The Needy and the Wayfarer
A Prince of Persia fan fiction by xahra99.
Author's Note: This story takes place between Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time and Prince of Persia: The Warrior Within. The canon of Battles of Prince of Persia is mostly ignored, save for a few country names. As ever, the Prince of Persia and all related franchises featured in this story belong to Ubisoft.
"Are you sure that you'll be all right?" Zohra asked. She gazed suspiciously down the narrow street, as if expecting a djinn or a demon from one of Scheherezade's tales to appear out of thin air and snatch Fatima away.
Fatima nodded firmly. "I will be fine," she said. She took the wicker basket from Zohra and patted the girl on the shoulder. "I'll be back before the judge arrives. Make sure everything is ready. I won't be long."
The expression of vague, unfocused concern on Zohra's unveiled face was replaced by a grimmer and far more focused panic. She glanced over her shoulder at the tiled, gleaming courtyard of the House of the Gazelles. "You can count on me."
"Good girl." Fatima said, and stepped out into the street. Zohra closed the door behind her, cutting off the sound of sweet voices and trickling water. A few deep thudding noises came from behind the door as Zohra fastened the bolts, and then silence.
Fatima adjusted the basket on her arm and inhaled deeply. The nearby spice market gave the air a rich perfume of nutmeg, amber and cloves, overlying a faint but insinuating odor of overripe tomatoes, sardines and cat urine. She grimaced, pressed a scented handkerchief to her veil and started walking.
Fatima's daily almsgiving had become something of a tradition in her neighborhood. She had many reasons for her charity; firstly, because she lacked the willpower to manage the many fasts required by her religion, secondly, because she had managed to escape her own hell of poverty and hardship many years ago and saw no reason not to be generous to people who had so far failed to do the same, and thirdly, because even after more than a decade her lucrative and sinful profession still caused her some guilt. Her basket was particularly heavy that day (the girls had been wasteful the previous evening) and so her almsgiving route took her into an area of the city that she rarely visited. The new route took more time, and so it was with more than a little annoyance that she glanced up at the sundial positioned high on one house wall to find that the judge was nearly due, and down at her basket to find that she still had one loaf left.
It was then that she saw the beggar.
He sat alone beneath an arched doorway, a hooded cloak drawn over his face. His elbows rested on his knees. Relieved, Fatima hastened over to him, removing the last loaf from her basket as she walked. She held the loaf out and waited for him to take it.
The beggar did not move a muscle.
Fatima glanced down at his shrouded head. It was possible, she thought, that he was blind. She stepped closer, knelt down and offered the bread again.
The beggar moved faster than Fatima would have believed possible. His hand snaked out and grasped, not the bread, but her wrist. Her bracelets pressed painfully into her plump arm. Dimly, she was aware that she had dropped her basket.
"Take it." she said stupidly.
The man raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were shockingly, exotically blue. Eyes like her son's, had he survived. "I am not a beggar," he said precisely.
The unfriendly tone of his voice might have daunted a less experienced woman, but Fatima had given up being intimidated by men a long time ago. "Really? Then who are you?"
"I'm the Prince of Persia."
"And I'm the Emir of Tunis."
"You mock me," he said angrily, as if he was not used to being laughed at. His grip tightened on Fatima's wrist. Her bracelets pinched her wrist and she gasped, dropping the bread, which fell into the dust. It rolled past the hem of the man's cloak, past his travel-worn boots and came to rest in the curve of the sword at his hip. The metal gleamed in the dim light.
Fatima swallowed. She had not noticed the sword. Her palms were sweaty. She wrenched her hand from the man's grasp and wiped her hand on her cloak. The man-the Prince-let her go.
"You're a long way from Persia, boy."
"I suppose I am." His voice was rusty, as if he had not used it in a long time.
She nudged the bread with her slipper. "Take it."
The man's eyes shifted towards the bread, then away again, then back to the bread. "No," he said. "I will not accept charity."
Fatima nudged the bread a little closer. "Take it." she repeated.
He leant forwards and scowled up at her through locks of tangled dark hair. "Go away."
