Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they belong to Saban.

Author's Note: Jarred Blakiston is doing a fantastic job of portraying Philip on PRDC. The guy needs more than just a "I came as soon as I could" walk on line and a group hug! So this is my attempt to give some insight into the character and give the guy a little more 'screen' time.

800 Years Ago…

It was early morning. Birds sang in the trees and sunlight streamed through the branches to the forest floor. Prince Collin of Zandar and his guardian, Sir Ivan, Knight of Zandar, were atop their horses, going for an early morning ride.

"I'm thirsty. Fetch me some water." Prince Collin commanded, as they rode next to the creek. Ivan immediately dismounted, tethering his horse to a nearby tree. He helped Prince Collin off his mount, reached into the saddlebag of his horse and retrieved the silver and black jeweled goblet that was the Prince's personal cup, then knelt down next to the creek. Collin perched on a rock, crossing his arms over his chest. He gave Ivan an impatient look. Ivan bent down and filled the goblet, then handed it to the prince. As Collin drank, Ivan sat down and dipped his hand into the creek. The water rushed cold, and he cupped his hand so that he could get his own sip of the water. As he did, something caught his eye. Something was glittering in the rushing water. Ivan reached into the stream and pulled out a shiny gold stone.

"Give me that," Collin commanded. Sir Ivan held the stone out to the eight year old prince, who snatched it from his hand. "It is mine," Collin announced.

"No, it's mine!" A great beast appeared. Ivan quickly took the stone back, and instantly drew his sword and charged it. It stood taller than he, some kind of great hairy beast. The hair was so thick he could not see its face. It carried a sword. Some kind of magical beast, then, if it carried a sword. Ivan's sword met his with a great clash of metal, and they fought into the trees. The battle was great as Prince Collin cowered behind the rock. Suddenly, the beast came charging out of the forest, headed straight for the prince's hiding spot. But Sir Ivan appeared, swinging wildly at him. The monster dodged the blow and knocked Sir Ivan's blade from his hand, sending his sword and the golden gem flying into the creek where it landed with a splash. The monster hit Sir Ivan in the chest with the flat part of his blade, stunning him and sending him staggering. Then, it set its' eyes on the prince. Ivan heard the boy cry out, somehow got to his feet and retrieved his sword. Then, he locked blades with the monster as it swung a killing blow at the young prince.

As the two swords touched, there was a great flash of light…

"And then Sir Ivan and the beast disappeared!"

Six year old Philip was on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide. "Then what happened, Father?" he begged. He bounced up and down on the bed. "What happened to Sir Ivan?"

His father, King Philip II of Zandar, smiled and ruffled his hair. "No one knows," he admitted. "Prince Collin retrieved the golden gem and named it after our country-the Stone of Zandar. But Sir Ivan was never seen again." He glanced over at the clock above his son's bed. "And now, young man, it is time for you to go to bed."

"But-" Philip protested.

"No buts. Busy day tomorrow." His father kissed him on the forehead and got up from the four poster bed. "Sleep well, my son."

His father turned out the light before disappearing into the hall, but Philip stayed awake in the darkness, his eyes staring up at his ceiling. Someday, he thought to himself, I am going to be a hero, just like Sir Ivan!

Two years later…

Prince Philip III of Zandar stood solemnly at his mother Irene's side, listening to the rain pound on the umbrella she was holding above their heads. The priest was saying something, but the words were blending in with the rain, and the hushed voices of the twenty or so reporters live on the scene, huddled just out of reach of the royal family. Philip's intense blue eyes, which no one else in the royal family possessed, were focused on the shiny black casket being laid into the hole in the ground. The man who had told Philip so many stories of heroes and villains, knights and castles, princesses and dragons, had died suddenly of a heart attack and was being laid to rest with a state funeral today.

His mother moved, and Philip felt himself being pulled along, her hand gripping his tightly. He let himself be led to the edge of the hole, and looked down. His mother must have dropped the rose, for it was the only color inside the wet hole, and it hadn't been there a moment ago. The rose hit the top of the casket and a few petals broke apart from the flower, lying out of place on top. He stared at them blankly.

Philip's mother Irene tapped him on the shoulder, and with the hand that wasn't holding his, handed him a rose as well. This one was white. White, like white hats and heroes. Philip looked for a moment at the flower, then dropped it to the muddy ground and squashed it with his toe. "No!" He yanked his hand from his mother's grip and disappeared into the throng of heads of state and close family friends.

Later, the news outlets would replay the scene of a heartbroken eight year old boy with the caption, "Young Prince Taking Loss of Father Hard."

Over the next few years, that heartbroken eight year old boy would be making headlines again, though not in the way a member of royalty was expected.