AN: Alright I know I have been posting these a lot of slower than I was, but I am still writing, I have not given up. I am just having a hard time taking this the way I wanted to. At first I was trying to set up this whole love triangle, and I changed my mind about it. You will still see the after effects of Shraga and Zolm's kiss, this I assure you, but I am going to already warn that I am not going to set up for a love triangle anymore. The way I am going with this story, it is really not needed and it really will take away from the story itself. There are many surprises in store for future chapters, I just didn't want to keep writing and anyone wonder what happened to that plot point, or wonder if it was a plot point lol. Also if there are any grammar errors, over look them. I got so tired of reading this that I almost wanted to rewrite it. So I rather post it with a few mistakes than have to make you guys wait longer for me to write it again. Please review and let me know what you guys think.
Garsiv was having one hell of a time trying to pull himself out of his stupor. It was like his dream that had held him earlier, except this time nothing but darkness embraced him. He preferred the other dream to this bleakness. He actually wished that Shraga was here with him in his dream. She would make it more bearable because he couldn't wake himself. He willed himself to open his eyes but they wouldn't comply with his commands. He sighed internally in aggravation. He felt like he had been knocked out for hours and he still hadn't come to, he wanted to make out where he was but couldn't. He knew, even if he was unconscious, that he was a prisoner of war. It was clear because they had not killed him, yet.
It unnerved him that he was so aware of his thoughts but he couldn't control his body. He tried again to make himself open his eyes, and nothing. He felt like a child that couldn't control his bladder while being scared by some sort of evil made up monster. He hated to compare himself to a child with a weak bladder, but it was honestly the only thing he could think of. No matter how many times he told himself to wake, nothing happened, just like a child tells himself to stop pissing himself, and can't.
Even in the gentle embrace of darkness, he wondered what if his family knew he was gone. Surely by now they had to know. Would they find him soon? He doubted they would. Scythians were good at hiding themselves in the mountains. If he had to guess where they were taking him now, he was sure it was somewhere deep in the mountains where he wouldn't be found even if his father thought he had overturned every rock in the mountains to find him. It made him angry to think that he was at the enemy's mercy. What did they want with him anyways?
He thought they were at war, not at taking prisoners. He tried to comprehend what they might do and couldn't think of anything. Maybe he was too deep in the darkness to actually think or maybe he was that naïve about political prisoners. Who knew really? He couldn't form a proper thought about the subject. The only thing he could really think about was: Where am I? Why am I here? And how is my family?
He suddenly felt a sense of dread. Were his father and brother still alive? Had they survived the battle? He wasn't sure why he just now thought about it, but he did. He would have shivered at the thought if he was awake, but since he wasn't, all he could do was wonder. They had to of live, there was no way that his brother or father had been killed in battle. But then again he didn't think he would be a prisoner of war. This war was surprising to him, so there was a possibility that his family had been slaughtered at the hands of the Scythians. Or maybe they too were prisoners? He would have sighed if he was awake.
Again he tried desperately to wake himself. He was overcome with the need to know what was going on in the real world. Yet again he couldn't control his body. The thought passed over him that he must be drugged and that was why he couldn't wake. Somehow he knew that he had not been drugged. No one had drugged him when he had his dream about Shraga and he had the same problem then. He was just this poor at controlling himself. So he gave up trying and just drifted in the darkness and his thoughts.
Even if he could not pull himself out of the unconsciousness like he had wanted, a Scythian could. He was roughly shaken to, and his eyes jerked open. He almost felt himself smile that he was finally awake. He kept his smile to himself as the sun started to burn his eyes painfully. He had a severe headache that started suddenly and he went to grab his head and couldn't. At first he didn't understand why he couldn't and he dropped the thought to look around.
The Scythian who shook him awake was the one who had initially found him when he woke in his tent. The man gave him a wicked smile, scrunching up his face in this unusual way. He then dropped Garsiv's shoulders, stood back, and spit on the ground next to Garsiv as a sign of disrespect. Garsiv blinked a few times to clear his vision so he could really get a good look at the man who took him. He might as well commit him to memory for when he exacted his revenge he wanted to make sure he killed this man.
