Hello and welcome to my series of stories from the latest Prince of Persia. Since this new Prince claims to have no past every time Elika brings it up in the game, I decided to make it up. This first story is about him as a child and the event that took his family away from him. As more story ideas come to me (which they always do…my head is a fountain of randomness), he'll grow more and more into the Prince we all know and love.

So, to start off, here's a tale of his younger days. Enjoy!

Story 1 - The Forgotten One

They called him Rustam.

His mother had told him that the day he was born, they knew he would be a hero. Her labor had been long, so long that his father thought he was going to lose both his wife and son in one night. Somehow, the physician had performed a miracle. The sounds of the baby's wailing brought tears to everyone's eyes. He was strong, she had said, so strong that even Death could not take him away to the underworld, not when the boy had barely taken one step into his new life.

So, from that moment onward, he had grown up listening to the tales of the hero Rostam. He delighted in hearing how he had killed the crazed elephant of king Manuchehr as a young man, how he defeated both the lion and the dragon, and how he tricked the witch and slew the White Demon. He longed for a companion like Olad as he longed for the adventures sure to await him outside of the city. He wanted something more…wanted to be more than just himself…

Naturally, he became one of the most adventurous of the boys that lived in his city. He was the first to scale the walls of the tall buildings that blocked the sun, the first to dash headfirst into the crowded roads, and the first to sneak his hands into the merchants' baskets. He was the first to encourage others to follow him, the first to pull his friends out of danger, and the first to think up an excuse to get himself out of trouble. He developed a quick tongue and even quicker feet. I am named for the greatest hero in the world, he would tell himself. I must live up to it.

As he became older, he would follow his father and brother around when the street children bored him. A boy must make something of himself, his father would say to both of his sons. And so he learned how to make things out of clay. He would watch with hungry eyes as his father shaped the wet material until it became a treasure, a true diamond dug out from the muck of the earth. Soon his brother had learned to make similar jewels.

Then he would follow them into the heart of the marketplace and watch as they sold their clay masterpieces. The boy learned how to spot something of quality and how much it was worth in gold, silver, pots, silks, and spices. Sometimes, he thought his father sold an item for too little. But he would pat his son on the head and tell him that, once in a while, it was better to let something go for a smaller price to a family that could not afford its true worth. There were people worse off than them; they would make good use of the jar he had sold to them. Not only did the child then learn to barter, but he also learned how to be compassionate.

Sometimes, he would sit with his mother and his sister when the desert sun beat down on the world too harshly. He listened while they wove tales as deftly as they wove their cloth. If he closed his eyes, he could see perfectly the heroes and villains that they painted in his mind. He knew the face of Ahura Mazda, the face of Ormazd, and the dark shadow that was Ahriman. Their voices were like those of goddesses. How was it that a woman could capture your mind and your heart with a single glance or word?

His mother would laugh when he asked that. She would tell him that the world was full of different kinds of women. He should be careful to make sure that any he came across were of a good family. Too many of them had fallen off the straight path.

His sister would make a face, which he would imitate. He had seen those kinds of women before, parading themselves around in the streets or holed up in brothels to be used for a man's pleasure as long as they could afford it. He swore that he would never be like that. When he fell in love with a woman, she would be kind and affectionate. She would be respected among the people. Her tales would captivate both children and adults alike.

He shared this with his sister one time. The laughter that came from her mouth made his cheeks turn red, but she embraced him and wished him luck on his journey. He did not understand at the time what she meant. She wasn't that much older than he was, perhaps four or five years his senior. How could she already know so much about the way the world worked? It was his mother who finally told him. His sister was reaching an age where she could marry and start a family of her own. Maybe a man would come along who truly cared for her and could provide a comfortable life for her. His mother told him that the world would be lucky to have more men like him in it, men whose morals and ideals would someday change it for the better.

On days when there was nothing much to do, his older brother would bring him along and teach him things that only men needed to know. At least, that's what he had told him. Along with the younger brothers of the young man's friends, he learned how to ride a horse and wield a small sword. They taught him games of chance, how to cheat and how to get the biggest payout. When he was older, his brother promised, they would teach him how to drink and how to woo.

