"There is no substitute for peace or for trust. I was misled. And because of this I most humbly stand before you as not a king, but as a man…one who has made the gravest mistakes in letting his impressionable sons take the decisions on their young shoulders. Even in the most thorough of empires we find that not all blood can be true. I require nothing from you, I can only ask for your forgiveness of the misdeeds our country has brought upon this city. I will ask you through this mouth, through the mouth of my children and probably through my children's children as well. These apologies will never cease, nor will my dedication to make things right; until every man and woman will find it in their heart to forgive me. The attack made upon these structures was justified on a lie…"
The rise and fall of the King's voice over the din of the crowd soon all but silenced it entirely. There was no doubt to the genuine feeling in the apology, in the promises, and in the affection. It was appearing that perhaps, this King was truly honest in all that he went through. But appearances could be deceiving; she thought, the image of that dulled blade appearing in her mind's eye as an example. Even if every breath that fell from the elderly man's lips was nothing but flower scented deceit fed to her people, Tamina found it was easy to see the royal blood in this man.
Full lips pressed together as she listened, the woman stayed in her tower, unnoticed, and hundreds of feet above thousands of heads. Her thoughts fled and floated in the sky of their own accord, she'd hardly ever felt less attached to the people below her in her life. Most of her life was built on the alienating concept that one object fell over the importance of every person; any person. Constructing a person on that fact led to a completely strange upbringing. As a result, Tamina's skin may have had the appearance of a fire growing underneath, her eyes like melted chocolate, her lips red as if she'd been encouraging a fever; but not many people had gotten to see the soul that created such heat. People were kept at such a distance from this creature, that even the wildest of fires could be tamed with that kind of isolation from all that was green in life.
For now, she was young. And the fire still held under her skin, occasionally rising to an inferno when the situation calls for it; though Tamina was not young enough where she could not realize that her soul was bound to the dagger and the secrets of Alamut.
Something that Dastan seemed to know a great deal too much about.
Following the cue of her thoughts, her eyes followed to where she found the prince standing fondly at his father's side. There was a glow about him as well, though it appeared…Well, desperate. The kind of light that was surprised and therefore hysterical that it was even in existence. Dastan had the same look on his face that she had only seen in her mother's face. The connection was surprising in and of itself, but completely undeniable. The worn strain look that her woman of birth carried around on her face like a talisman came from protecting the dagger, and protecting life at all costs. That was the look Dastan had, the look of a man who'd worn the weight of the world on his shoulders. But why would a third prince look so incredibly frail given he'd nearly singlehandedly been the trump card for the conquering of an entire city? Was this really the Lion of Persia? He looked much more like the leader of the pack, and actually…
Her eyes trailed back to the king. Neither of them shared each other's blood, and still, there was a resemblance. Perhaps Dastan simply had the look of a Persian king. Her smile faded into a grimace; another strong Persian ruler was just what Persia screamed for…And everything the rest of the world's cultures were screaming against. And yet he was so charming, looked at her with such deep adoration she couldn't understand and therefore, could not trust.
Her eyes closed, for just a moment, allowing the waves of thought to wash over her like a sandstorm in her mind; rendering her sedentary. The only thing that penetrated the trance was the regal resonance of the man's voice, followed not with cheers or negativity, but silence. Like a funeral.
That notion was enough to peel back her lids, and they widened considerably from their previous position as they witnessed the graceful arc of the Persian King as he fell. Suddenly she felt her eyes dilate and focus to a painful degree; she saw the beads of sweat from the afternoon sun speckling the tanned brows of the sons that stood around the figure, she saw blank faces revert to shock, horror, then anger and defense. Everything stood in intense slow motion, the Princess could see the whip's extension, the blade not visible from this angle. In fact, the only angle that any eyes could now see the blade, they'd have to live inside Sharaman's neck, where the sharp end had embedded itself.
She saw how people's mouths opened impossibly wide, knowing that they must be emitting screeches to the tenth degree, but the sound hardly had time to catch her. Suddenly filled to the brim with déjà vu, her perfectly sculpted sandals flew across the floor along with her feet, then; stairs, stairs, stairs.
Stares.
By the time her time she ripped open the door, the crowds of people were all clamoring for a look, and her unimpressive height was suddenly inadequate enough to see what had been going about in the square's podium. The sound returned full force out amongst the denizens, people were shouting in surprise, shock, some cheering, some horrified. Mouths held open in stunned silence, mouths bugged open for no discernible words save for a shriek. It was the Princess's who was closed in determination, to get there, to make somehow make it to the king.
That fallen King.
The past King.