Garsiv would kill this man, he would. He needed to spill the blood of man that had taken him into whatever they had planned for him in the near future. Garsiv gritted his teeth together as he thought of all the terrible things he was going to do to this man before he killed him. He then sighed, thinking of such things was not helping him commit the man to memory.
He was a rather squat man, with rough dark features, and an unruly beard that Garsiv was sure that caught more food than the man actually shoved in his mouth. To be honest though, no matter how unruly and rough the man appeared, Garsiv had to give the man credit for looking clean. He was covered in desert dust, that was for sure, but he wasn't as dirty as Garsiv had initially thought he would look, how he though all Scythian's looked.
Garsiv gave the man a smile and then looked around to gather where he was. He was in enemy territory, miles away from where he had been, somewhere in the mountains like he had feared. He wasn't even sure if he was in Persia anymore. He tried to think about how long he had been out, and he couldn't think of anything. He had been comatose so there was not telling how long he had been that way and how far he was from where they had taken him. He just knew that no matter what, the enemy would take him as far away as they could. And it looked like they had done just that.
The landscape was mountainous, and full of rocks. Garsiv tried to think about his geography studies from when he was a child, maybe that would tell him where he was. He realized that he should have paid better attention to his studies as a child. He bit the inside of his cheek to help control his rising anger at his own inability to look around and know right where he was. Even if he had paid closer attention as a child, he doubted that it would have made it any easier to tell where he was.
Garsiv turned his eyes back to the man who had found him. This man must really think he is something, almost like some backwoods hero. The Scythian wore a self important look, and held himself up very straight with his shoulders squared and chin held high. Garsiv had seen men just like him. They thought they were better than what they were. Yet he did have to give the Scythian credit, he did take him as a prisoner. Garsiv shook his head and then started looking around to the other men standing around them. They all looked self important and they all stood ram rod straight, except one man who sat in a high backed wooden chair. It was the first time that Garsiv had noticed this man.
He was sure, that the high backed wooden chair was supposed to serve as some sort of makeshift throne. In a way it was unsettling. The roughened wood surely must give the man splinters because it was not smoothened in any way. It looked like something Garsiv could make because he was no carpenter. The chair gave the man a hard edge that actually managed to quicken Garsiv's pulse. If the chair was supposed to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, it had almost succeeded. Garsiv felt dread in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the chair. Just the chair alone was imposing. The man sitting in it was even more so.
This man didn't look self important; he just looked like he was imperative. He had his chin resting on the palm of his hand as he stared down at Garsiv who was sitting in the floor now after he picked himself into a sitting position. The man looked as if he were bored, which unnerved Garsiv even more. It was the best he could do because he had his hands tied behind his back, and his feet tied together at the ankles. That was the first time that Garsiv had realized that his hands were tied behind his back. He finally felt the rough rope cutting into the skin of his wrists as he tried to rise as much as he could.
This man was tall, Garsiv could tell by the length of his legs that stretched out before him. He was pretty hefty, the perfect balance of muscle against fat. He too had a scraggly dark beard, only difference was his beard was shorter than the man's who took him. Garsiv was torn to wondering what the more striking thing about the man, was it his cold golden eyes? Or was it the scar that started at the edge of his lips and curved up over his face and ended at his cheek bone? After further inspection Garsiv concluded it was both. His eyes were cold, yet fiery at the same time, and his scar gave him a freakish grin.
"Name," commanded the man in the chair. His tone was chilling. His voice was deep and guttural as if he struggled with the Persian common tongue. Garsiv stared upon the man unsure if he should actually answer. The man picked his head off his hand and let his eyes bore into Garsiv's. His gaze told Garsiv not to make him repeat himself.
"Garsiv Prince of Persia," he finally said. The words spilled effortlessly out of Garsiv's mouth. He should have hesitated longer to let this man know he was no coward to be pushed around. Yet the look on the man's face spoke volumes to the Prince so he had offered the information quickly.
