Present Day
Chest heaving as though he had run miles across the roofs of Nasaf, Dastan sagged in his bonds. His lone audience member said nothing. Hands folded by his sides he simply watched, his fevered, bright gaze locked on the struggling man in front of him. Fresh blood slid over darkened scabs, dripping silently onto the rough stone of the floor. The man's gaze left Dastan's form only to move to the brazier that leaked the smell of herbs, checking to ensure its smoke still reached the man sitting there. When his breathing calmed, the man moved forward, making sure that his feet were audible to the tortured ears of the prisoner. Slowly, as though his head weighed a ton, Dastan raised his face to his captor. For a moment the man thought he would see the spark of defiance, the blaze of hatred-all the things that had marked Dastan's first few weeks in his captivity. But the spark was a mere flicker, the blaze dampened by the methodical torture that had destroyed far greater men.
"To bear witness to a man's descent to insanity is a heavy burden," he said calmly.
Dastan looked at his captor. It was on his lips to tell him that he was not insane, that he wished he was insane-just so that his own burden would be lessened. But then he remembered the soft sound Tamina's elaborate wedding dress had made, the way the light had caught the crystals braided painstakingly through her hair, the hardness that had shone in her kohl lined eyes and he found he could not make that claim. Instead he looked up at his captor with eyes as hard as he could make them and tried to see him as clear he could through the sweat stained hair that fell around his face.
"There were no witnesses," he said, feeling his head swim from the herbs at his feet, "my father banished me from Alamut the next day."
"Did you find your answers?"
Dastan looked at the man, momentarily surprised before realizing he should not be. With a bitter smile, he shook his head. The gesture sent the word spinning nauseatingly but such things did not matter. Not anymore. A bitter sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh escaped his lips as he looked at the man who stood there. That had been his father's excuse, that finding answers in his uncle's room would somehow give him peace. As if his uncle would have been foolish enough to hid anything in his private rooms. And even if he had, Dastan seriously doubted it would give him anything like peace. Not when he had been banished for an attack he had not committed. Not when Tamina had looked at him as if he was nothing but a liar and a threat instead of the man who had saved her life time and time again.
But that was not what the man in front of him was after.
He wanted to know how Dastan had found him.
The delight he felt was savage and bitter but it was the closest to a good feeling he had felt in a long time and so Dastan savored it, holding his silence. The man in front of him was patient, however, and did not push him. Both men were fully aware of the fact that Dastan truly had nowhere to run. Not now. Not as he was. Not after what he had done. And even if he had the capability, neither was sure that the young man would have taken advantage of such an opportunity. Finally Dastan spoke to his captor, giving him the answer he sought.
"I did not find evidence of your Den until I was back in Alamut," Dastan said, "I saw your mark, mixed in the papers of another vizier," Dastan let out a bitter laugh, "even in death my uncle was a traitor."
The man was silent, seemingly considering Dastan's words before he spoke again but Dastan beat him to it.
"Enough of these games," the Prince said, the force of his words surprising, "ask me what you want about that Gods-cursed knife and lets be done with this game."
No response came from his captor, as if the man in front of him was determined to not speak of the Dagger. As if he would continue the sham that that was not the center of their conflict. As if a knife that could control time was not the real prize he sought. Though he was sure that his eyes never left the black cloaked form of the man, Dastan did not see him move. Not until the scrape of metal on stone reached his ear. Not until he smelt the fresh herbs the man tossed onto the brazier. Dastan looked down at his knees as the metal slid back in between his feet, the smoke rising up at him as the embers glowed menacingly through the ornate latticework. The swish of fabric alerted him to movement but the smell of herbs had already begun to fog his senses over.
"The Princess, the Guardian," the man said, his voice sliding snake-like over Dastan's ears, "think only of her."
Dastan breathed in, his chest rising as the smell of herbs burned through his nose and settled like fire in his chest. The red of the embers began to change slightly, taking on a gold sheen, a bright color Dastan was certain seemed familiar. In an odd way it reminded him of Alamut. Of how the High Temple looked when the light streamed through the windows and burned across the tabernacle housing the Dagger. He imagined he could smell the scent of the incense that was used there, the mix of herbs he knew he would never be able to identify. The smell he knew he would never smell again. Would he ever see Alamut again? Or his brothers? Or even Tamina? Did he deserve such a thing? Or was it his well deserved fate to rot in the airless, windowless cavern with the poisonous voice of the fevered eyed man sliding through his head.
"Your brothers wedding," the man said, his voice echoing from some great distance, "Your return to Alamut. Start there."
