Chapter TWs: General injuries, sun poisoning, hinting threats of violence against women, minor swearing.


The Dark Prince awakens to the sound of hushed whispers and a weight, cool and heavy, against his back. Panic grips him in an instant and he presses his hands into the surface beneath him, shoving the weight of his body upwards, only to hiss and curse as the sensation of molten rock courses down his flesh. It takes several seconds of sporadic breaths that cause his chest to heave up and down until he is able to reach back with a quaking hand and grasp onto the fabric that clings to him. He pulls, freeing himself from the unpleasant, damp sensation and hurling the offending rag across the room, causing his shoulders to scream in protest as the burning sensation returns with vigor.

Another shove of his hands brings him to his feet for only a moment before his knees buckle under his own weight and he crashes against the wall nearest to him, digging his nails into the rotting wood in a vein attempt to keep himself standing. Splinters dig into his already tender flesh, working their way into him and peeling apart his already torn and cooked form. He curses again, louder this time, and closes his eyes firmly, trying to will away his senses.

He finds that it does not work.

Gathering what wits he can, his ears catch the sound of a door being hurriedly opened and a concerned gasp. Another passes and he feels himself being pulled, guided back to what he now realizes had been a bed, by slender fingertips that seem to radiate with the sensation of the desert nights themselves. The figure has him back in the position he began in within seconds and the weighted sensation of the cloth has been returned to his wounded back – he finds the dampness is more preferable to the burning sting present only moments ago, much to his annoyance.

"Only a fool would rise in your condition." When he does not answer, the voice continues, "You are safe here, stranger. My word is my honor."

Slowly, he turns his gaze to meet the voice's own, teeth bared in something of an attempt to ward off further poking and prodding of his already sore body. In response, the figure – a young woman—removes her hands from the source of his misery, instead opting to return his look with one of apathy. "The pain will stop if you allow me to help you."

She moves carefully, as though she is aware of the danger he could pose, reaching out and smoothing down the ripples of fabric against him. He grunts in response, slowly resting his head against the soft pillow beneath him, watching as she moves to grab a pitcher that rests on the table near them. He grunts again, watching as she pours the liquid onto a rag, this time curling his lips in turn. "No. Another way."

The woman pauses, as if she is surprised that he can speak. "It will ease your—"

"Another. Way." He repeats the words, slower, as if she might not have understood him the first time. He hears the anger creep into his voice, sees her eyes spark with a glint of annoyance (the same annoyance he recognizes from the gaze a certain princess) before she relents, nodding and setting aside the liquid. There is a distinct thunk as the clay hits the wood and a shiver works its way down his spine as the liquid inside sloshes about in an vilemanner; when he notices her perplexed gaze, he turns his head away, the tip of his nose pressing against the warm stone of the wall next to him.

The room is silent, no sound piercing through the air that seems to have thickened between them, and he can feel her eyes on him. Just as quick as it had begun, though, it ceases, and instead is pierced by the wooden legs of her chair sliding against the uneven flooring.

"Are you as opposed to plants as you are milk?"

"Milk?" He turns back slightly, eyeing the woman with suspicion. He says nothing, waiting for her answer, but when she does not offer one, he nods, "Whatever shrub it is will do fine."

He turns his face her fully now to watch her as she begins to trim the leaves off of a green plant with quick, clean slices of a small blade. From where he rests, he can see something ooze from the wounds, sticking to the blade and then snapping away as she rests the amputated segments onto a thin, white linen nearby. When she finishes, she brings them to him, setting them next to the pitcher and resting back into her seat.

"You are lucky Babak and his men found you when they did," she murmurs, slowly removing the fabric from his back. "Had they not been passing by, the night would have surely taken you."

"Lucky indeed. Had they come any sooner, I might not have felt the warmth of the sun blistering my back any longer! What a shame that might have been." He hisses, wincing as the girl begins to rub the tacky contents of the plant onto his wounded form.

"Are you always so grateful when the Divine spares you?" She leans forward, causing her off-black locks to feather against his sides, forcing him to suck in a breath as she continues pressing her fingers delicately against his skin.

"If I have been spared, it was not by some Divine being."

She hums softly, wiping the remaining unused innards of the plant from her hands onto the cloth they had previously occupied. Once she is satisfied, she settles her gaze to his and raises a thin brow at him. Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to stretch across them as he watches her attempt to unravel the mystery of his person.

As she stands, carefully gathering the husks that once contained the relief resting upon his back, he notes how her honey-colored gaze lingers upon him. Another shiver works its way down his back and he briefly considers the thought that this girl might recognize him. Slowly, with shaking fingers, he reaches up and brings them to rest upon his cheek, silently confirming that this body bares no resemblance to his true form.