"Garsiv, Prince of Persia… Not crowned Prince of Persia…" the man said more to himself than to anyone else. Yet his words struck fear into every man there, including Garsiv. All the smug faces of the men who stood around them, they all fell into a look of terror. "You brought me wrong prince," he stated coolly as he looked to the man who had found Garsiv. The man shrunk under his leader's cool gaze. The air grew thick and the leader gave a quick nod of his head that Garsiv knew didn't like what was going to happen.
It was quick, but by no means painless. The man's throat was quickly slit and thick rivulets of blood frothed forth from his mouth and spilled out of the deep slit. He convulsed all the way to his knees as his hands went to his neck in a desperate, yet failed, attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped through his fingers and his eyes rolled back into his head. He gave one sharp intake of breath and then fell promptly onto his face, dead.
Garsiv stared on in horror. He did not think this man wouldn't kill him next if need be. The man sat forward in his chair and watched Garsiv's face with interest. Garsiv couldn't help but feel a slight bit aggravated. That man was supposed to his kill, and it had been taken away from him. "You are the wrong prince. I needed the crowned prince." Garsiv cut his eyes to the man and a grim look fell over his handsome face. He was going to die he was sure of it. He wasn't what these people wanted. He was still a Prince of Persia, yet he was not THE Prince of Persia.
"What do you want with my brother?" asked Garsiv, his voice breaking in fear as well from lack of moisture in his mouth. How long had he gone without water? He unexpectedly felt like he needed barrels of water to quench his undying thirst. His tongue was heavy and his mouth was too dry.
"With him I could rule Persia. With you all I can do is get a handsome reward."
The man's confession made a cold chill creep down Garsiv's spine. Would this man choose the handsome reward or would he still aim higher like he was? He would have reached up at that moment to touch the pendant around his neck for reassurance, but his hands were still tied securely behind his back. He was at their mercy, this he knew, and so did this man.
Garsiv thought that maybe he could plead with this man. Yet he knew that there was nothing he could say that would change this man's mind. On top of that Garsiv knew the man was right. He would only get gold for Gasiv, for Tus this man could have ruled all of Persia. He could have had them all in the palm of his hand if he had Tus. Garsiv was thankful then that the dead Scythian laying a few feet away from him in a puddle of dark blood had messed up. Thanks to that man Tus would not be used and for the most part Persia would be safe.
Then it occurred to him that if their plan had been to take Tus, their army must not be as vast as they had thought. Tus was the only way for the Scythians to win the war. As long as Persia could keep Tus safe, there was no way for the Scythians to win. Garsiv would suffer whatever this man had in store for him, but he had hope that Persia would walk away, even if he didn't. He was prepared to die for Persia as long as everyone else stayed safe.
There was only one thing that made him think twice about dying: Shraga. His chest clenched hard and he wished he could just touch the pendant. He just wanted to let his fingers graze over it one time just in case he never got to see her again. He felt sick and tried his hardest not to let it show on his face. He could not afford anyone here to see that he had a weakness. He tried to make his face as void of emotion as he could as he met the cold gaze of the leader of the Scythians.
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She hadn't felt him for a few days now and it was driving her mad. The first day made her nervous. She paced around her room with her sister in laws watching her curiously and even jumped at shadows. They had not said anything to her, or asked if something was wrong. It was clear to the twins that there was something wrong. Shraga looked as nervous as a cat about to be forced into a bath. So they had sat back and watched her pace, hoping she would be alright, even though it looked like she was not alright at all.
There were a few times the sisters thought to try and make her calm down. Both had decided against it quickly. They knew that Shraga had a temper that could rival the devil himself if she wanted, and the sisters didn't want that wrath pointed their way if they said something to upset the jumpy girl. They knew that Shraga would not mean to hurt them in anyway, but they also knew that one did not play with fire and not get burned eventually. Even if they played with the fire to calm it down, they still did not want to get burned.
