With that the king seemed to lose interest, and turned his attention from her. Shami puzzled at how a man so seemingly wise could be so wrong. Loyalty? She looked at the faces of the servers, stewards, and sculleries gathered around her, at the concern in their faces, and knew it was concern that she let them down, and nothing more. Wasn't it?

And then Tamina was there. "Its all right, Shami, its going to be all right"

Shami realized that she was crying. "I'm sorry Tamina. I tried. I tried to help."

"I know, love. You did well. It's ok. This is not your destiny, it is mine. No one expects you to do more than you can. It's a good party, right? I will take care of the real work". Shami knew that Tamina was trying to reassure her, but it hurt, too. Was she so feeble, were expectations so low? Still she was relieved that Tamina was once again in charge.

"What are we going to do now?"

"I must get the dagger to the sanctuary. I'm going to get Dastan alone, and get it from him. I need you to stay here, and keep the party going. Keep everyone occupied so I am not missed. You're a good host, Shami, just keep them happy for as long as you can. Can you stand up yet?" Shami nodded, yes. The episode had passed. She stood. "Ok, then, here we go", and Tamina went off to alert her advisors to the plan.

As she left, Dastan approached, and placed a hand on Shami's back. Gods, but the man was beautiful up close. Shami could feel his strength and his warmth as she looked up at his face. He returned the glance, not unkindly. "Look, princess, I'm sorry if I was rude, but I'm not the marrying kind." (It's not you, it's me. Shami had heard of this excuse, and its favor with the opposite sex, from the palace maids). "Father will forget soon enough, if you could just keep out of sight?" And with a wink, he looked at her cajolingly. Shami found that she was irked by the presumption that she could be so easily brushed aside, and had to remind herself that she didn't want this marriage, either. She struggled to think of a witty reply. Tamina would have had a dozen ready by now.

Dastan obviously took her silence as a refusal to play along and continued "look, I'm sure I seem like a great catch, but…" Shami couldn't suppress a snort. His arrogance spurred her into action. Get him close to Tamina, she thought. That was the plan.

"No doubt, prince. There is no need for politeness. I am well aware that I am a less than ideal catch. But my sister, Tamina, she is very beautiful. And smart, and brave. Strong. Perhaps your opposition to the institution of marriage would lessen somewhat if she were the object? You needn't stay here to comfort me, go, and speak with her. If your father is as forgetful as you say, he could be persuaded that Tamina was to be your bride to begin with."

Dastan looked up at Tamina, across the room, and then back down at Shami. He didn't move. Shami couldn't decipher the look in his deep blue eyes. And why was his arm still around her, pressing into her back? Shami was acutely aware of his warm, muscled presence. "Princess, you misunderstand, I am rarely accused of politeness. I…"

And then, mid sentence, all hell broke loose. The king stood up, smoke rising from his garments, and collapsed. Treason, someone shouted. Persian soldiers held the princes back from attending their stricken father, lest they, too, succumb to the unknown poison. Then Garsiv, the middle brother, pointed towards Dastan, and swore with rage. "It was Dastan! Dastan gave the king the cloak! Murderer. Seize him!" Shami was unsure what he was talking about - she had not been paying attention, as always. The chaos around her was frightening, and she winced and looked for the reassuring presence of her sister. "Tamina? Tamina!" she cried. "Shami!" she heard, and looked across the room. Tamina was being held by Persian guards, suspected, perhaps, of involvement in the king's death. "Go, Shami! Stay with Dastan! Stay with IT! I will catch up when I can. Go!" Shami watched as Tamina wrested her way out of the guards' grasp, and with Alamutian help, fled through the far door.

Dastan was still near to her, his face distorted by rage and grief. He was preparing to stand and fight. His friend - she had seen them together earlier - raced to his aid and urged Dastan to flee, even as a sword pierced his side. It was now or never. Shami had no choice. "Dastan, come with me! Through here," she urged. The Alamutian servants cleared the way as Shami led the prince through a door concealed by a wall hanging. It was a secret stair, for the use of the kitchen staff. Shami knew it well, and soon the two emerged in the scullery, and Shami raced for the back door. Her legs couldn't take much more, she knew, as she prayed for them to hold out, at least until they reached the gates of the city. Persian warriors quickly caught on to their movements, and she heard Garsiv scream with rage behind her. "Stop them!" Shami panicked. She had no plan. She had gotten them out of the room - that was easy. She knew the palace like the back of her hand. But how could she get them out of the city? She was on unfamiliar ground. And then Dastan had wrapped his arm around her and launched them both onto one of the warhorses the Persians had stabled in the yard. Before she knew what had happened, they were racing through the streets of the city, and out the gates. With a physical prowess Shami had not known possible, Dastan lifted himself from the horse, leapt to the gate mechanism, and cut through the rope break with one swing of the sword and launched himself back into the saddle. The gate crashed home behind them, and they were free. Garsiv cursed and foamed, but could not follow.

