Author's note: Many, many thanks to my 3 faithful reviewers. I appreciate your support very very very much.
The purpose of the urn will be explained …… well, as soon as I figure it out myself. Hope to get to that soon enough, though.
Oh, and Hannah, the thing with the scars is my personal creation.
Episode VI : "Dark reality"Giving one more suspicious look to the priestess whose attitude was really starting to worry him, the Prince exited the tent and ordered the two guards who had come to replace the ones who had been killed, to take the dead bodies out of the tent.
The sun was shining brightly that morning, the sky was blue and clear, with a couple of birds flying about, peacefully. Everything looked uncommonly calm, as if there was no war going on. The Prince was more than pleased with these moments of silence and he was grateful that the carnage had stopped for now, although he could not help it but feel proud for vanquishing the enemy in such an ingenious way.
The little that was left of the anxious and spirited young man he once was leapt up with pride and joy, thinking back at his victory. But none of these emotions could be seen on the matured Prince's face, which remained as serious and plain as ever, with his brows always frown and his vigilant eyes spying from behind the strings of untidy hair that fell on his face.
He was walking slowly across the encampment, not really having a target destination in mind, when he saw a group of men approaching on horseback. They were definitely not Persian, but, fortunately, they were not Syrian either, although there were certain similarities regarding their uniforms, and apparently they did not come to wage another battle.
Presuming they were the Mesopotamian troops they had been expecting, the Prince quickened his pace and followed them inside a big tent. This tent was undoubtedly the largest one in the encampment. Over the actual walls of the tent there hang drapes of different shades of blue and yellow, adorned with traditional patterns. A long dark-blue carpet led from the entrance to a larger, golden chair, similar to a throne, which stood on the opposite side of the tent. To the right there was a round table with maps on it and as he entered, the Prince saw a large number of Mesopotamian soldiers gathered around it.
Markug, who was the only Persian officer attending to the foreign visitors, saw the Prince standing at the door, but quickly looked in another direction when the Prince shook his head slightly, signaling him not to reveals his presence, since none of the Mesopotamians had noticed him arrive. Markug then turned his attention to the Mesopotamian general he was talking to, a tall, large man with a bushy light-brown beard that covered the lower half of his plump face. Over his left eye he had a deep scar, reminiscent of a really brutal wound, which prevented him from opening it, so he had to use only one eye in seeing. On his head he wore a red turban, with a yellowish line at the bottom and his uniform was similar to that of the men he was with: a simple, red-yellow tunic, black, loose pants, a brown leather belt adorned with metal spikes, used for carrying a sword, going around the waste and another one going diagonally across the chest, used for carrying a double-blade axe, on his back.
"The Mesopotamians are willing to accept an alliance with Persia, but only on certain conditions," the Mesopotamian general spoke loudly on a somehow brutal tone, as if he was the only one empowered to give orders.
"Very well, what are your conditions?" Markug tried to hide his uneasiness, not knowing if the Prince had decided to stand aside in order to observe the Mesopotamians' attitude or his negotiating aptitudes.
"First of all, each Mesopotamian soldier is to receive proper payment, according to his rank, for the duties he carries out at war. Secondly, the alliance between Mesopotamia and Persia goes only as far as the war goes. Once the enemy is defeated Persia shall no longer have any claims upon Mesopotamia, which will be an independent kingdom and not a Persian province," the general presented his demands firmly and again, rather brutally.
"Your demands are quite high, taking into consideration Mesopotamia's current situation," Markug remarked, feeling more at ease.
"Our demands remain the same. If you agree to them, the Mesopotamian troops will join the Persians in battle, if not, the Persians will have one more enemy to face in battle," the man stated imposingly and a bit irritated, almost shouting.
"Think about it, Mesopotamia needs more this alliance than Persia does."
"Yet, it is Persia who has requested the alliance."
"True, but we did it because Mesopotamia needs our help."
"Mesopotamia needs no help, especially from Persia. If this is your final word, than we shall fight in opposite sides on the battlefield. Any Mesopotamian would rather die fighting for the freedom of the country than submit ever again to the Persian rule," the Mesopotamian tried to change things to his advantage hoping his display of anger would confuse the Persian general and submit him to his will.
"Please, we have no intention of fighting against you, " Markug attempted to calm down the other general, fearing things might get out of control. "But understand that your demands are not that simple to comply with. The king alone can take this decision."
"Before you speak to your king, the Syrians will have already defeated you."