But of all the things he learned as a young boy, the greatest one was how to listen to his inner voice. The nights when the moon was full were the best. He would wait until the family was asleep before climbing onto the roof and gazing out at the white orb in the sky. Then a voice would whisper in his ear. At least, that's what it felt like. He could never really explain it to anyone else. Sometimes the voice would say things that didn't make any sense. Sometimes it didn't say anything at all; instead, a feeling would overwhelm him. The more he paid attention to it, the more he was able to keep away from danger. He learned to trust in this voice almost immediately. But it was something that he never shared with anyone once he realized what it could do and what it was saying. Eventually the voice would urge him to sleep, and he would climb back into his bed and drift off immediately.

There was one night, however, where the voice was so strong that he could not sleep. The sun would rise in a few hours but his eyes would not close. The voice whispered danger, danger into his ears. Unnerved, he climbed to the roof to look at the moon. It was little more than a sliver of light in the sky. A breeze passed through. The chill felt like ice coating his skin. Even after he returned to his bed, sleep failed to relieve him.

When the sun finally did rise, he immediately went to his mother. "I can feel something," he said to her, "but I don't know what it is. It kept me up all night."

It was then that he noticed dark spots under her beautiful eyes that had not been there yesterday. "Something is coming. We must be prepared to meet it."

When they sat down for prayers and the morning meal, his father also spoke of a strange feeling. "The winds have changed. I fear that today may bring more bad news than good."

"Has something happened outside of the city?" the oldest son asked.

His father nodded. "There is always something going on outside our city. Warring states, natural occurrences, problems with the traveling merchants. The list of possibilities is endless." He turned to his oldest son. "We must keep our ears open today for news. Be cautious and remain vigilant."

"The hand of Ahriman stretches over us all," the younger said, although more to himself than to his family.

A chuckle escaped his father's lips. "And you have spent too much time listening to children's stories. You will join your brother in the city today."

"Yes, father," was all he said in reply.

It was the first time he had had to put all his skills to the test. The two brothers meandered through crowds, scaled walls and slid in and out of the shadows. Rustam used his childlike status to listen in on the conversations of the adults while his brother asked questions and gathered information. He didn't like it. This seemed too much like what the criminals did, spying and lying and planning their next move. People like that always got caught in the stories. Most of the time, they were caught in real life, too. He most certainly did not want to be the next naughty little boy sent to the darkness of Ahriman's prison.

They had very little to bring back at the end of the day. There were no tales, no singing, and no stories. His father listened patiently as they shared what they had discovered. Rumors were flying around about a man named Cyrus who was slowly conquering the Median Empire. His troops were close, according to some of the merchants. War could be on their very doorstep.

"This is grave," his father said. "We must make preparations immediately."

He watched as his parents and siblings began filling jars and bags with items, filling water skins and wrapping food. The sadness shone from their features and made his heart sick with dread. Their city had been at peace for as long as he could remember. So what was now drawing these invaders closer to them?

The preparations went late into the night. Try as he might, the boy could not stay awake. It was sometime later, when the sliver of moon was high in the night sky, that his father woke him and hauled him out of bed. Through sleepy eyes he saw him prepare a horse and load it with the things they had gathered earlier. "Has something happened?" he asked his father in a tired voice.

"No, son, not yet. But I need to send you away for a few days. It will be safer for you." He picked him up and placed him on the horse. "Follow the Euphrates River to the first city you come across. Tell the soldier at the gate your family name and ask him to show you to my brother's house. We will come and get you when this has past."

"Be strong, little brother," his older brother said, clasping his arm. "We will see you soon."

Neither his mother nor his sister said anything, but he could read their thoughts from their eyes. Before he could voice any objections, his father slapped the horse on the rump and sent the two of them away. Rustam managed a quick glance backwards before his family disappeared from sight.

They never came back for him.

He knew that within a week of finding his uncle and aunt, who lived a few days journey along the river. He did not need to hear the news of an attack on his beloved city as Cyrus swept across the Median Empire. He did not need to learn about the war that was taking the lives of hundreds of men, women and children. He did not need to have his uncle pull him aside one day, while he was staring out of the window and into a darkened world, and tell him that his family had been killed.