Only after an hour of hard riding did Dastan stop the horse by a stream. Shami slid off and crumpled to the ground in an exhausted heap. It was more than her frail form could take. It was all wrong. Tamina. Tamina should be here, with the dagger, with this man. Not her. Not her. What could she do? How could she get the dagger? And take it to the sanctuary. Alone? She was exhausted after an hour's ride. Even one of these tasks was undoubtedly impossible. She prayed that Tamina could find them, and quickly. This was Tamina's destiny. Shami was lost in it.

Dastan dropped from the horse, took a desperately needed drink from the stream, and looked down at the crumpled figure of the Alamutian princess – Shamarak? – as she slid down from the back of the warhorse. As the panic of the chase subsided, his mind raced back through the events that had led him here. At the age of ten he had gone from street rat to prince in an instant, when the king had taken him from the marketplace and given him a home, a family, and a life. Just as quickly he found himself here, accused of murdering the very man who had raised him as a prince of Persia. A former gutter punk, trained as a Persian warrior – hailed this morning as the Lion of Persia, the might of an empire - was on the run with the most fragile looking girl he had ever seen.

It had all been going so well. Tus was on the warpath, Garsiv at his right hand, in charge of the cavalry, and Dastan affably along for the ride, in charge of his small band of former street boys, resourceful and loyal men, all, and, Dastan thought, much underrated by his more traditionally-minded brothers. They had suppressed a minor rebellion on the edges of the empire, and were returning home when their uncle, Nizam, had called an emergency council. The holy city of Alamut, he claimed, was aiding the enemy, selling weapons forged behind their sacred walls. Garsiv was chomping at the bit for a fight, as always. Tus less so, but swayed by trusted council. Dastan was unsure. The king had not sanctioned such an action, and on such slender evidence, why risk the loss of Persian lives? He loved his brothers, though, and accepted their decision to advance on Alamut.

Never one to follow orders, Dastan began his own advance early. In the night, his rag-tag team had breached the walls of Alamut with stealth and cunning. Dastan told himself it was to save lives – Garsiv's head-on attack was folly – but his best friend, Bis, suspected that Dastan was motivated by an overriding need for adventure. Royal life caged something in Dastan that occasionally needed to be let out. He was probably right - It was joy that Dastan felt, and freedom, as he raced across the rooftops of Alamut, taking on its guards in single combat, until the side gate was opened, and a signal sent out to Tus.

The rest of the battle had been a walk in the park. Only the one Alamutian – on horseback and carrying a dagger of obvious value - had given him any trouble. Dastan wondered why the man had been so eager to protect the knife? He had tucked it into his belt to ponder later, and then forgot about it. After the battle Tus had tried to claim it as a spoil of war, but Nizam had persuaded him to let Dastan keep it. Dastan couldn't say why, but he was so intrigued by the blade he had kept it by his side ever since. He had it when the brothers confronted Alamut's ruler, Tamina, princess and priestess both. Dastan couldn't be sure, but he thought her demeanor had changed when she spied it on him. From defiance to, if not acceptance, at least acquiescence. Tamina was as beautiful as he had heard. Tus wanted to marry her, and as far as Dastan was concerned, he could have her. She was gorgeous, and feisty, yes, but also haughty and aloof. He had done his duty and introduced her to his father, as Tus requested, and hoped that would be the end of it.

It had not been, as he remembered with a groan. The king had called him forward, and he had gone to his father, with pride. Bashful yet overjoyed to be called the Lion of Persia by the man whose respect and love he valued most, Dastan was pleased at the prospect of a gift for his efforts. But then the king had called forth Alamut's younger princess. Had he even known there was one? He hadn't heard her mentioned before, not in talks with other rulers, in their intelligence reports on Alamut – even from the Alamutians here. Only Tamina had been at the surrender. But indeed, a woman had come forward to meet the king. She looked like a small, pale replica of her sister. Not unattractive, but no great beauty, her features lacked the definition and resolve of her sister's. Her eyes, though, were a different story. Darkest brown and deep as a well of pure night, he could not read the look they held at all. Her mind was a private country, to which no one present was granted access. Dastan had little time for frailty, and even less for women, but he couldn't help wanting to know what this strange creature was thinking behind those enigmatic eyes. Shamarak, her sister had called her. There was a tension mounting in the air, as if all of Alamut was holding its breath. The men and women who had failed to mention the existence of this second princess now seemed afraid of (or, Dastan suddenly realized, for) her now.

It mattered little to Dastan, and he had turned to speak with Bis when he heard the king announce that he was to be married. He whipped around to face the news head on. "Father, you can't be serious!" Gods, he had been expecting a new sword, not a bride! Dastan enjoyed life as it was, carefree, full of the camaraderie of brotherhood, the thrill of the chase, and the glory of battle. He had bedded women, to be sure, but to be bonded to one forever…

The princess, she was seated now – why was she seated in the presence of the king? What had he missed – drew her gaze up sharply at his outburst. Her gaze furrowed in pain, fear, and confusion, and Dastan immediately regretted not paying closer attention. What had she said? What had his father said to her? The situation was rapidly escaping him, and for some reason, he now felt guilty. What was her name again, Shamarak? He couldn't stand the look on her face, that he had left her so bewildered and afraid, and he had no idea why. She smiled at him reassuringly (oh, gods, that was worse!) and addressed the king. "You are mistaken sir, surely you meant for Dastan to marry my sister, to marry Tamina." It just kept getting worse, now the poor girl thought it was her he objected to in particular, and was trying to trade up for him. The frustration was almost too much. He had to talk sense into his father.