Fatima shrugged. She kicked the bread a little closer, picked up her basket and walked back around the corner, pausing at a handful of stalls on the next street to browse. The stalls were badly stocked and dirty and would not normally have attracted her. Still, she found herself dithering, testing lumps of perfumed amber against her skin and inspecting the lengths of silk the shopkeepers held out for her with far closer attention than their poor quality deserved. When that entertainment waned, she reached into her pocket, withdrew a sugar-coated almond and popped it into her mouth. Chewing slowly, she walked back around the corner.
The man was seated in exactly the same position as before. His elbows rested on his knees. It looked like he had not moved a muscle since she had left him, but there was no sign of the bread.
Fatima smiled behind her veil. She walked up to the man and prodded his knee with the toe of her slipper. "Enjoy the food?"
She was rewarded by a venomous stare. "I told you, I'm no beggar."
"A traveler?" Fatima asked. Her guess was greeted by weary silence, but she pressed on regardless. "God rewards acts of kindness towards weary travelers. My house is close. Rest awhile. "
"I'm not tired."
"You look tired. Don't contradict a lady." She cocked her head to one side and peered at him through her veil, dusting powdered sugar from her hands. "Who are you?"
"I told you," the man said exasperatedly. "I'm the prince of Persia."
"You sound Persian." Fatima squatted down beside him. "Don't look Persian, though."
"So I've been told."
"The swords, now, they're Persian."
"How would you know?"
"I'm a lady. I know a lot of things." Fatima said. She shuffled over on her heels to the nearest wall. "Shall I visit you tomorrow?"
"I don't need-"
"Charity. Yes, I know. But wouldn't you like a chat?" Fatima gave the Prince a second to consider this obviously deeply unattractive prospect. Grasping a brick, she attempted to rise. "I'll bring some-oh, sweet lord, my knees!" She sagged artistically, clutching at the wall for support, and hoped that the bricks were indeed rough enough to save her from a painful and highly undignified fall, should the young man fail to do the right thing. "Ah-"
He moved with the same uncanny speed, despite his obvious exhaustion, gripping her arms to steady her and glaring at her with those blue eyes. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. A plump, middle-aged woman, salving her conscience with alms giving? Or a vulgar madam, adorned in too much henna, kohl and jewelry (all carefully chosen to project the aura of affordable decadence that attracted most of her clients)? Or was she just another veiled face in the crowd?
"Can you walk?" he asked her grudgingly.
Fatima gripped his arm with plump, ringed hands, only half-faking. The squatting had been hard on her knees. She projected a tremor into her voice. "I think so..."
"Walk, then."
She took a wobbling step and almost fell again, smiling triumphantly beneath her veil as the Prince took her arm. His hands were calloused and tense with muscle, and they supported her without any apparent effort. "I'll escort you home," he said. "Which way?"
Fatima offered demure thanks and directions, wondering as she did so what she was doing and, more importantly, why she was doing it. She had not survived fifty years in the toughest city of Aresura by acting on impulses. Snatches of scripture ran through her head, punctuated by memories of those eyes, so like her son's. Give their due to the near relative, she thought, the needy and the wayfarer, for these are the ones who will prosper. Whatever you give in charity will earn multiple rewards.
She picked up her basket, and they set off.
Besides, succoring a weary traveler should erase at least two years of whoring. Three, if I'm lucky.
"So, are you part Circassian?" she asked as they passed the souk.
The Prince grunted.
"Hamit's father was Circassian." Fatima offered.
"Why do you ask so many questions?"
"If you don't ask, you don't get. And I'm a nosy person."
"I noticed."
She plucked a handful of sweets from her pocket. "Sugared almond?"
"No."
"Suit yourself." Fatima said, and popped the sweets into her mouth. "We're almost there."
They reached the House of the Gazelles without further delay, to the Prince's obvious and poorly-hidden relief. Fatima directed him to the back gate, leaning heavily on his arm to ensure that he did not escape and waste her good deed. She rapped briskly on the thick wood and turned to the Prince.
"A thousand thanks for your prompt intervention. I don't know how I would have managed."
"I'm sure you would have-"
Fatima didn't give him the chance to finish his sentence. "I insist that you come in and rest," she said firmly.
