A/N: Sorry for the horribly long update! I've had no time to work on this chapter until now, it's finally Christmas break. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, without you I might have given up. I'd like to address some of your comments:

AbsoluteOmega, you said that the Prince gives Farah the dagger twice—you'll notice in the game that she doesn't actually take it the first time, just says, "I owe you thanks."

The Asylum of the Damned: You're absolutely right, a seizure wouldn't explain stab wounds. Granted, the Prince didn't actually slash him that much, but I'm going to try and come up with a better story for Farah to tell.

Kenta Wolf (cool PoP fics btw!), you mentioned that in reality, Farah's marriage would be arranged. That's true, and I have adjusted the story accordingly.

A few notes on the Persian names in this chapter:

Ksathra: ruler

Farideh: delightful

Zuleika: brilliant beauty

Sohrab and Kaveh: hero names

The Prince is yet unnamed. I've been considering Dasras, which means handsome (XD!!)… but it's an Indian name, not Persian. Let me know what you think!

Memories

As I had anticipated, Farah lingered in my thoughts long after I left her. The sweetly poisoned knife that had pierced me then wore dull, losing its bitter edge and leaving me with only a gentle ache to soothe her memory. I knew it would not be possible to forget her, but surely I should be able to live as though I were a complete person, rather than a collection of jagged shards forming the empty hole of her image. Weeks, months passed, and still she never left my thoughts. At times, I tried to force her out, but just as insolent as ever, she refused to leave.

It was nearly six months since I had dabbled in the pools of Time. My family had noticed the changes in me; I was less brash, less sure of myself, more prone to melancholy. The youngest of my older brothers, Kaveh, told me I no longer boasted or praised myself, and that I was a greater man for it. Our elder brother Sohrab, closest to me not in age but in spirit, sought to understand the reasons for my transformation. I did not relate the events of that catastrophic day to him, as I had done with Farah, for I knew that even he, my closest friend, would hear it as an impossible story—nothing more.

Zuleika said nothing, only glanced at me with her usual expression of distaste. My sister cared little what happened around her. At only twenty-seven years old, she possessed the kind of loveliness spoken of in fable and myth, and was acutely aware of it. Her beauty was brilliant and intimidating, almost frightening to behold. She could wield it as a weapon or hold it high above our heads to taunt us. As children, our parents forbid us from touching her or allowing any harm to come to her, for fear of marring her exquisiteness. Yet much to everyone's amazement and distress, she had not married. Men wanted her, but did not love her; she was too great for them, too incredible and unattainable.

My father assumed I had been traumatized by the mere thought of my first battle, and that if the Indian vizier had proven reliable, I might have gained the honour and glory of a warrior rather than lose my well-deserved royal pride. With great difficulty, I succeeded in discouraging him from future attacks on India. Although he was not so brash as to accuse me of sympathising with the enemy, he made it clear that he would tolerate nothing less than total allegiance to Persia, no matter how gutless I became.

Ksathra, my eldest brother, called me a coward and sneered at me when my mother's head was turned, saying I ought to be still suckling at her breast and not wielding the sword which now wearied me so. His gentle wife Farideh was much kinder, offering soft words and once, a tear from her lovely eye. Although Ksathra was my elder by ten full years, Farideh was much closer in age to me. I had loved her long before my brother turned his greedy eyes upon her. When he saw that we cared for each other, he resented our happiness and snatched up my sweet Farideh for his own. Each salty tear she cried on their wedding day stung the ragged wound where she had been ripped from me.

The same had happened with Farah; Time had torn her from my fingers. When I received word that we were to be visiting her family, I could scarcely believe that Fate could be so kind. I was surely being granted another chance to love her and let her love me.