The second day to the fifth day made her fall into a state of deep depression where she just laid in bed all day and night in her husband's room. She didn't speak, eat, drink, or move. Everyone was in awe how she could stay that way for three days. Yet she had held up her vigil as if she moved that something horrible would happen. She just laid there on her side and stared at the spot where her husband should be sleeping. Every now and again she would reach out and stroke the spot where he had slept the night before he had left. She forced herself into thinking that it was still warm, even though it had been weeks since he had departed for war.
Her mother in law sat behind her, combing her fingers gently through Shraga's fiery red hair in hopes to soothe the girl. She was careful of the curls so not to tangle her hair. Azada whispered everything she could to make Shraga pull out of this deep state of depression. She even tried to get the girl to eat, but nothing worked. Nothing the older woman said or did even got a response from Shraga.
It was hard to help someone if you had no idea what was even wrong with them. At first she figured it was from the assassin attack that happened what seemed only a few days ago. Yet something told Azada that was not it at all. It panicked Azada though. She may not know what was going on, but she knew whatever it was it wasn't good. She knew Shraga was very perceptive, and she could most likely feel that was something was wrong. Azada prayed that nothing was wrong but from the way Shraga was acting, she couldn't help but worry.
Azada had seen some of her husband's other wives act this way when they were younger when he left for battle. Azada thought maybe at first the fact that Garsiv was gone had finally gotten to Shraga. Yet Azada knew that they had not become close enough for Shraga to act this way. Also she knew even if Garsiv and Shraga had time to get close enough, Shraga was not the sort of girl to act this way. So Azada knew that something that the girl was feeling had to be a bad omen.
The sixth day, Shraga was furious, and she was furious before she even received the letter. She stood in the middle of her room and unleashed her anger on it. She had already destroyed a few pieces of artwork that decorated the room. She smashed vases, slashed her gifted jade handled dagger through paintings, and even overturned a desk, splintering the fine wood into many pieces. The sisters had been right about Shraga's anger. It could rival the devil's.
Shraga was livid and it was all because she could not feel her husband. She knew something was wrong, and it killed her on the inside to not know if he were dead or alive. She wished she could feel him, just one time would be nice. Anything that would just be a glimmer of hope would be enough to quell her desperate anger as she tossed another vase at the wall and watched as it shattered into many pieces.
Hot tears of fury fell down her face as she stared down at the broken porcelain on the floor and felt that resembled her heart at the moment. A sob found its way to her throat and she had to clench her teeth so to not let it pass any further. She was strong and she would not sob like an infant that needed its mother. She just wanted to know if her husband was alive or dead. She needed to know.
Her day got worse only a few minutes later. Azada burst into her room, crying. She held a parchment in her hand as her eyes landed on Shraga, completely ignoring the state of Shraga's room. Shraga stilled and her anger fanned for a moment for Azada to hand over the letter. She scanned the letter from the King until she found what she wanted to know, what she needed to know.
'Garsiv has been taken.'
She dropped the letter, not needing to even reread it to make sure that she had not seen something that was not there. Her husband had been taken by Scythians. She trembled as the anger came back tenfold. She looked to her mother in law, and Azada gave her a knowing glance. Shraga clenched her hand into a tight fist as she just stood there staring into Azada's blue eyes. She wished she could find it in her to cry, but all she could do was stare in complete fury.
Shraga knew Azada felt helpless, Shraga on the other hand was not helpless. Even through her rage, she was already thinking that she would find Garsiv, and she would kill the men who took him. Her spine shivered with anticipation, until her entire body shivered with anticipation. She pulled Azada into an embrace so that she couldn't read the terrible things in Shraga's eyes. She didn't want the woman to know what she was considering. She thought of Azada as another mother, and she wanted to spare her to the horrible things that she was planning to do.
Azada took comfort in Shraga's arms and she soaked the front of Shraga's tunica. Shraga didn't mind though. She knew that it should be reversed; it should be her crying in Azada's arms. She hardly knew Garsiv long enough to cry the way Azada cried over her adopted son. So she offered what little comfort she could give to Azada. She smoothed a hand down the older woman's hair as her mind drifted to how she was going to enjoy killing the Scythians just as much as they enjoyed stealing her husband away. Enjoy it now bastards, she thought heatedly.