The Prince looked ill at ease. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week or washed for a fortnight, but he clearly had not forgotten all his manners. "I thank you," he said in that courtly cut-glass accent. "But-"
It was fortunate that Aisha opened the door right at that moment, because it gave Fatima the chance to place a ringed, plump and surprisingly brawny hand between the Prince's shoulder blades and physically shove the man across the threshold. She started pointedly at Aisha, who quickly closed the door behind them both and bowed her head in a floor-sweeping curtsey. "Maybe some tea,"
The Prince glanced around at the courtyard, mired in good manners. The back gate was not as ornate as the front of the house, but Fatima had still spent an awful lot of money and time on the decor and would have expected any poor traveler to be awed by the effect. Hand-polished mosaic tiles glittered from every available surface. Caged thrushes and chaffinches sang sweetly from the boughs of orange trees, imprisoned in tiny bamboo cages. Fat goldfish swam lazily through the thick green water of a rectangular pond in the centre of the courtyard. A fountain in the centre of the pond filled the air with the noise of falling water and censers concealed in tiny alcoves scented it with incense.
The Prince seemed unimpressed by the lavish decoration, which irritated Fatima but made his story more convincing. She handed her basket to Aisha and made her way across the tiles, beckoning the Prince to follow. The courtyard was pleasantly cool after the heat and dust of the streets.
"The green room, I think," she told Aisha, glancing over her shoulder at the girl. "Fetch some tea for our guest."
Aisha inclined her head gracefully and hurried off. Fatima threw open the door of the room and motioned the Prince inside. He went, but slowly.
"I really can't stay-"
"Rest here." Fatima patted the couch. "The tea will be ready soon."
"You don't understand."The Prince's voice, still polished, held an edge of panic. "The creature-"
"Whatever it is," Fatima said firmly, "it can wait." She knelt down in a practiced gesture and held out one hand. "Boots, please."
"Look, this isn't really-"
"You're dirtying my floor."
The Prince ran one hand down his battered calf-length boots. He tugged at the heel. Fatima sighed internally, removed his hand and briskly pulled off his boots with the ease of long practice, setting them neatly beside the chair. She glanced at the state of the feet revealed and winced. "Good. Now wait. I will go and find your tea. I will be back shortly. Make yourself comfortable."
The Prince regarded her with resignation. "Do I have a choice?" he asked wryly.
"No. Whatever's chasing you, one cup of tea won't make much difference. Will it?"
"Possibly."
Fatima snorted. "I don't imagine it will." She got to her feet, slid open the door and slipped out, casting a glance back over her shoulder as she crossed the courtyard. Miraculously, the door remained closed. She found Aisha in the kitchen, adding the last touches to an ornate tea tray. She raised one eyebrow as Fatima approached and added a sprig of mint to the saucer with an artistic flourish. They walked back through the courtyard together.
"What about the judge?"
Fatima looked up at the ornate mosaic sundial inlaid into the courtyard wall. "Zohra should have everything in hand by now. In a manner of speaking."
Aisha rolled her eyes. "And what about him?" She stabbed one finger at the closed wooden doors at the green room. "What were you thinking? Oh, I can see why, with a haircut and a good wash-or several good washes-but isn't he a bit young for you?"
Fatima ignored her as she walked to the ornate metal-grilled windows. She stood on her tiptoes, the arthritis in her knees waking vivid and painful, and peered through the grill. The Prince lay asleep on the bed, wrapped in his ragged cloak. The lines on his face were erased by relaxation, making him appear far younger that she'd first thought. It was an effect she'd noticed many times; upon those sleeping, and those dead.
"Never mind him," she said pragmatically. "We've got work to do."
The evening was a resounding success. By half past ten the musicians had packed up their instruments and gone home, leaving a table filled with dirty dishes and half-eaten hunks of gutted peacock. Fatima stayed until the last guest had been shown to their quarters. After the last plate had been cleaned, the last gauzy scarf retrieved from the banisters and the last table set for the lavish breakfast to greet the guests that had decided to stay the night, she made her way outside.
The courtyard was dark and peaceful, still warm from the sun. It smelt of orange blossom, night air, and the smoke that drifted up from the pierced iron lanterns. Fatima walked around the pool. She scuffed her slippers over the warm tiles, thinking.
The door to the green room was still closed.