Still, it felt like a knife wound deep into his heart. It twisted four times, one for each of the people he loved best. A small part of him thought about the boys he had befriended, the merchants he had bargained with, the whores he had avoided, and the criminals he had slighted; he wondered how many of them survived and how many of them were grieving for people they would never see or touch again.

He should have cried. He wanted to, badly. But the tears would not come, not even as Ahriman himself hissed into his ear that he held his family captive. Instead he straightened his shoulders, nodded to his uncle, and walked out into the busy streets.

Unlike home, everything here seemed darker. The people seemed to look at him with disdain, the food seemed putrid, and the shadows seemed to overtake the light places. A couple of boys ran in and out of the stalls, but not to the same extent as back home. Maybe they were too afraid to come out. They should be, he thought. Dark things lurk even when the sun is high above us.

He heard a crack behind him. A young boy, roughly his age, was rubbing his hand where one of the merchants had smacked it. "And let that be a lesson to you, urchin!" the man spat in his direction. "No one steals from my cart."

Rustam walked over to the pair and leaned over to examine the fruit. Flies covered the darkened food. Most of it was wrinkled and the smell made his stomach turn. He picked up one of the pieces and pinched it between his fingers. A purple ooze dripped down his fingers. The other boy made a face of disgust.

"I wouldn't even bother stealing from your cart," Rustam said.

The man simply glared at him. One of his eyes twitched. But he said nothing as the boy replaced the rotten fruit and turned away.

The tiny patter of feet behind him finally forced Rustam to turn back. He had walked quite a ways, but the other child had followed him. "Why did you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Make a scene about his wares. That man's notorious for cheating people with his cheap food that always turns out to be rotten."

Rustam chuckled. It was the first time he had laughed in over a week now. "You know some big words for a child."

"I'm no more of a child than you." He looked at the slightly taller boy for a minute. "You aren't from here."

"No. My city was attacked and my family was killed. I've got no where else to go."

He continued his wandering, but the boy persisted in following him anyway. The architecture of the city made it more difficult to get around the streets, but it was easier to slip into the shadows and remain unnoticed. The other child seemed uncomfortable with this route. They pressed on regardless. It seemed like a bad idea to stay in any one place for long. "Your city is confusing."

"My father says it was built too roughly, which makes the people too rough in return."

"What does your father do?"

"He used to make clay pots. But his hands are so mangled now that he cannot support the family. My sisters weave and try to sell their cloth, but sometimes it isn't enough. That's why I sometimes steal."

Rustam chuckled again at the irony. It felt good, he decided. "Stealing from a cheater's cart?"

"There aren't many that are better, and they're guarded." He motioned towards a rather large stand opposite from where they were standing. A stern looking man stood on one side, his arms crossed over his tunic and his eyes warily scanning the crowd. The actual seller, a skinny man who swam in his own clothing, was busy haggling with a customer. "Some of the merchants can afford protection for their wares."

"It seems like a silly idea to me." Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Two men were arguing over the value of a clay jar at another stand. Rustam eased his way out into the streets so he could listen in on their conversation. His companion followed.

He realized that they were bartering by the time he reached the pair. The jar in the older man's hands was beautifully decorated with red and yellow paint. Even from where he was standing, he could tell that it had cost its maker a fortune to acquire. Even the shape of the jar was of some difficulty to create, with a delicately curved handle and a narrow neck at the top. Someone labored many hours over this piece.

The other man had a basket of some kind in his hand. It wasn't anything special, so Rustam assumed that its contents were what they were arguing over. He was shouting at the other man, who was beginning to cower a bit. "Two bushels? Hah! Your little jar isn't worth half a bushel, old man."

"I tell you, this is made from the best clay in the entire empire! And these paints came from merchants to the east, laden with gold and covered in the finest garments. Would I cheat you out of something so valuable?"

"I won't give you more than half of my load. Take it or leave it."

Rustam could see despair in the older man's eyes. Stepping forward, he bowed his head to the two of them. "May I see your jar?" he asked. Even after the tragedy, he spoke like a trader. Like his father.

The younger man grunted. "A runt like you would break it."

"Why are you concerned? You just said it wasn't worth much."

