2 Months Earlier
Chaos ruled Alamut.
From the safety of his balcony in the occupied Alamutian palace, Dastan watched the riots that spread across the Holy City, despite the best efforts of the Persian army to quell them. Conqueror and savior, he felt little more than useless as he watched the destruction. He and Garsiv had been forbidden from leaving the palace by Tus, not that it made a terribly large difference to him. His encounter with his Uncle and quick proposal had used the last of his faltering strength. He knew that going outside of the palace would certainly mean his death and for once he was content to listen to the wisdom of his older brother.
His entire body felt as though it had been reduced to jelly, his limbs barely able to offer any support. Every injury he had received during his fight with Nizam and the Hassansins, every bruise and bump and burn all seemed to stand out with chilling clarity. That was nothing new for Dastan. He knew that in the middle of a battle it was easy to push injuries aside. It was after that your injuries hurt. What was unsettling was that there were no injuries. His skin was unblemished, unbroken, free of marks from Hassansin's hands and Nizam's blades. He knew where every injury was, he felt them as acutely as if they marked his skin. But there were none. None that he could show to the healers or that could be treated. There was only the pain and the fatigue.
By sunrise his father would arrive.
Just the thought of Sharaman's face when he heard of what his brother had done was enough to make Dastan remain on his feet with the pain and the fatigue. It could have been penance, or cowardice, but the Prince forced his body to remain upright, his eyes locked on the city that spread below his feet. Only the faintest sounds from the riots reached his ears, the palace far enough away to silence most of them. Behind him the room he had been given lay empty. He had sent away all the servants, including Bis, needing to be alone with his thoughts. Now as he stood there he half wished for a distraction, but he knew he was not worthy of such a thing. The men had called him the Lion of Persia but the title seemed especially bitter as he watched the city he was supposedly savior and conquerer of fall to chaos.
His right arm was one continuous burn of agony. The sting of his uncles blade, the throb of where his arm slammed into the rocks, the twinge of his thumb from when Tamina's wrist pulled free. He did not understand if the pain was in his head, if it was a figment of his imagination, or if there was real evidence from the time he had averted. He supposed it did not matter. Not really. It was not as though he could go to the healers and show them his arm. Not without them thinking he was truly mad. And even if he could convince them that there was something physically wrong with him, something treatable, he was not sure he would want it. They would numb him, and a numbed warrior was a useless one. He was useless as it was, but he knew he could still hold his own in a fight. Or so he would like to think.
Dastan found it hard to focus on any one thing that was wrong. It seemed rather pointless to pick one to focus on when the more he thought about it the more he realized that the world ending might not be such a bad thing. It would certainly make things simpler, rather than the muddled mess they were. His brothers were not speaking, their father was about to receive news that would betray everything he believed for most of his life. And Tamina-
Dastan's hand curled into a fist. Past their exchange in the garden the Princess had barely looked at him. There were things to be done-many things to be done but that was not what troubled Dastan. It was the way she looked at him. Like he was a stuck up Persian Prince who enjoyed running around the city. Like a man who did not deserve the riches he had. Not like a friend, not like a lover, not like someone who had proven himself to her ten times over. And in that moment Dastan had realized she would never look at him that way. Not before they were married, not really unless the world almost came to an end once more. And for the life of him Dastan was not sure he was capable of saving it again.
But his brother had suggested a marriage between them and she had agreed. He knew it condemned him to a bittersweet life with her, filled with longing for what had once been rather than what was. But she was alive, she had agreed to be with him. He had to believe that at the end of the day, having her alive and at a different point in their relationship was better than not having her at all. He had to hold to the fact that they had come so far in a short time, that they could find their way to that place once more. Hope was little more than a distant memory at this point but if he had a single spark of it, it was encompassed by her.
The door opening behind him drew him out of his thoughts. Turning his head, he looked as a handful of servants came in followed by Bis. Bis who was still alive, the skin of his stomach not pierced by the blades of the guards. The last remnants of the desert and battle were gone from his skin, the folds of cloth he wore speaking of his station in the brothers lives. The servants bowed their heads as Bis walked through, but Dastan's oldest friend took no heed to the gesture that usually filled him discomfort. Agitation shone in his eyes as he walked up the few steps to the balcony and looked at Dastan.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you," Bis said, his tone oddly formal, "but I just received word, your father has passed through the gates."