Fatima collected a candle-holder from one of the low marble benches that surrounded the pool. She walked over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to touch the candle's wick to the smoky orange flame of the oil-lamp that burned overhead. In the dim light of the candle, she could just make out the outline of the Prince's sleeping body, rolled in his cloak on the couch.
She shielded the candle-flame with one hand and pushed the door open. The heavy brass hinges, well-oiled, made no sound. The candle and the strip of orange light shining in through the two small windows gave her just enough light to avoid the untouched tea-tray that Aisha had left just inside the door. The Prince did not move.
Fatima tucked a strand of hennaed hair behind her ear and approached the sleeping man. Growing more confident, she set the candle down on the floor and picked up his boots to examine the leather. Much like the man himself, they looked like they had once been of good quality. She tucked them under her arm for cleaning and picked up the lamp.
"What are you doing?"
Fatima gasped and dropped the boots. They clattered to the tiled floor. She swung around to face the prince, feeling obscurely guilty. "I'm cleaning," she said angrily.
The Prince blinked once and swept tangled hair out of his eyes. He had a soldier's trick of coming awake almost immediately, she noticed. "It's rather late."
"A woman's work is never done," she said glibly, and bent down to pick up the boots.
"Leave them there."
"They need cleaning." As do you, Fatima thought She let the boots lie and straightened, watching him carefully, because it was unlikely that anybody would notice if he slit her throat, then ran away over the rooftops. It would have surprised her if he had, but she'd been wrong before.
"I've stayed too long already," he said, and swung his legs off the end of the couch. The movement swept his cloak back to reveal a rather strange costume consisting of stained, mismatched armor and an inordinate number of belts. A dark stain was just visible beneath his cloak, glinting slickly in the lamplight, as if the sudden movement had opened a wound. The Prince didn't appear to notice. He rose smoothly, leaning slightly to one side, and reached out a hand to her. "Thank you for your kindness. I must go."
"You're injured."
"A scratch."
Fatima stepped closer. She lowered the lamp and reached forward, touching his side gently. Her fingers came away red and sticky.
"Excuse me." the Prince said.
Fatima was no longer listening. She wiped her fingers on her skirt and shoved the Prince gently in the centre of his chest, just below the strange medallion that he wore. "Sit down."
He rocked but stayed standing, holding himself carefully as if he was used to compensating for injuries. "I must leave."
"Just let me have a look. It won't take long."
"No."
"Then we'll stay here all night, or until one of us falls over."
He scowled at her between locks of tangled hair, but said nothing.
Fatima chose her words carefully. "I had my son when I was fifteen. Hamit. He died when he was three. You'd be of an age, had he lived. I've been a whore half my life, and a brothel-keeper for the rest. Now I reach the end of my life, and I grow concerned about the fate of my immortal soul. Do you believe?"
The Prince looked away. He still did not sit down. "I used to."
"Then you know that God will admit those who obey him to gardens graced with flowing streams and condemn those that do not to an eternity of torment. I merely ask my chance to erase my sins." She touched the silver scroll at her neck and looked up at him through lowered eyelids, wondering if she had overdone the scripture. Complicated explanations only confused men. She pushed gently at his chest, and smiled as he sat. "Stay until sunrise."
The Prince looked at her. He looked at the couch and at the dark night outside, and finally nodded.
"I'll fetch water," Fatima told him. "Wait here."
She left the room and walked across the courtyard to the kitchen, wondering as she went how to persuade the prince to bathe before sunrise. She would have offered more hospitality, but one of the many lessons she had learned was that when a man had had a long hard day it was not the best time to suggest the Congress of the Fox and the Persimmon.
The kitchen was deserted. Fatima wedged a bowl of healing balm and a handful of linen bandages into a ewer, drew a bowl of water from the tap, and walked back juggling the items like an Indian conjurer. She levered the door open with one foot and checked the couch. To her surprise, he was still there.
"Right," she said. "Take your cloak off."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course not." Fatima said.
The Prince rolled his eyes at her, but he reached up and began to remove his cloak. Fatima steeped half of the bandages in the water and laid the remainder on the couch. She knelt and started to unbuckle the belts on his left side. The armor, like the boots, was of good quality. It was just a pity it didn't reach below his navel. Once exposed, the wound was messy, but not serious. It was muscle-deep, but too old to require stitches. Fatima was glad. Her eyes weren't what they had been. When she had cleaned as much of the wound as she could manage with the armor on, she wrung the cloth out and gestured at the straps that crossed his shoulders. "Off."