His face turned a dull red shade. "You little…"

"Here, young man." The other held out the jar and put it in Rustam's cradled hands. The surface was devoid of any blemishes. He ran his fingers over the thick paint. When held up to the light, none of it shone through. "This is indeed a treasure, and worth at least three bushels of whatever you have."

He handed it back to the man, but the other stepped in. "Who do you think you are, urchin? You wouldn't know quality if I rubbed gold into your eyes."

Then he did the unthinkable.

He batted the man's hands and sent the jar flying into the air. Rustam felt hot anger rush through his veins as he watched the jewel plummet to the ground.

His companion was too fast. Darting between Rustam and the old man, he dove into the dirt and snagged the handle of the jar before it hit the ground. Everyone around watched as he picked himself up, dusted off his ragged tunic, and held it up in the air. A couple of people shouted praise in his direction.

Rustam turned back to the man with the basket. "Ahriman has a strong hold on your heart. Best watch yourself."

Quick as lighting, the man dropped his basket and grabbed the boy by the neck, hauling him in the air. "You are costing me valuable time," he hissed. Spittle flew into Rustam's eyes as he struggled to break free. "And valuable customers."

"You're…a cheater….Go rot…"

A crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. If this had been back home, his friends would have come running to save him, or his father and brother would have taught the man a lesson in trying to cheat someone out of their goods. But no one was coming now. They were all dead. Think. Use your brain instead of your mouth.

"Hey, there's nothing in here." Rustam hit the ground as the man dropped him and kicked him aside. The other boy had opened the basket during the scuffle and was now shouting its contents to the crowd. "Its empty. You're a thief!"

"Wretch!" The man brought his hand across the child's face and snatched up his basket, fleeing into the parting crowds. Several people shouted in his direction. But within minutes, they resumed their activities as if things like this were normal occurrences.

Rustam rubbed his neck, sending shots of pain through his body. He would have bruises in the morning. The other child had one hand over his eye. He whimpered in pain but did not cry. "Are you alright?" The boy nodded. Slowly, he stood and dusted off his clothing. "Darkness hangs over this place in droves."

"But its all we know." The old man was still holding his jar and was smiling at the two boys. "How did you know what this was worth?"

"My father was a clay maker before he died. He taught me how to use my eyes, more so than my common sense, apparently."

The old man shook his head. "No one here possesses very much of that. You are in good company." He knelt next to the other child and gently lifted him to his feet. "Best have your sister look at that eye, Bahadur. It will be swollen by morning." He nodded, and the man turned back to Rustam. "You are new to this city. What is your name?"

"Rustam."

"Ah, a strong name for a strong young man. Great things will come your way, but only if you are willing to take a risk to obtain them." He straightened his back and bowed his head to the children. "Good day," was all he said before disappearing into the crowds.

Rustam felt confused. Shouldn't he be more grateful that he saved him from a poor deal? Why didn't anyone go after the man with the basket? Where was his help as that monster tried to choke him and hit a child for no reason? Truly, this city must be cursed to have so many uncaring people.

"Hey, are you okay?" Bahadur was waving his dirty hands in front of Rustam's face. "Ah, you're back. Do you have any other people you want to thwart today?"

"Huh?"

"Well, for someone who's unfamiliar with the area, you certainly don't worry about getting yourself killed. Its still early. Shall we try the western markets and see what kind of trouble we can get into?"

Rustam faltered. What was this boy doing? "What about your eye?"

"I've had worse." He ducked back into the shadows, this time with Rustam following him instead. "Come on, I'll show you the rest of the city."

"Then we're going up. These streets make me nervous." Rustam ran a few steps up one of the walls until he could reach a canopy hanging over a doorway. He hauled himself up and held a hand out to Bahadur. A few beams later, they found themselves on the rooftops. The city spread out before them.

They glanced at each other and grinned. No words needed to be said. An understanding passed between them, one that had formed in a few short minutes. As they scaled the buildings and jumped from roof to roof across the city, Rustam couldn't help but feel a dullness inside his heart. His family was gone and he would never see them again. He had a companion, but who knew how long he would stay. No, from now on, he would only be able to rely on himself. He would become something greater. He would prove to the gods that they could strike him down, but he would always get back up.

He was Rustam. Someday, even Ahriman would quake with fear at the mention of his name.