Dastan's eyes widened, his head turning as though to see if it was still night. The sky was still dark, not a streak of light to be seen. Fear clogged his throat. Not fear for his fathers safety, there was a reason Nizam had thought it would be easier to unwind time, nor for the riots going on below. King Sharaman not the type to rush, not unless somehow word of Nizam's treachery had gotten back to him. It was not an unfathomable thought. After all, Nizam had tried to kill him while surrounded by the majority of the Persian army. Those who had not seen the deed had been informed of it, time and time again. The news had spread like wildfire but Dastan had not thought it would get to his father so quickly. It was an unspoken decision among the three of them that they would tell their father of what happened.
Now it seemed gossip had beaten them to it.
"When?" Dastan asked.
"Not five minutes ago," Bis said.
Dastan moved quickly into the main room, his fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt. His hands were shaking. Dastan looked down at his trembling fingers. It had been a very long time since his fingers had trembled, since anything had made his hands shake as badly as they were. A pair of thinner ones came to his chest. Dastan looked down at the servant who quickly buttoned his shirt up as another held open a long, ornate outer robe for him to wear. Dastan had always hated the servants dressing him but there was little he could do now save for slide his arms through the sleeves as the servant who buttoned his shirt tugged the fabric into place.
"Thank you," Dastan said to the servants when they stepped back with lowered eyes.
Dastan quickly walked out of the room into the hallway. A woman stood, one who could have easily been mistaken for a maid but who Dastan would have bet was a guardian of the Dagger. No sooner had he stepped into the hallway than the woman bowed to him and turned, walking down the hallway. Her pace was quick but Dastan managed to keep up with her. The palace was bustling with activity as torches were lit and food was hastily prepared. King Sharaman had not been expected until morning. Dastan knew his father could care less about the lavishness of the palace at a time like this, but the palace servants seemed intent on making the palace serve the King as best they could.
The woman led him down the hallway to an antechamber. Tus and Garsiv were already inside, standing on opposite corners of the room. Like him they were dressed in ornate, embroidered robes befitting Princes. Unlike him, they wore it well. Or at least with the familiarity of one who had been born into wearing such lavishness. Both men turned and looke dat Dastan as he stepped through the door. The woman who had led him in closed the door silently behind her, leaving the three of them alone. Silence stretched endlessly between the three of them, broken only by the occasional click of Tus's worry beads. Garsiv seemed too lost in his own thoughts to start a fight, seemingly content to remain quiet.
Dastan leaned against the wall, hiding his shaking hands behind his back. Fatigue and pain seemed to be eclipsed now by the worry that filled him. How many endless times had his father told that story of Nizam saving him from the lion? How many times had his eyes shown with affection they all thought was returned by his sibling? The thought of those empty smiles, of the thousands of small betrayals his uncle had performed, all of that made bile rise in the back of his throat. He was glad for the silence that stretched between them. Glad that he was not obligated to speak to either of his brothers. He had a feeling that when he forced his lips apart it would not be words that came through his mouth.
The doors opened and a man wearing the robes of one who served their father entered, dropping into a deep bow in front of them. All three turned to face him as the man kept his head to the ground.
"His Majesty will see you now," he said.
The three of them glanced at each other before walking into the hall where their father waited. The grandness of the place was lost on them as they took in the sight of their father.
None of the Princes could ever remember King Sharaman looking as old as he currently did.
His back was stooped, his hands clasped and his head lowered, as though the weight of the world had come to rest on his shoulders. Had there been anyone else in the room, each was aware their father would not have acted in such a way. Belatedly Dastan realized that Tus and Garsiv had taken their usual placed in front of their father, Tus at the center and Garsiv on his right. Quickly Dastan moved to his place on Tus's left, facing the throne. Their father did not move from his position but none were foolish enough to speak. They waited in silence
"When I set out for Alamut," the King began, straightening up, "my heart was heavy at the news of your decision to attack the Holy City," he finished, not turning to look at his sons, "in my heart I knew you had an explanation. But even I could not have thought this."
"Father-" Tus began, only to fall silent when the King turned to face his sons.