The Prince started at her as if she had requested a dozen freshly plucked chickens, a cloak of feathers and a whip. "You ask too much."
"Believe me, I could ask a lot more. Off." She shook the bloody water from her hands. "Quickly, please. I haven't got all night."
The Prince glanced at the door. His right hand jerked up to cover the bronze medallion on his chest. Fatima sighed and set another batch of bandages to soak in the bowl. "I don't care about the trinket. Whatever it is. Besides," she added, "it doesn't look valuable."
"It's priceless."
"Worth nothing, then. Right."
The Prince shook his head, but he began to unbuckle his breastplate. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. "You're worse than Farah."
Fatima's hearing, unlike her knees, had not deteriorated at all over the years. "What was that?"
The Prince's educated voice hardened into ice-cold syllables. "I merely commented that you remind me of a friend of mine."
"Was she pretty?"
"No," he said quickly, and paused as he unfastened the last clasp. "Yes, she was. Very much so."
"Where is she now?" Fatima asked. Gone, she guessed. No woman worth her salt would let her man get into such a state. She picked up another handful of wet rags and started to wash out the wound.
"It doesn't matter." His tone of voice was not forthcoming.
She plastered on a thick layer of healing salve onto the cut, noticing another gash just below his left shoulder. Like the first one, it was shallow; painful, but not disabling. The skin under the wound was marked with dark patterns. As Fatima washed the blood away, she could see that they were tattoos, forbidden to all members of the True Faith.
The Prince turned his head to see what she was looking at. "They said that they'd keep the dahaka away," he commented, and paused. "They lied."
Fatima opened her mouth to ask the Persian what on earth he thought he was talking about, but before she could get any words out she heard a crash and a scream from the courtyard, closely followed by the sound of running feet. The door to the green room slammed open, scattering glasses and spilled mint tea over the tiled floor. It took Fatima a few seconds to recognize the distraught figure of Aisha, silhouetted in the doorway against the lamplight.
"Please!" she gasped. "You've got to come, now! There's been an ..accident."
Fatima dropped the bowl onto the nearest table. She turned around to check on her patient, but he was already running past her. She caught up her skirt and raced into the house, skidding on discarded leaves of mint. Girls were running left and right out of the door, and she grabbed the sleeve of the first one that ran past her. "Where's the judge?"
"He left," the girl sobbed. "And then a group of them were drinking in the Rose Room, and they asked us all to do-." Here she inserted an untranslatable Berber phrase. "So then we all said we wouldn't, and they started to complain about the money they'd paid, and one of them tried to-" She spat another unpleasant dialect word, and continued-"to Fatin." So Fatin slapped him, and he dragged her downstairs, shouting and complaining that she was a faithless whore, and then the rest of the men ran down and started yelling at us. Ali tried to push them out but they said they wouldn't go without a refund and then-" she paused and took a deep breath, "-that stranger that Aisha said you brought in off the streets ran into the courtyard and started, you know, hitting them." She looked up at the sound of splintering wood. "Hard."
The house was in chaos by the time Fatima reached it.
Fatin, one of Fatima's best and favorite girls, was lying her back on the floor of the main hall, weeping. A half-clothed man was tugging at her hair. Zohra was beating the man enthusiastically around the head with a pillow. She looked up and yelped as a trio of similarly clad men raced down the staircase to the rescue of their friends, but continued with her beating. A smaller group of men was clustered around the front gate, arguing with Ali, her night porter, and shouting threats up to the small group of girls who had gathered on the second-story landing to throw pots at them and scream insults in a variety of languages and accents. The judge, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.
"STOP THIS!" Fatima screamed at the top of her lungs as she strode into the house. Her voice was loud, but nobody took any notice. She glanced around in dismay. The group had been a large one, but she had not been expecting any trouble. Ali and Hassan were boxed into a corner, she had given the other two porters the evening off, and things were rapidly getting out of hand.