"What?" He narrows his eyes when she continues to stare. "What are you looking at?"

She blinks, her eyes moving away from him – he relaxes, the tension in his body dissipating within seconds. As it does, she answers, "I have never seen someone so young with hair like yours."

Quickly, his hands move from their position upon his face to his head, grasping at the strands upon it. He is surprised to find that she is right in her observation. His hair, bleached white as bones left for too long in the sun, stands out brightly against his skin. He chuckles, allowing his fingers to untangle themselves before looking at her with a smirk. "I suppose you have not."

The pads of her feet carry her away from him after some time – during which he suspects she has continued to watch him—and she deposits the waste outside, allowing a short-lived breeze to pass through the open doorway until she once more secures it closed. In that brief moment, he is able to hear the sounds outside of the dimly lit walls he has been confined to: horses, people talking, shouting, children playing, carts passing by with their wheels squeaking as they turn.

As she finishes latching the door closed, he cannot help but to question, "What city is this?"

"Babylon," she responds and he feels the heart in his chest skip several beats as the knowledge she has granted him rapidly rushes over him as a wave might crash against a ship at sea. "Why are you smiling like that?"

He clears his throat, swallowing back the disconcerting, triumphant grin that had formed on his face. In a moment, he turns his giddiness into a calm smile, though he still feels a fire behind his eyes. "Forgive me. It has been far too long since I have been within this city's walls. I am simply excited to return home after all this time."

She seems satisfied by his answer and if she has sensed any malicious intent behind his words, she does not make it known. Which has not been a lie, he notes, though there would be no guilt to eat at his conscious had it been one. She nods – a quick, single motion confirming that she accepts his explanation—before turning her attention to a closed window without prying into his eagerness further.

"Do you often save the lives of strange men, woman?" he says, something of a bored tone teetering on the edge of his tongue. "You have let me into your home and I see no husband to protect you."

Her body stiffens, the skin of her knuckles turning pale as she squeezes the edges of the wooden shutters. He chuckles, savoring the response her body provides, watching the smallest hints of fear course through her form. He continues, "I could be a dangerous—"

"I am no stranger to defending my life from the likes of those who wish to tear me asunder," she interrupts, slamming open the window shutters and turning, her eyes boring into him with a silent fury (now, he quietly wonders how he did not notice the scar that rakes its way across the right side of her face earlier). "I have just saved your life, stranger, and I can just as easily send you back to hell's doorstep. So if you truly wish to continue on with your vague threats, by all means do… but know that while you may be a cunning cat, I am not the timid mouse that will fill your empty belly."

He frowns, his teeth clenching together so tightly that he feels as though the danger of fracturing apart his skull is imminent. Despite the noises the drift through the now open window, he finds the silence between them is truly deafening and only releases the pressure from himself once the ringing in his ears becomes too much to bear. Finally, he clicks his tongue once and allows a mock smile to form upon his lips. "Do you have a name then? Or would calling you mouse suffice?"

"Azar." She pauses, the hard line that had been drawn upon her lips slowly relaxing with the rest of her form. "And what do I call you? Are you simply stranger, or do you prefer to be called a cat? Perhaps the roll of bastard suits you better?"

He grins at that. "My, my, such language from your feminine mouth. Tell me, do you always speak so harshly, or am I just special?"

"I asked you a question. Now, answer me or I may lose my patience." Her eyes have narrowed now, the fire burning behind them growing in size with each passing second. He finds that this only amuses him more.

"It would appear we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, woman." He chuckles as her fingertips twitch and her eyes flare up with annoyance. "Forgive me. I meant to say: we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, Azar/i. A simple mistake as I have only just learned what I should call you after all."

"Are you always so rude, or am I just special?"

"I like to refer to myself as clever, but if you prefer the term… who am I to stop you?"

"You are dodging my question," she counters, crossing her arms and pressing all her weight against one foot, cocking her left hip out (again he is reminded of a certain princess). "Your name?"

She has cornered him, announced to him that she knows of his little game, and left him without much of an escape route. A name, something so simple and yet something he has never been given. He very well cannot tell her he has no name, for the idea itself is absurd. He briefly considers giving her the name of the Prince, but after a moment of thought, decides it best to distance himself from the royal as much as possible for the time being. After several seconds that contain her gaze growing ever more suspicious, he answers, "How do I know you will not use my name in one of your rituals? A name is very powerful and I do not know your true intentions as of yet."

She barks out a laugh. "You think me a witch?"

"You have your potions sitting throughout this room!" He motions to the pitcher that still rests near him. "How do I know that you do not have more nefarious intentions?"