However terrible he had looked with his back turned to them, it was nothing compared to the look in his eyes. He looked dead. As though someone had animated a skeleton and made him walk and speak. It was as if Nizam's blade had found his mark, as if he had not saved his brother from the lion. King Sharaman looked dead. Dastan swallowed against the block in his throat. The sight of his father so deadened, so broken, was one he never thought he would see. Only the memory of watching his father burn reminded him just how bad things could have been. How bad they had been. Emotional pain would pass, their father would heal from this. He had to believe that. That the pain he felt now was far better than the feeling of acid eating away at his skin.
"What has been done?" King Sharaman asked, his eyes moving from Tus to Garsiv.
"My men have searched Unc-Nizam's belongings," Garsiv said, his voice surprisingly hoarse, "but we cannot find any further evidence of his intentions."
"Send word to the palace," Sharaman said, "perhaps his quarters will give us more insight."
"Yes, father," Garsiv said bowing deeply.
"Father," Tus began once more, drawing their father's attention, "Princess Tamina has graciously agreed to a marriage with Prince Dastan, uniting our Kingdoms in a far more peaceful manner."
King Sharaman looked at Tus for a moment before his eyes went to Dastan. Dastan straightened under his gaze, meeting his fathers eyes. King Sharaman looked at him silently. It had always difficult to tell what his father was thinking but the King was even more unreadable now. Something unpleasant filled Dastan. No words of agreement were coming from his fathers mouth, no blessings or murmurs of a right decision made in the face of so much wrong. Sharaman simply held his gaze with his own, something almost sad in his eyes. As though the news of his youngest son being married was another pain. Another in the face of so much grief that it was odd to feel it at all. The sad look in his eyes did not pass as he turned to the men guarding the doors and nodded to them.
They pulled open the doors and Dastan turned to look as the Princess entered.
Tamina walked into the hall, her body rigid with pride and defensiveness. The long white robe she wore was edged with gold embroidery, the designs on her hands and feet echoing the pattern. Fire blazed in her eyes, a look Dastan knew all too well. She was furious, her eyes squarely locked on the King. If she could see the deadened look in his eyes or the grief etched on his face, she made no acknowledgement of it. If the Princess felt capable of mercy for the Persians, Dastan knew that none of it would be found there. Not now anyway.
It was jarring to see her so angry. Especially when he thought back to how she had been right before her death, when she had decided he was not a complete and total idiot. Almost against his will, Dastan found his eyes drawn to her lips. Softly parted, they showed no signs of the rage that flashed in her eyes. Most women pressed their lips together or bit them or did something to show that they were displeased. But not Tamina, not the woman who had taken every thought he had of what a woman was and twisted it about.
She did not look at him as she came to stand in front of the King. She did not bow to him, her spine remaining perfectly erect. The three women that stood behind her could easily have been mistaken as maids, but Dastan was willing to bet they were guardians of the Dagger as well. They made no move to bow to the King either, Tamina's defiance echoing their own. King Sharaman stood, looking down at the Princess's features, his own still etched with grief. But even the grief of a man such as King Sharaman was not enough to reach past the hardened look in the eyes of the Princess.
"Your Highness," the King said, "in all my travels I have never looked upon a more beautiful city."
"If you think my city beautiful," Tamina replied, "you should have laid your eyes on it before your horde of camel-ridding illiterates descended on it."
Shame did not grace King Sharaman's face, his eyes remained as dead as they had been the moment he walked in. Tamina gave no sense of discomfort at the way the King looked at her almost sadly. Nor would she, Dastan knew. She was furious at the destruction and chaos that raged through Alamut and the blame was shared, partially at least, by the men gathered in that room. Tamina had thought little of his explanations for why he acted the way he did, or at least she had in the beginning. That was where they were once more, back at the beginning. Back when she thought him a haughty Persian Prince. He had thought her little more than a stuck up Princess, more trouble than she was worth, so the thought of her disliking him had not been one that particularly bothered him. But now, now he found he hated the idea of her thinking so little of him.
"My brothers hand has wrought much tragedy," King Sharamn said.
"A hand may guide the sword that cuts down a man," Tamina said, refusing to the let the King give all the blame to Nizam, "but it is the blade that kills him."