And that was when, with impeccable timing, Fatima caught sight of the Persian on the second-floor balcony. He was fighting a tall man who wore green trousers and precious little else, and he was doing it with such breathtaking ease that Fatima, who had seen many things, stopped and stared at the sight. The Prince was standing on the railing, and looked more confident balancing on the narrow ledge than his opponent did standing on the floor.
The man swung at him. The Prince leant gently to one side, waited until the man's momentum had carried him past, slipped down from the balcony and kicked him in the backside. The man collapsed, bringing his head below the level of the balcony, and Fatima lost sight of him for a minute. When she saw the man in the green trousers again, he was sprinting down the staircase, taking each step two at a time in his hurry to reach the door. He pushed past the porters and disappeared through the gate.
That was the first one.
There must have been twenty angry, sexually frustrated men in the building. It took the Prince less than five minutes to dispose of them all.
Fatima watched as he vaulted over the balcony, hanging by his hands for a second before dropping down. He handed just behind Fatin's attacker. As the man turned around to look at him, the Prince dropped down and executed a scything kick to his knees. The man dropped like a stone. Zohra hit the Prince twice around the head with a cushion before she realized what had happened, and in the choking cloud of feathers Fatin's assailant turned and fled. The girls pursued him, shrieking like harpies, nails clawed, and that was enough to scare off a good chunk of the men who had been clustering around the gate.
The Prince moved on to the next attacker. This one was dispatched with the same brutal grace, while Fatima watched with open mouth and wished she was twenty years younger. She noticed a man standing a few feet away by the mountain by the fountain, picked up a heavy ceramic vase, and heaved it at him. "Get out!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.
The man fled.
Fatima smiled.
She gathered up the girls, bandaging cuts, wiping away tears, and commiserating over ripped dresses, watching the Prince moving from opponent to opponent as she worked. He struck with fists and feet, drawing blood sparingly, and never leaving an assailant unable to run for the shelter of the street.
Or at least, he did- until somebody picked up a sword.
Fatima saw the gleam of steel in the corner of her eye and screamed a warning. There were two of them, brothers from the look of it, strongly built and with the starved-hawk facial features that marked them as border tribesmen. They circled the Prince warily, watching him like a dangerous animal.
The shorter brother struck first, aiming for a killing blow. The Prince arched backwards to avoid it, pushed off from the floor with one hand and kicked the man solidly in the stomach. The man grunted, but kept hold of his sword. The taller brother rushed, sensing his opponent's distraction, and the Prince blocked the cut with his armored forearm. He spun and smashed the man in the face with his other fist, dodging backwards as both brothers grunted and struck out.
Zohra moved to Fatima's shoulder, brushing feathers from her hair. "Shouldn't we do something?" she asked.
"What, exactly?"
Zohra shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "I was thinking of fetching some charcoal to record the scene. For future...reference."
Fatima glared at her and turned her attention back to the fight. The Prince had moved into the shelter of a pillar his head flicking backwards and forwards like a hunting hawk as he tried to keep an eye on both of the men. The taller brother circled him, searching for an opening. He jabbed, missed, and hit the pillar. As he tugged at the hilt of his blade, the Prince reached up and vaulted over his opponent's body in a move that Fatima would never have considered physically possible. He struck once, twice, and the man went down.
That left the shorter brother, who seemed to have more skill at arms than his sibling, or at least more patience. He attacked methodically, wasting no strength, and used his blade to block as well as strike. The Prince, hard-pressed, ducked, spun in a fighting crouch to avoid another attack, and leaned back again as the scimitar whirled past his chin. He took one more step backwards and his spine came up hard against the pillar. His opponent closed in, breathing hard.
The Prince reached up to grip the column. The move exposed his throat to the blade, and Fatima winced as the man drew back his arm. The blow she was dreading never landed. The Prince twisted and kicked off from the pillar. His foot hit the cheekbone of the shorter man with devastating force. There was an audible crack as the bone shattered.
The man reeled, his hands to his face, and dropped his sword. The Prince slammed into him, scooping up the sword before it hit the ground. He reversed the hold as he fell, landing crouched atop the prone body of his opponent. The blade gleamed in the lantern light as he raised it to strike.
Fatima put all the power of her lungs into her scream. "No! Don't kill him!"
The Prince's head snapped around. His expression was focused and completely merciless.
