Author's note: Guess what I found out? There's a city in nowadays Afghanistan called …… FARAH! Also, in Arabian "FARAH" means JOY.

Btw, thank you so much for your reviews!

Episode III : "Haunting memories"

After his chat with the priestess who had claimed to be the traitor they had been looking for, the Prince made his way across the encampment towards the second largest tent in the area, belonging to his most trustworthy man and also very good friend, general Markug. As he stepped in quietly he noticed Markug standing in front of a round table, studying some maps and most likely making future battle plans. With one hand resting against the table and the other rubbing his forehead, he looked as though he was concentrating upon something, but was unable to come up with a good solution no matter how hard he tried.

Markug was a relatively good-looking man, sharing the typical features of a common Persian male: tanned skin, dark hair tied at the back in a braid, and dark eyes, unlike the Prince's, whose clear blue color amazed everyone who saw them. The military uniform he wore was the traditional Persian one, similar to that which the Prince had worn when he was younger, the only difference being the colors. He had a yellowish-brown, long sleeved blouse with traditional patterns outlined by simple red lines, and golden circular stripes around the collar and cuffs. The blouse, which was relatively long, reaching down half way between his waist and knees, was tightened to his middle by a brown leather belt, which also held his sword on the left side. Of the same color and material were his boots, while his pants were dark-red.

Although he was still young, the stress and pains he had endured, as well as the many battles he had fought in his life, made him look a bit older than he actually was. He was now 36, being ten years older than the Prince. One reason for which the youngest son of King Sharaman and he had become good friends was that the King had entrusted him with initiating the little Prince into the art of combat, since his skills were very promising and he was also the son of a nobleman from the court.

"I thought you said we can win this war," the Prince spoke as he approached the table next to which Markug stood. He told him this because he saw him looking very concerned, whereas less than half an hour before he had been quite confident in his belief of an ultimate victory of the Persian army.

"I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow morning," he smirked.

"If you're referring to the woman, I have no plans with her besides sending her home as soon as possible. A battlefield is no place for a woman, especially a priestess."

"You're just going to let her treachery go unpunished?"

"What can I do? Have her tortured to death? Besides, from what she has told me, it seams that she had no choice but to tell the Syrians what they wanted to know."

"So she is the traitor after all?" Markug asked quite intrigued, as if it hadn't been he who had said that to the Prince in the first place.

"Why are you so surprised? Didn't you already know about this?"

"No, not really. I mean, the men did tell me something along those lines, but to be honest, I found it difficult to believe."

"Then why did you brought the woman to my tent?"

"I thought …… she would please you."

The Prince looked exasperated at Markug, but before he could answer, his eyes caught sight of a small piece of parchment lying on the table, appearing to bear the Persian royal seal.

"What is that?"

"A message from your brother," Markug explained while handing to the Prince the piece of parchment, the tone of his voice becoming more serious and his figure expressing the same preoccupation as before. "Apparently his campaign in the north is not going on so well. They suffered great damages and lost many soldiers."

"So I see," the Prince sighed with grief and regret, as the letter confirmed to him all that Markug had told him. "He is asking for at least four units of soldiers. Can we comply?"

"We have suffered many loses as well and at the moment I am still expecting word from the Mesopotamians. If they agree to ally with us, then we will be able to send some troops in the north."

"Can we trust the Mesopotamians? They were our enemies not long ago."

"Yes, but now they are at war with the Syrians and the Romans, and an alliance with Persia is all that could save them."

"Are the Syrians in alliance with the Romans?"

"Not that I know of. From what my sources told me, the Romans want to have control over Syria while the new Syrian king wants to establish his own empire."

"Foolish dreams for such a small kingdom."

"I thought the same, but what puzzles me is the huge army the king has at his command. Syria never had such a powerful army. He must have some really strong ally backing him up and we must find out who."

"So for now all we can do is wait for the Mesopotamian troops to arrive."

"And pray the Syrians aren't planning any surprise attacks."

"Yes, …… pray," the Prince spoke absent-mindedly, glancing at the letter from his brother he still held in his hand. "Let me know when our new allies arrive," he told Markug, before putting the letter back on the table and turning towards the exit of the tent. Markug thought about saying something back but the Prince's sudden depressive mood made him think twice before putting his thoughts into words.

As he stepped outside the tent and made his way past the two soldiers that were guarding it, the Prince tried to figure out what was happening to him. Deep in his mind, he knew the answer but he hopped it was something else this time, something simpler that he could understand. No such luck though. When Markug uttered the word "pray", it worked as some sort of spell upon him, bringing him back to reality.

For the past six years he had filled his time with countless hours of training, perfecting the skills he already possessed or developing new ones. He had fought many battles alongside his father until, eventually, when the king grew older and his illnesses prevented him from fighting his own wars, the Prince took the command of half of the Persian army. The other half of the army was under the command of one of the Prince's brothers -the oldest son of King Sharaman and also the future king.

The Prince had done all of this not only for his own amusement but hopping that keeping himself busy would help him ignore something that had been tormenting him for many years. He was not exactly a religious man but now he realized that praying was probably the only thing that might save him, since ignorance did not do him any good. He had grown to be a very courageous man and he wished to confront and destroy his fears, but how could he do that if he did not know what his fears were in the first place?

All that he knew is that it all started after the incident with the Sands of Time, when he was forced to reverse time and prevent The Sands from ever being released. Less than a year afterwards, he started to have weird dreams and even visions when he was awake. At the beginning nothing was clear but over the years the dreams turned into frightening nightmares. He was running like mad through a narrow, deserted alleyway of his own city. He felt overwhelmed with fear and knew that he had to keep on running but he did not know who or what exactly he was running from. At one moment he always turned and looked behind him, desperately wanting to know what or who was there; but all that he could see was a cloud of darkness enveloping everything in its path, coming closer and closer and in the end, enveloping him as well. Then was when he would wake up almost screaming, finding himself shaking with fear because of something he could merely remember.

"The dream is always the same. Every night the same dream, for six years. But why? What does it mean?" the Prince thought as he continued his walk, ignoring the fact that while being absorbed in his thoughts he had walked from one end of the encampment to the other. "If I go on like this for ever I'll go mad. I must discover its meaning and put an end to it once and for all. But where to begin?"

The Prince had no time for further analysis of his personal problems, when a soldier came running towards him, hardly catching his breath.

"My Lord, beg your pardon, but something very strange is going on."

"What is it?" the Prince asked concerned, remembering Markug's mentioning of a possible Syrian attack.

"Most sentries around the encampment have been slaughtered and yet there is no sign of any intruders."

"Awake the men and search every tent and all the surroundings. Whoever killed them did it with a purpose. Now go."

"Yes, my Lord."

After receiving orders from his commander, the soldier rushed to carry them out, while the Prince made his way back to Markug's tent. On his way he encountered a group of Persian soldiers armed and ready for battle, that would have passed him without even taking notice of their commander, if he had not stopped one of them.

"Hey, you," he shouted at one soldier who was walking behind the others, just as the group passed him by.

As the others went on their way, the man stopped, but did not turn to face the Prince. Instead, he kept his head bowed and looked at the Prince only from the corner of his right eye, as if he was afraid of being recognized.

"Yes, my Lord," he answered with a half-opened mouth.

"What is going on here? Who is attacking us?" the Prince demanded.

"We don't know, my Lord. We heard about the sentries having been killed and decided to search the area."

"Carry on then."

The man bowed his head before the Prince, but just as the latter turned to leave, he reached towards his sword with the intention of pulling it out, when he was stopped by another soldier.

"Not yet. You'll spoil everything," the man whispered and the other one obeyed, after which both of them went on their way.