He seemed to be burning up from the inside out, his cries echoing throughout as people watched on, most of whom were too shocked to make a move to save their precious King. The entire congregation watched on as his skin began to burn and melt, peeling away and revealing damaged pink flesh. Staring down at the failing body of his brother while he clutched at the middle son, his face was a mask of horror.
But inside, he rejoiced.
Nizam's eyes sprang open as he woke.
xXx
Mentally cursing at himself, Dastan realised a little too late that he would have a hard time separating this Tamina from the one he had known in his time. Already he had let his guard down around her, even though he had suspected her of wanting to make this kind of move ever since she had emerged from the trap door in the dungeon.
It was an easy mistake to make; her biting tongue was the same, as was her lightning wit, and as for her beauty ... But this wasn't the Princess he had come to know. Now he only knew facts about her, nothing of what she was truly thinking and feeling in that moment. That is, nothing bar what he could assume. This Tamina hadn't stood by his side as he helped her retrieve the dagger and save the known world. She thought he was a thief and a traitor, and would rather see him hang then let him help her in any way. He imagined that the only reason he was still standing now was because he knew the location of the dagger. He was the only one that knew where it was – thank the Gods. So unfortunately she had to let Dastan help her, otherwise they may just suffer the Gods' wrath in the aftermath of Nizam's stupidity and selfishness.
Normally he'd manoeuvre around her, strike her hand, make her drop the dagger somehow, but she was standing far too close with far too much force holding the sharp blade against his throat. In this position he couldn't risk it.
"Now just wait," he murmured, though even that small movement pressed his throat awkwardly against the blade. "We don't have time for this."
"Tell me, Persian," she insisted, moving the blade from his throat to his stomach, the tip biting into his flesh. "Or I'll kill you here."
Her mistake. Regretting the need to harm her, his hands grabbed hers, twisting her wrist sharply and with enough force for her fingers to go limp and for the dagger to drop to the ground. Pushing her backwards, knowing there was a small pile of flour sacks and other items that would at least save her from hitting the wall, Dastan dropped to the ground and scooped up the dagger she had threatened him with.
"That's the fourth time you've tried to attack me," he told her, the hilt of the blade now securely held in his hand.
"The fourth ...? Well I'll succeed yet, just you wait!" He watched as she struggled to rise, wondering how she managed to carry off such a biting tone while looking so out of sorts. Who would have thought that furs, buckets and sacks would hinder her so much?
"You already did," he told her, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He felt strange compulsion within him to tell her of the memory he was replaying in his mind, and his tongue just ran away with him. "You clubbed me over the head."
Tamina stopped struggling for a moment and simply looked up at him, and for a second there he thought he saw a flash of amusement in her eyes – clearly the thought of clubbing him still appealed to her. But then her gaze hardened, and she snapped, "Your people attacked my city, and it's because of your Uncle that we're in danger now. You should die for what you've done."
Her words stung, partly because of their nature but also because in a way she was right. It was his fault, Persia's fault, that they were even in this predicament now. Nizam may have planned this, and he may have convinced his brothers to attack, but they had still attacked.
At least her words revealed something other than her dislike of him; she believed him. Or rather, she believed that it was his Uncle, and not Dastan himself, that orchestrated this attack. That was something, he supposed.
Sighing, Dastan slid the weapon into his waistband and stepped forward to help her up. Leaning on one knee, he offered her a hand, and though her gaze once again shot daggers in his direction, she nevertheless accepted his help and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
"Look, we don't have time for me to tell you everything that happened. I know about the dagger, I know what could happen to the Sandglass, and I know about the temple – and so does Nizam. We have to get out of here." Casting wildly for something that may make her move, that may make her stop this nonsense and just accept what he was telling her for now, Dastan said, "The dagger's being taken to Nasaf. It's the safest place I could think of for it."
"No, the temple is the safest place, the only place it can be taken."
"But Nizam knows about the temple! You can't take it there and you can't keep it here, because he'll find it and take it from us." She was sceptical, so very sceptical of him and everything he was telling her, but it was all the truth. Or rather, a version of the truth. "I know Nasaf like the back of my hand. I can help you keep the dagger safe."
But Tamina was adamant. "Take me to the dagger, and I'll return it to the temple."
Frustrated, Dastan almost turned away from her, but remembered his recent mistake and simply stalked a short distance from her instead. Why didn't he just hand her back the dagger? Then he could simply follow her across the desert and through the mountains and protect her like he had before, which had been a trying task but not too difficult. But now she just didn't understand, she didn't grasp the ... the ...
Groaning at his stupidity, Dastan was suddenly glad that he had kept the dagger hidden this whole time, and even more so that he had convinced her he no longer had it. Of course she wanted to return the dagger to the temple, because she wanted to sacrifice herself and return it to the damn Gods.
"The dagger is on its way to Nasaf," he told her, his words clipped as his frustration showed through. "We have to go." Making his way back to the open window he looked out once more, looking up and down the deserted street beyond and at the alleyway he wanted to take.
"If your own family won't believe your tales, why in the world should I?" Tamina asked him. "How do I know I can trust you?"
Looking back over his shoulder, he had no real answer for her. If the situation was reversed would he believe anything she had told him? He was nothing but a man from a marauding Empire, one who had been accused of treason by the very people he held most dear. Why should she give him the benefit of the doubt?
But in the same vein, how did he even know if she could be trusted this time around? Maybe in the past she could, but things had been different then, no matter the similarities to the situation they were in now. Neither of them could know for sure, not yet.
"You don't," he said simply.
The Princess looked at him for a moment, and though it had diminished somewhat he could still see the doubt and wariness in that stare. She may be willing to let him help her for now, but it was clear that she still didn't believe she could trust him. That would take time; time they didn't have to spare.