"Stop!" Fatima shouted again.
The sword, which had already begun its descent to the man's throat, jerked once, wavered, and then stopped. She watched as the humanity flooded back into the Prince's face, walked over, and held out her hand for the blade, speaking as she went and trying to project a confidence that she certainly did not feel. "Yes, well, I think that's enough for tonight," She gestured at the few remaining conscious men. "Out, please. Somebody will send your clothes. And girls, clean up, if you would be so kind. "She took the sword from the Prince's hand. "Impressive."
The Prince did not reply.
There was a confused expression on his face, as if he was learning to be human again and hadn't got half of it right. A thin line of blood dribbled from the salved wound on his side. He stepped back from his opponent as the man choked and rose to his feet, swaying, a spider web of blood on one cheek. He gave the Prince and Fatima a horrified look and staggered towards the door.
Fatima handed the sword to Aisha, who stuck it in her sash absentmindedly and gazed at the Prince, a sweet half-smile curving her lips.
"You're injured," she said. "Perhaps I can bind your wounds."
"No, I'm really much better," said a quiet but insistent voice from behind Fatima.
The Prince turned around and walked straight back into the green room. Fatima looked around at the assembled women, shrugged, and followed him. She found him seated on the bed, pulling on his boots.
"Where were we?" she said brightly.
"You were refusing to take 'no' for an answer," he said. "And I was just leaving."
Fatima lifted the still-burning candle from the table and reached up to light the oil lamps. "Not this again," she said mildly. "I thought we had an agreement." She blew the candle out and knelt down beside him, wiping off the salve she had just applied. "I think we're going to need more bandages."
She took another handful of salve and looked up at the Prince expectantly, only to find him staring down at her with a very odd expression on his face.
"What is that?"'
"What?'
The Prince gestured at the pot of salve in Fatima's hands. "The jar."
Fatima looked at the jar. It was old, its ceramic worn and cracked, curved like a baobab trunk with a narrow, open neck and a pattern of red spirals around its fat middle. "Oh, this broken thing? It was a gift. From an old, old, friend of mine."
"What friend?" the Prince asked harshly. The expression on his face was dangerously similar to the one Fatima had seen as he crouched over the body of the man, sword at his throat, ready to strike. She put the jar down. "An old Bedouin. I don't think that he would want me to tell you more. He doesn't much like strangers."
The Prince laughed; a strange and harsh sound that caught in his throat. "Believe me, I'm not a stranger." His gaze flickered back to the jar. She thought for a second that he might threaten her, but the cracking tension in the air eased, and he settled back on the couch. "He would be an old, blind man," he said, carefully. "With red robes, and a turban to match."
Fatima nodded. "It seems that we share similar acquaintances." She measured out a few bandages against her arm.
"Then tell me where he is."
"Tell me your business, first." Fatima countered. She began to wrap the bandages around the Prince's torso. He held still, but she could feel the tension in him beneath her hands.
He gasped and shifted as she tightened the linen over the wound. "Where does he camp?"
"Not without your business. I won't see him harmed." Fatima said. She knotted the bandages and began on the second wound, the one over his left shoulder.
"Very well," the prince said, eventually. His voice took on a storyteller's rhythmic cadence. "Most people think time is like a river, that flows swift and sure in one direction. But I have seen the face of time, and I can tell you they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm. You may wonder who I am and why I say this, but I will tell you a tale like none that I have even heard. Know first, I am the son of Sharaman, a mighty King of Persia -"
The first faint light of dawn had appeared in the sky by the time he finished his story. Aisha had brought another tray of mint tea, and another after that, and between the two of them they had managed to sneak the Prince's boots away to be polished without him noticing. The tale seemed to have drained the Prince, although Fatima, watching closely, deemed it a mix of exhaustion and blood loss. He sat with his head lowered and his hands dangling between his thighs.
Fatima blew on her mint tea. "That's a strange tale." she said.
"I have told it many times."
"What did you do with the dagger?"
The prince smiled beneath his matted hair. It was the first time Fatima had seen him smile, and she approved. "I used the last of its power to kiss a girl," he said, and touched the medallion on his armor. "She gave me this."
"Very wise." Fatima said. "But what then?" She gestured at his worn clothes, at the pile of bloodstained bandages and the sword. "This is not a happy ending."