Our caravan reached Jaipur in early March. Indian commoners cheered as we rode through their streets; they were happy not to be attacked, I suppose. It was late in the evening when we arrived at Amber Palace. The Maharajah honoured us by allowing us to pass through his cherished palace gardens. I looked with wonder upon his magnificent home as hazy memories began to resurface; I recognized a certain corridor, I glimpsed a room of deadly spike traps, and once, I believe I saw a passage leading to the treasure vaults where all my adventures had begun. Yet a feeling of uncertainty was also slowly rising within me; something seemed different. Starting, I realized that the palace was not in the half-destroyed state, ravaged by my father's armies, in which I had previously encountered it. Its beauty was understandably enhanced.

As I viewed the palace with a growing feeling of familiarity, I discovered to my surprise that I was smiling. I must have smiled so little in the past six months, with my self-confidence shattered and my greatest joy torn away. My thoughts flew to Farah, and ecstasy rapidly blossomed within me. She was alive! I was almost painfully close to her, I was aching for her, I felt I could nearly touch her. I had to restrain myself from crying out to her. I looked up through the idly swaying trees, trying to recall how I had reached her balcony six months earlier.

Sohrab peered anxiously into my face. "Brother, are you… why, he's grinning!"

I laughed. My family must have thought me mad, but I didn't care. Every step brought me closer to Farah.

When the Maharajah's countless servants had finally made us comfortable, the night was too old for dry discussion, so we retired to our opulent chambers. My rooms were richly furnished and decorated with no expense spared. I lay in the luxurious foreign bed, feeling like an intruder. I knew that to sleep would be to dream of Farah, and for some reason I found it unbearable for her to be so close to me, yet accessible only in my thoughts. Tomorrow, I would see her again. Tomorrow was a hundred years away… surely it would come too late, and I would be a groaning old man; then I would die alone, without her… such dark thoughts lulled me to sleep and bled into my dreams. I slept restlessly, and in the morning awoke feeling troubled and apprehensive.

While my father and the Maharajah talked, our family was allowed to roam freely about the palace. It was a gesture of trust. I wandered around for some time, taking in the majesty and grandeur of his impressive home. To my dismay, I perceived no sign of Farah. I had no choice but to seek her myself, however bold that might seem.

I asked one of the servants where I could find her. He looked at me suspiciously; it was clear he didn't trust us Persians. Still, he courteously informed me that she had gone to the gardens earlier in the morning. Swallowing a rush of anxiety, I thanked him and hurried down to find her.

As I drew nearer to the gardens, my steps slowed. Irritated by my own cowardice, I forced my heavy feet towards the courtyard. This was no time to be nervous.

It took a bit of searching before I found her, in the centre of a small clearing. It was a quiet, hidden place. She was lounging on an ornately carved stone bench, reading a book. Her glossy hair was draped loosely over her shoulders, darker than onyx, smoother than water. "Farah—" The word fell out of my mouth in a queer half-gasp.

The princess's head jerked up in surprise. She rose too quickly, almost losing her balance; she appeared ashamed to be caught in such an undignified position. "You," she uttered, gazing at me as if entranced. She blinked. "I mean… pardon me, your highness." It must have been awkward for her to address royalty, so accustomed to being the one to whom others bowed.

I wasn't in the mood for formalities. I stepped closer to her. "Farah, it's me!" I started laughing and babbling at the same time: "I'm sorry I left you at your balcony, I should have stayed, I should have tried to make you remember, I—"

"Who are you, exactly?" Farah interrupted. "I feel as though I've seen you before."

This wasn't beginning very well. She was supposed to remember me and run into my arms, and then I would carry her away and… and… marry her? All right, so I hadn't really worked that part out yet. But she had loved me once, and I was sure that she could feel that way again. Studying her face, I noticed now that she seemed somehow different—older, and, although I hated to admit it, less attractive than I remembered. I had coloured her image in my mind, painted her as a flawless angel, some impossible creature with Zuleika's beauty and Farideh's heart. I took a breath to clear my spinning thoughts. "Can you recall a time six months ago, when your disloyal vizier was exposed?"

She stiffened. "He brought shame to our house."