When Azada left her, Shraga prepared to leave. She changed into her desert garb, and packed a bag with a change of clothes. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was going to bring home her husband. She had to; otherwise she would surely go mad without him. She stopped herself as she stared in the mirror. It abruptly occurred to her that she was more dependent on him than she had thought she would be. She was not daft enough to think she loved him or anything more than a fondness, she just knew that she would go mad without him here with her in the city. She was not sure if he died if she would be forced to stay in the palace. So in case if this were the situation, she was going to bring him home alive.
She closed her eyes and tried to will him to at least touch the pendant, just to let her know that this wasn't already a hopeless cause. She stood there for what seemed an eternity, and nothing happened. She didn't feel him or anything. She only opened her eyes when she heard someone entering her room.
Her eyes snapped open and she turned around to see Dastan standing in the doorway. She hadn't been close to Dastan before her husband left, but they had been sparring at least once a day since he had left. Dastan had come to her and asked her to help him get better. She had wondered how he knew she could fight, but he explained that Garsiv had told them that she was good with a sword. So they had been growing close. The look on his young face was pitiful and she swallowed hard as she looked down on him.
"You are going after him aren't you?" he asked after he shut the door securely behind him.
Dastan was a smart kid. She smiled fondly at him. Yes, he was a very smart kid. And the time they had spend together he had come to learn things about Shraga that Garsiv himself hadn't gotten the pleasure to learn. She realized then that Dastan was not a child, and she had never treated him like such up to this point, and she was not going to start now. He was just a year younger than her, but that did not make him a child. He was smart, strong, and loyal. In some ways, even though he was not related to Garsiv by blood, he reminded her of him.
"I must," she said. He was silent for a few minutes as they met each other's gazes. He seemed like he knew there was no way to stop her, but he had come to at least try.
"My father will find him. Shraga I know you are more than a desert Princess that my father chose to marry my brother. You were taught to be a warrior, I can tell because you are too rough around the edges and you use a sword better than Garsiv does, but… but if anything happened to you and Garsiv does come back… Garsiv would be furious if you were not here. So don't go Shraga. Stay here and wait. I know it will be hard to wait, but let them bring him back so nothing bad happens to you."
Her heart caught in her throat. He delivered his speech like a man. Yes, indeed Dastan may be a year younger than her but he was already a man. He was a man who spoke the truth, and he was a man who was right. Her face paled at the thought of just sitting around and waiting like an obedient wife. In her heart though she knew it was the right thing to do. She was only one person, no matter if she was a trained Hassansin, she was only one. There was no way she could stand up to an entire army to get her husband.
She knew her plan was to sneak into where they held him and take him, but she didn't even had the slightest clue where he was. She closed her eyes to hide her emotions to Dastan. He was even more right about if something happened to her. Anything could happen to her, and she knew that as well. Half of her wished that Dastan had never come in here to plea with her. The other half was glad he had. She sank to her knees on the cold marble floor.
When she opened her eyes she noticed that Dastan had done the same thing, for now he sat on his knees in front of her. "Stay for Garsiv," he whispered.
Before she knew what she was doing she was nodding her head that she would stay. "I promise to remain here until he returns," she whispered knowing that Dastan would not be satisfied until he heard her say it. She bounded herself here by a promise. Once she made a promise she would keep it. She wanted nothing more than to go kill the men who took Garsiv in the first place. Dastan had reasoned with her. He had spoke sense into her that she had not had because she was too angry. Garsiv would feel the way she felt now if something happened to her and when he returned she was not there.
She did not want her husband to feel the same helpless anger she felt. So she would remain. She would spend her days worrying a way a wife should, even a Hassansin wife would stay. She would wear black everyday just like her mother had done when her father had left to war when she was a young girl. Shraga would prepare herself for the worst. She would be strong here until the King returned with her husband, dead or alive.