"I already told you, the pitcher contains milk. The sun has poisoned you and this would have ease what damage has been done, yet you refused," she argued and he finds himself surprised that she has not begun screaming at his nonsense. "Are you so scared of dark magic then? The plants themselves could be deadly and yet you allowed their use!"

"I have seen them before. It is of no danger to me, but what you have mixed inside the milk…" He trails off, motioning with a single finger to his skull and tapping lightly. "But, I hear that witches enjoy games—"

"Everyone enjoys games, stranger," she interrupts him; something akin to amusement slowly mixing itself into the frustration that still lingers on her features. Once more, the tension from the threat of exposure slowly dissipates as she ceases to pry further.

"I suppose that is true, but do not interrupt me," he confirms, taking the briefest of seconds to appear as though he is gathering up his previous thoughts. "If you are so keen to know what to call me, then you must simply guess it."

Another rise of her slender eyebrow as she scoffs, "Are you a child? Withholding what I should call you for what purpose other than infantile amusement? There are a million names you could be called; it would be impossible to narrow down such a massive list."

"If you are not up to the challenge—"

"Silence, you insufferable—"

"Bastard?" he chimes in, looking amused. He finds himself nearly thrown into a fit of laughter when she sucks in a breath sharp enough for him to hear. The game has yet to even begin and already he discovers he is greatly amused by her irritation alone.

"Insufferable rat." Her teeth remain tightly clenched together as she hisses the response. "I'll play your inane game if only because I will best you at it. Perhaps when I am done, I'll perform a spell on the prize, just for you!"

Carefully, he moves a hand up in a gesture of defeat, "Now, now, there is no need for such vicious threats between us. Can we not be civil?"

She chokes back a laugh, anger still evident in her features, until finally turning away from him sharply. "I'll be very civil, so long as you afford me the same courtesy."

He snorts in response, though Azar says nothing to express any annoyance at his behavior and instead sets another jug of unknown liquid beside him. His eyes narrow dangerously at the object, a huff pushing past his lips as he drops his head unceremoniously back onto the cool fabric beneath him. "What is that?"

"Water. Drink up; unless you truly do long for death's embrace that is," she states, as he grinds his teeth together. "I did not poison it, you superstitious fool. I would not waste my time caring for you all of yesterday if I had."

He slowly turns his gaze to her, relaxing his body to the best of his ability. His throat burns, he notes, and a small part of him knows that this new body must drink to survive, but the very thought of the liquid sitting inside of him brings the taste of bile to his tongue. There is no choice, not when the threat of death looms over him. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up onto his elbows before reaching out and grasping onto the handle. Carefully he guides the jug to his mouth and even more carefully he swallows.

The relief is instantaneous. All at once, his body cools and the burning in his throat numbs. He is surprised to find that the trickles of pain that remained on his wounded back even seem to fade slightly more. How funny, he thinks, that the very thing that should banish him has brought him such pleasure. With greedy, ravenous mouthfuls he finishes the contents inside, gasping for air and slamming the empty vessel aside.

"There," he pants, trying to ignore the shaking of his body. "There, I have finished it."

Azar is watching him again, her brow furrowed in a funny way, but she makes no comment, only takes the empty container in her hands. "I'll bring you more soon then. For now though, you should rest."

"You do like to order me around, don't you, woman?" He chooses to ignore the look that invades her features, instead opting to let his sore limbs relax against the cot beneath him. "You will find that I do not take them well. One of my many vices."

"Try not to be insulted when I say that I am not surprised by this information," she sasses back at him. Her features soften, taking on the appearance she had when he had first gazed upon her not long ago. "Tell me then, before you rest, your name is it Rahim? Omid?"

"You choose to begin this game now? I thought you said I should rest," he complains, taking his time to try and discover the meaning behind her inquiry. "No. Those are not my name."

"Another time then, stranger."

"Yes, another time." As his eyes close, he hears her leave, the door she has entered through latching shut behind her. All the while, the sounds of the city continue to pour in from outside and through the opened window – he finds their melody to be more soothing than that of the most gentle of lullabies. As he falls into a deep slumber, his mind swirls with thoughts of slaughter and conquest, knowing now that his revenge has only just begun.


A/N:

i) My medical knowledge is somewhat limited, much more so concerning ancient techniques. I did some research into the types of treatments used for sun poisoning (especially in the past), but for the most part I decided to keep it vague, since I figure The Dark Prince would also have limited medical knowledge.

ii) The Dark Prince's apperance is based off of his concept art in the unreleased prototype of the third Prince of Persia game, Kindred Blades. He appears much more human in this version of the game, albeit much more like something not quite alive/a corpse. So, it isn't a perfect image of the apperance I'm giving him, but if you're wondering why he has white hair, I wanted a little shoutout.