The Prince shrugged. He flexed the muscles in his shoulders, testing the bandages, and began to buckle his armor. "I returned home with my father." he said. "I thought I had escaped.' There was a raw edge to his words. "I thought that I could cheat fate, and rest safe in Babylon. I had dreams of taking ship to India, of hunting for my love." He shrugged again. "And then the dahaka came."
"Da-what?"
"A creature of time itself. A mystical demon. At first it visited me only in my dreams, and my father thought me mad."
"I can't imagine why." Fatima said dryly.
"He changed his mind, when the first attack came. It hunted me relentlessly, and so I left the city. For seven years, it pursued me. Until now."
"You've cheated it?"
"Hardly."
"It's still chasing you?" Fatima glanced nervously around the ceiling. "Here? Now?"
"Yes," he said. "I confused it by taking ship to this country, but I had forgotten that not all perils are spiritual in nature. My ship's captain thought to rob me, and I barely escaped with my life. It will be here soon, and I am..tired."
That, Fatima thought, is an understatement. "And the man you seek?'
"My mentor. The sands have made him blind, but he sees further than any sage I have ever known."
Fatima looked at the jar, shabby and unremarkable, and then back at the Prince. "The man you want is camped in the desert not two days travel south, in the oasis of Kardala." she told him. "I will give you maps."
"Kardala? I know it. No need." The Prince got to his feet. He picked up his sword, slid the blade into the scabbard at his hip and draped his cloak over the weapon. "It is a small place."
Fatima hurriedly rose. "You're leaving?" she said, and pinched out the wick of the oil lamp.
"It is sunrise," the Prince observed. He opened the door and walked out into the courtyard.
Fatima followed him, feeling like a small and bewildered dog, or a camp-follower of the most confused sort. "What will you do?"' she asked.
"I'll seek a way to change my fate."
Fatima shook her head as he reached the back gate and slid the bolts back. Diplomatically, she said nothing.
The Prince did not notice her silence. "A thousand thanks for all your hospitality." he said in that impossibly cultured voice. "I'll send money." He looked down at his ragged clothing. "Assuming I survive."
"No need."
The Prince smiled ruefully and stepped out into the street.
"Wait!" Fatima said. She threw the door open and gazed out over the threshold. It was market day, and the streets were crowded, but she could just make out the sober, hooded silhouette of the Prince. He paused.
"You never told me your name."
"..." he said, but his reply was lost in the cries of "Baluck!" as a train of mules surged up from a side street. Fatima pressed herself against the wall to escape the crushing hooves and the sticks of the muleteers. By the time she raised her head, he was nowhere in sight. She shrugged philosophically, reached into her robe and withdrew the bag of sugared almonds.
Chewing on the sweets, she made her way back across the courtyard and into the house proper. Aisha greeted her, just inside the door.
"So what happened to him?"' she asked. The girls were gathered in the downstairs sitting room, enjoying a late breakfast after the exertions of the previous evening. The sound of chatter and the clink of cups and vases fell silent as the women waited to hear the answer to Aisha's question.
"Well," Fatima said, and tucked the almonds into her sleeve. She sat down on a divan and reached for a glass of mint tea.
"Most people think time is like a river," she said, "that flows swift and sure in one direction. But one has have seen the face of time, and he will tell you they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm. You may wonder why I say this. Sit down, and I will tell you a tale like none that you have ever heard."
Author's Note: The fictional country of Aresura is mentioned briefly in Battles of Prince of Persia, a game which I have never played and am unlikely to. In my mind it's very much like the medieval kingdom of Fez, hence the Moroccan detailing. Circassians are the equivalent of Turks/Western Russians and were famously light-skinned, like the fair Circassian maid in Kubla Khan. The verses (mis)quoted by Fatima are taken from the Qur'an, and the 'Congress of the Fox and the Persimmons' is a direct quote from Terry Pratchett's book 'Pyramids'. The story the Prince tells is of course taken directly from the Sands of Time. I did attempt to locate the POP universe in a realistic Ancient Persian timeline, but it made my brain hurt. God I take this stuff way too seriously.
This fic is dedicated to my sister, who bugged me until I wrote it.