Perhaps mentioning the deceased old man hadn't been the best idea. "Yes, anyway, I am the Persian prince who, er, dispatched him."

"You… I knew it! You came to my balcony at night and told me a fantastic tale about the Sands of Time. You're the man who knew my secret word." Her eyes shone with wonder.

"I know much about you," I said quietly. "My love…" I reached out to her. She swallowed, but did not move, only stared at my outstretched fingers. Restraining myself, I gestured for her to have a seat on the stone bench. She did so, and I sat down beside her. "You told me that word." She shook her head obstinately. "It was no story," I pressed. She looked up at me, searching my face for something, some sign of deceit or ill intention. I knew that she would find none. "How else would I know that word? How could I have found the Dagger of Time?"

"You could have stolen it," she said without conviction.

"In which case, I would have gained nothing by returning it to you."

"Thief's remorse?" she suggested uncertainly.

She was getting weaker. I felt closer than ever to convincing her. "You were there, Farah. In the sultan's palace in Azad. Can't you remember?"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

A deadly paradise…

"Farah?" Concerned that I had frightened her, I tentatively touched her hand. She didn't pull away.

A dagger—sand—his face, shouting my name—

His face—

With a small cry, she snatched her hand away and stared intently into my face. She was trembling. "Sand," she whispered. "Sand everywhere…"

My spirits leapt. "The Sands of Time," I said, nodding eagerly. "They would have consumed everything, had it not been for us."

"They would have consumed nothing, had it not been for you and your wretched pride," Farah retorted.

"You do remember!" I rejoiced, preparing to throw my arms around her. She crossed her own guardedly.

"I remember your story. Its authenticity is… questionable."

I groaned, more frustrated now than forlorn. "Farah, the dagger—"

"Although… sometimes…" I conceded to an impatient silence. Reluctantly, she continued. "I used to dream of sand, and… of you. And sometimes, I think I may remember something, but it could be just a dream…" She gave me a pleading look, then quite suddenly abandoned her self-consciousness and stated with confidence: "Water." I looked at her questioningly. "Golden light… a bathing pool, somewhere underground." Her lips twitched, and I realized she was suppressing a smile. "You were there, Prince." She ran a finger lightly across my cheek, as if reliving the memory.

"Farah? Is that you?"

Farah leapt up from the bench as a man appeared from behind some trees. "Halim!" she exclaimed shakily, trying to hide the guilt in her voice. I rose, placing a steadying hand on her arm, but she jumped away like a skittish animal.

Halim, the apparent cause of her panic, was a gentle-faced Indian man in his mid-thirties. After an awkward moment, he asked: "Aren't you going to introduce me, dear?" There was no suspicion in his voice; in fact, he sounded almost amusedly patronizing or fatherly. I supposed he was her uncle, or perhaps an older cousin.

The princess appeared too flustered to speak. I couldn't understand why she was so nervous; she hadn't done anything wrong. She turned to me. "This is Halim, my fiancé."

Everything inside me shivered, rapidly numb. I fell back onto the bench. Fiancé? It wasn't possible. She was mine!

Farah seemed to be nervously introducing me to her husband-to-be. I could barely hear her; I felt as though someone had dropped me on the peak of a mountain. I was confused and terrified and utterly unwilling to accept the reality of the situation.

Farah's usually golden-brown complexion had paled to a dreadful sallow hue. Halim was smiling, completely oblivious. There was nothing but kindness in his face; I could see that he was very fond of Farah, but did not love her. Yet he would marry her, and they would both be happy.

For a moment, hatred burned hot inside me. I loathed Halim. I wanted to kill him, to poison him in his sleep and make it look like he had died of old age. Nothing was fair. Fate would have her vengeance upon me.

The moment passed. I realized I was glaring fiercely at the confused but cheery middle-aged man. My poor Farah looked as if she might faint. All my endeavours had gone horribly wrong. I couldn't imagine anything worse happening, but decided it would be wise not to tempt Chance.

"Excuse me, your highness." I bowed and left.