"The king agrees," came the Princes' voice from behind, and everyone turned to look at him, rather startled. "As Prince of Persia and commander of this army, I take the liberty of accepting your conditions on behalf of the king and the country."
"My lord," the Mesopotamian general bowed his head before the Prince, as did all the others who were with him. "Then we have a deal?" he spoke again, this time standing up straight and looking very proudly, with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"We have," the Prince confirmed while he approached the table. "And tomorrow morning we'll fight the Syrians …… here," he informed them, pointing towards a certain point on a larger map, spread on the table, above many other.
"Shouldn't we wait for them to make the first move?" the Mesopotamian general asked with a daring that could get a soldier killed.
The Prince stared at him for a few short moments, obviously not content with his interruption, then he replied.
"We've all heard of stupid haste in war, but cleverness has never been associated with long delays. We attack the enemy when he's still weak."
Let us hope he is, Markug thought.
"As you command," the Mesopotamian responded, sounding neither pleased nor upset. "We have set up camp not far from here and tomorrow at dawn we shall join you on the battle field." And with that the men bowed their heads once more before the Prince, after which they turned around and exited the tent.
2 days later …
It was a couple more hours till dawn and everything was still enveloped in darkness, when the Persian troops slowly returned to camp after their latest confrontation with the Syrians. It had been a most bloody and gruesome battle, with many casualties on both sides, especially on the Persians' side. Nonetheless, surprisingly enough, the ones who suffered the greatest loses came out victorious in the end.
The Prince, though very satisfied with their miraculous victory, was more preoccupied with his own well-being, as he hadn't got a wink of sleep in more than four days in a row. He idly made his way inside his tent, walking with his head slightly bent down, his eyes half closed and his left hand pressing against his waist –on the same side–, as if trying to cover up something. He took out the swords he carried with him, threw them carelessly on the ground next to a weapon rack, and walked inside his small bedchamber. He approached the bed, with his left hand still pressing against his waist and his right one rubbing over his forehead and eyes, like someone who was making great effort to stay awake. Stretching his right hand forward he reached for the silk curtains and pulled them apart. He was about to lay down when he suddenly realized the obvious –the woman lying on his bed, starring right into his eyes– and grumbled furiously, cursing himself in his mind for having allowed her to occupy his tent.
"I was so curious to see how far you were intending to go," she told him playfully, but he pretended he didn't hear her and turned to exit the room.
"Don't go, there's enough room for both of us," the woman tried to sound serious, but then broke out into a mocking laugh.
The Prince walked to the other side of the tent, hardly standing on his feet, intending to lay somewhere on the ground and try to get some sleep there, when a strange whistling sound drew his attention towards the entrance to the tent. Curious to see what it was, he approached the curtains and watched how a strange wind was slowly moving them. When he took a few steps closer, the wind blew harder and the curtains were thrown violently upon him, as if trying to stop him from getting out. But as he retreated, the curtains kept dancing about more violently and all that the Prince could see behind them was a thick, dark fog.
Having a very bad feeling about this, he felt the need to protect himself and reached for the sword on his back, only to find that it was not there. Remembering where he had left his weapons, the Prince wanted to go and retrieve them, but just as he was about to turn to his right, something like four dark tentacles sprung forwards from the gap between the curtains and came upon him, going around him and through him.
When the tentacles went through his body he gave out a sharp cry of pain, feeling as if a thousand sharp spears had ripped through his flesh. With the little strength he had left he tried to fight whatever was attacking him and in a desperate attempt to escape he grabbed hold of two tentacles that had pierced his chest, right through his hard armor. Once again, he cried out in pain as touching the tentacles was like placing his hands into fire; and it was not an illusion, his palms being severely burned.
The Prince felt as though he was being lifted into the air, but it was not at all a pleasant sensation. It was like his very soul was slowly being sucked out of him, while his body experienced unimaginable pains. As he stood there helplessly –or floated, he couldn't really tell–, he managed to raise his eyes and look towards the black fog, which now seemed to start enveloping him as well. He saw two white, sparkling lights and heard a muffled roar, sounding very much like an evil laugh. He had a certain feeling that in any minute he would be pulled into the darkness before him, but to his surprise he found himself thrown to the ground and in a fraction of a second everything went back to normal. Lying on the ground, still in great pain, the Prince saw how his vision was gradually starting to go dim, and all that he could make out before going unconscious was a blur image of the woman running towards him.