Moving to the door of the hut, Dastan pushed it open slowly, his eyes darting along the street and up to the walls and rooves of the building around them, not wanting them to be seen. When his brothers discovered him missing the chase would be on, and if anyone saw the Princess sneaking around her own streets in the middle of the night, questions would definitely be asked. They had to be careful.
Dastan felt her presence close behind him as she looked out as well. "Your plan is foolhardy," she whispered to him.
"How so?" He asked in return.
"You're wanted for treason, and no doubt your brothers will follow once they realise you've escaped. Yet you're heading straight for the one place that is sure to be crawling with Persian soldiers. You're mad."
He swore that he could hear her mutter 'And I'm mad for following along' under her breath, but he couldn't be sure. Stifling a smile as he remembered his request to the heavens to give him the strength not to kill her before they made it to Nasaf, he murmured back, "So stay."
"Never."
"Fine, then let's get out of here." Pushing the door open he moved out and pressed himself to the outside wall of the hut, keeping in the shadows for as long as he could as he waited for her to close the rickety wooden door behind them. Raising a brow in a silent query, Dastan waited for her nod before dashing out from under the awning and into the streets beyond.
xXx
Tamina had to assume that being called a traitor by your own brothers must addle the mind somewhat, because it was the only thing she could think of that might explain this Persian's suicidal plan! Though she had to admit that there was one good mark in his favour; when they had been scouring for supplies, he had only stolen from the Persian camp and not from her own people. He'd produced himself a cloak, two rather well-used swords – which she suspected were in fact his own – and two horses from those that were stabled near the edge of town. The fact that he had stolen from his own people had made her sketch a brow at him, and though he hadn't responded in any way she knew that he understood her surprise.
But everything had tumbled downhill from there. They had barely left through one of the smaller villager's entrances before one of the Great Wall guards had spotted them and called out. For fear of revealing either of their identities they hadn't answered, so of course the alarm had been sounded. She had to appreciate their dedication, since that was the kind of protection that had saved their city for centuries, but at this one moment Tamina wished she had been anything other than a Guardian Princess, and that this had been anything other than the Holy City.
They had fled, riding their horses hard as they followed the trails to the outskirts of the area, and though she had badly needed to rest the Persian Prince had pushed them and pushed them until they reached the cliffs of the surrounding plain by the following nightfall. She had thought his urgency was merely caused by the need to move far ahead of whoever might be sent in pursuit of them, as after only dozing for a few hours they left as the break of dawn the next day.
But it was his behaviour from then on that left her wondering about the sanity of her companion. They had ridden along the stretch of cliffs and hills until they came across the entrance to the Valley of the Slaves. Assuming he would want to skirt around such a place she had pressed forward, but not the Persian Prince. Oh no, he drew back his horse and called for her to stop, insisting that this was the only place they could cross safely.
Safely! The man was beyond mad, and she told him as much.
"We need to get to Nasaf, and if we keep riding around to the beginning of the dunes then we'll waste what ground we've gained."
"But there's nothing but murdering cutthroats there!"
"They're not all that bad," had been his reply, an amused smile lighting his features, and she had stared at him in shock. But what worried her further was his plan to stop for the day, set up camp and wait until the next morning to pass through. After pressing their horses so hard for the last two days, now he wanted to wait! And when she had asked him why, he'd simply replied, "It's Wednesday," as if that should solve her dilemma and answer her question.
Wednesday! Was Wednesday just a bad day for him, hmm? Perhaps it was a Persian custom, no travelling through Slave-ridden valleys on Wednesdays.
Giving up, she helped him set up camp and waited until the next day. But all through that night, and through the previous evening as well, she had often caught him looking at her. Tamina would feel a tingling at her neck, a sudden awareness of being watched, and she would turn only to see his eyes dart away from her and back at the fire he was tending, or the horse he was grooming. It happened over and over, the man's eyes would follow her everywhere.
It wasn't an uncommon feeling, since most had thought her a great beauty, but the constant regard was unnerving because of the look in his eyes as he stared. There was consideration in his gaze, as if he was trying to decipher what she was about, but there was something else there as well. Something she could name, but was loathe to do so. But once, as she drifted to sleep, she had seen his eyes soften, and had watched beneath lowered lashes as his gaze drifted over the rest of her body. The look in his eyes then had sent a shiver down her spine, and she rolled over.
The next morning they had left when the sun had risen high in the sky, and whatever bizarre reason had caused him to wait until that day, she had to admit that it had served them well - not a single person, blood-thirsty or otherwise, crossed their path. But they moved quickly regardless, and emerged out on the desert sand only hours later.
Together they looked out at the vast sand dunes, their horses shifting restlessly as a wind picked up and whipped sand into the air around them. Settling her cloak closer around her face and shifting the woollen scarf over her mouth, she looked to the Prince, waiting for his direction, but he was searching the horizon for something.
"What is it?" she asked, her tone not nearly as sharp or controlled as it had been. She promised herself that she wasn't softening to him, that she still didn't trust him, but she couldn't deny that she now felt a little more comfortable in his presence.
"If you see any sand dervishes, tell me." He followed her movements then, covering his face against the lashings of sand.
"Sand dervishes? Why in the world ...?"
"My Uncle has men at his disposal, men that he will send to murder us both. They use strange practises, I don't know too much about them." Pulling his gaze away from the desert, he looked at her, and she caught the earnestness in his eyes. "If you see them, then we'll have more than just my brothers and their army to worry about."
Nodding, Tamina nudged her horse forward and heard the Persian follow. "Let's move then."