"Tus's wedding," Dastan repeated the words, their sense escaping him. He knew there was something-something he was forgetting. Something he needed to remember. Something that was very very important. The edge in the man's voice was unmistakable, "Tus-"
Abruptly Dastan choked on the smoke.
For some reason he could not fathom, his throat constricted and his eyes watered. A great weight settled in his stomach, making it impossible to remain upright. His body leaned forward, trying to double over. Seeking comfort Dastan knew he did not deserve. The ropes cut further into his flesh as his chest heaved and for a moment he thought he was dying. His lips parted but instead of a breath escaping, a low sound tore from his chest. A force seemed to roll across his body and somewhere he heard a sob tear through the quiet.
It was not until the salt stung the cuts on his face that he realized he was crying.
His chest heaved and the smoke burned through his nose, filling his senses as he gulped in air. The smell of blood was heavy in the air but Dastan knew it was not his. Just as the blood that coated his hands was not his own. In his eyes he saw the form laying there, the body contorted in its final moments of pain and betrayal. Dastan choked again, fighting against the image. The colors of the robes were different, but the floor of the Alamutian palace was the same. The stain of red was the same. The helpless confusion in the dead man's eyes was the same. His breath came hot and labored as every inch of him seemed to burn with a different kind of pain. Darkness spotted his vision as grief and agony clawed at him.
He could not breath...
Cold water crashed over him.
Dastan gasped, cold air filling his lungs as his abused ribs screamed with pain. Forcing his eyes open he was greeted with a blurred world. Blinking several times he looked down to see his knees slowly come into clarity. His entire body ached viciously but the cold water that streamed across his head and bared torso seemed to offer some clarity. As he sat there gasping, Dastan tried to figure out why he had been doused with water. But there seemed to be no reason. Though the walls of the room remained the same faceless, cornerless stone, he could feel the sting of cold air on his skin. He knew it was night. Vaguely he could remember a desert that surrounded the Den, the sands stretching all around them.
"Tell me about the Princess," the voice came to him once more, the demand edged in steel.
The taste of blood, metallic and sharp flashed across his tongue as he opened his mouth.
His earlier panic did not return. He felt, for lack of a better word, dulled. As if the entire world had been toned down, softened even. The grief was a lead weight in his chest, but it was not unbearable. He did not feel as though he was being strangled or as though he could not breathe. Around the dead weight he felt hollow. Like someone had taken everything he was and left only the shell of the man behind. Like his entire soul had been torn free. His own voice was dull to his ears as he spoke once more.
"Tell me why you killed him," he said.
"We do not kill without orders," came the reply, "his death did not serve our purpose."
"And what purpose would that be?" Dastan asked, meeting the man's gaze with his own, "you serve a dead man who would have sold you to my father at a moment's notice if he thought it would give him the throne," he shook his head, "but I suppose you do not concern yourself with the motives of those who pay your blood mone-"
His head was suddenly wretched back, iron fingers tight and unforgiving on his hair. Throat stretched taut, Dastan struggled to breathe as he stared up into the face of his captor. The man who held him's usually serene face was twisted with anger, making him seem impossibly more imposing. As Dastan took shallow breaths he was painfully aware of his throat. Would the man even need a knife to slit it? Or would he just strike him down? Even Dastan could understand how easy that would be and to his shame he felt his body stir with desire. The thought of death, of sweetly letting go and never feeling the pain of his life again was just too great. Too close, to attainable. A few more words from his torn, sore throat and it could all be blissfully over.
But as quickly as the rage had flown across the man's face, it was gone.
Something shone in the man's eyes, some realization Dastan did not understand. The hand in his hair slackened, releasing him from its iron grip as his heavy head dropped forward. Dastan turned his head to look at his captor but the man's gaze was once more deadened and unreadable. In some ways the loss of his release was more painful than Dastan could have prepared for. His entire body sagged in its restraints, the ropes scraping and tearing at his skin as the man stepped back. The sound of the brazier returning to its place between his feet barely stirred anything past the pain. The smoke burned and twisted through him as the haze began to roll across his consciousness, taking the bitterness and the anger with it. Pain, exhaustion, all of it began to fade slowly and blissfully away as the fog gently but firmly began to take him away.
"Tell me," the man's voice slipped through him, twisting and filling like the smoke of the herbs.
There was nothing there after all, nothing save for the raw empty wound where his soul had once been.
The smoke burned and stung, the voice poisoned and prodded but they filled the void.
In some strange way they comforted him.
"Tell me about the Princess."