The two princesses were speaking frantically to each other to one side, and Dastan took the opportunity to get near to the king. "Father, I…"

"Dastan, at last, a moment to speak. Your actions, I hear, saved many lives."

"Thank you father."

"But, had you listened to your instincts, and prevented the invasion from happening at all, no lives would have been lost at all, and this holy city not defiled."

Dastan looked down in shame. "I did my best father, Tus…"

"Tus must act as he must. As the eldest he carries the burden of future rule. But you, Dastan, the boy I saw in the market that day did more than try. Your actions today were great, and to the glory of Persia. The boy I met was more than great; the boy I met was also good. Take the princesses of Alamut. Look at Tamina, in her defiance. The woman is great, there is no doubt. But her sister, I see in her eyes what I saw in yours, those many years ago. It is a goodness that cannot be learned. It is or is not. Perhaps marriage to her will remind you of your own potential to be better than you are."

"Father, please, I can be that man, but I have no wish to marry!"

"Enough, Dastan, I am tired. I have no wish to argue with you now, on this of all days."

Shaking himself out of his father's somber words, Dastan, too, came back to the day's celebrations. He had a gift for his father – Tus had arranged it. Dastan could never get the hang of such formalities. His own instinct, in the glow of victory, was to share the moment with his men. Tus had come to the rescue, though, with a prayer robe, and he gave it to his father now. His obligations satisfied, Dastan sought out the younger princess of Alamut. If his father would not listen to sense, he would take a different tact.

He found her alone in a corner, standing once more. Up close, he could see why his father had offered her a seat. Her strength seemed to fail her, her legs practically shaking as they attempted to support her. Best he could tell, she was holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Before he knew what he was doing, he wrapped an arm around her, gently taking on as much of her weight as he could without her noticing – he had no wish to shame her, certainly not before he could get her on his side. Her hair was close to his face, and it smelled of vanilla and jasmine. She was so delicate, leaning on his arm, that looking down he could not help but feel protective of her. She looked up into his face, and for a moment he was lost. None of this made sense. Best to stick to the plan.

"Look, princess, I'm sorry if I was rude, but I'm not the marrying kind. Father will forget soon enough, if you could just keep out of sight?" He looked at her encouragingly and gave her a wink to let her know he had no more wish to entrap her than she undoubtedly had to be married to the cause of her people's destruction. The princess made no reply, and he worried that he had read the situation wrong. Maybe she did want him, but he needed to get out of this somehow. Maybe he needed to be more forthright.

"Look, I'm sure I seem like a great catch, but…"

She interrupted before he could finish. "No doubt, prince. There is no need for politeness. I am well aware that I am a less than ideal catch. But my sister, Tamina, she is very beautiful. And smart, and brave. Strong. Perhaps your opposition to the institution of marriage would lessen somewhat if she were the object? You needn't stay here to comfort me, go, and speak with her. If your father is as forgetful as you say, he could be persuaded that Tamina was to be your bride to begin with."

Dastan looked up at Tamina, across the room, and then back down at her sister. What was she talking about? Gods, not this again. He didn't want Tamina. He didn't want anyone. Why did the girl in his arms – he was suddenly aware of how closely he was holding her – keep assuming he wanted to be rid of her for another, as though apologizing for her very presence? He looked down into her eyes. She must be able to tell how intriguing he found them. He didn't want to marry her, but something in him ached at the idea that she thought that was her fault. "Princess, you misunderstand, I am rarely accused of politeness. I…"

And then, mid sentence, all hell broke loose. His father was struggling to rise, smoke emanating from the cloak that Dastan had just given him. He had died there, before Dastan's eyes as he struggled to reach his father. Garsiv had looked at him then, Dastan thought in shared grief, but it was a look of anger. In shock, Dastan couldn't process what happened next. As though from the far end of a looking glass, he saw his brother point, accuse him of the unthinkable. Soldiers rushed him, and Bis, dear Bis, came to his defense. And died for his actions. The princess Shamarak grabbed his hand, and led him through the bowels of the palace, and they had emerged outside.

She looked at him in panic, and it snapped him from his cocoon of grief with a quick rush of adrenaline. He grabbed a Persian warhorse and somehow – he couldn't remember afterward – got them out of the city. He had only stopped when he knew the horse could take no more.

And here he was, a fatherless orphan once more. He could never kill his father. His only father. Who believed he could be more than he was. No one would believe him now, he knew. He needed someone to believe him. He knelt down and lifted the princess to a sitting position. He held her head in his hands, "I did not kill my father" he insisted. Looking at her and past her at the same time, as though to her and the world at once, "I did not kill my father". He withdrew his hands and ran them through his hair as he thought. "It was Tus. Tus gave me the cloak, I did not kill my father!"