"Wise words," King Sharaman said, "for the pain that has been caused you have my deepest apologies," he continued, "and my highest hopes for a brighter future between Alamut and Persia."
"Your hopes and apologies will not give the dead their lives. Nor quell the riots," Tamina said, "or feed those left without homes and families."
"No," King Sharaman agreed, "you understand better than any what your city needs. You will be given the resources to accomplish what you must."
"Alamut does not need your charity," Tamina said, her voice edged with anger.
"It is not," King Sharaman said, "it will be the duty of my son to take care of his wife."
Tamina looked at him but no further angry words spilled from her lips. The mention of her marriage was a sobering reminder that anger would not change what had happened. No more than anger would bring back the dead, quell the riots and put food on the tables of the hungry. Everyone in the hall knew that Alamut was a small city state. Persia was an empire. If they did not do something to ensure that Alamut had firm ties to Persia-ties like a marriage, like a child-then any peace could have been fleeting. However much she hated him, Dastan knew Tamina would do what was best for Alamut. She continued to look at King Sharaman when the old King spoke.
"So I ask for your hand for Prince Tus," Sharaman said, "my eldest son and future King. May the peace between us hold strong through your marriage."
An odd sort of roaring filled Dastan's ears as his entire body began to feel as though dread had taken over it. Tus had said that Tamina would be his wife. If nothing else he had thought that at least would get them on the right path. But their father had just said she would marry Prince Tus. The one thing that had made sense, that Dastan was thankful for still happening and his father was about to undo it. Tamina's gaze narrowed before her kohl lined eyes moved across the brothers, finally settling on his face. Dastan looked at her as she looked at him, her own face unreadable. She did not trust him, not enough to let him see what she was thinking. And why should she? To her knowledge he had done nothing worthy of her trust. Not like he had before. Her eyes left his face and returned to the King.
"One of your sons has already proposed to me," Tamina said.
"My eldest son," King Sharaman said firmly, ignoring the words of Dastan's proposal, "and the resources and protection of the Persian empire shall be yours."
Tamina looked at the King as the entire hall seemed to collectively hold its breath. Dastan found his hands curled once more into fists, fists so tight that even his short nails bit deeply into his palms. This could not be happening. The last time King Sharaman had overruled Tus and promised Tamina to him. Now it seemed he would once more overrule his brother. Dastan wanted to howl as the scene played with sickening clarity once more. He had changed time, and yet it seemed time was determined to echo its earlier course. He was paralyzed, paralyzed with the knowledge of what would happen. He knew, with sickening clarity, that Tamina would do what was best for Alamut. He saved the city, yes, but Tus was the future King of Persia. And one would have to be blind not to see the day when he would assume the throne was approaching quickly. She would be a high ranking member of his harem, but most importantly she would most likely be allowed to stay in Alamut, her husband little more than a ceremonial figurehead. It made sense, in the most twisted and wrong way. The roaring in his ears was deafening, so loud that rather than hear what she said, Dastan saw her lips move, forming two words that would forever shatter him.
"I accept."
The air seemed to vanish from the room. Dastan found he could not breath or think or do anything but stand there as the King motioned Tus forward. It was like watching some twisted, horrible nightmare as his brother offered Tamina his hand and she place her hennaed one in his. She accepted. She had accepted his proposal, despite Tus's assurances that she would be Dastans. King Sharaman looked at the two of them before his eyes landed on Dastan. He motioned Dastan over to him as the few gathered in the hall continued to voice their approval of the union. Both the rulers were stone faced as they stood side by side, looking at each other silently before turning back to their respective followers. Dastan came over to the King, still feeling as though he was out of his body. King Sharaman looked up at him, his gaze now full of sadness. Dastan looked back at Tamina almost desperately before looking at his father.
"Father-" he began, but feel silent when King Sharaman held up a hand.
"I am sorry your brother put you through this," King Sharaman said, "it was his order to attack this city, it is his responsibility to ensure its peace with our empire."
"Yes, but," Dastan began before falling silent.
But what? But I saved her? But I was the one who conquered Alamut? But she was in love with me in a time that did not happen and it is my sincerest hope that she will be again? Each protest sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears. And he was fully aware of what had happened. King Sharaman would think he was truly insane if he said anything. Fighting the feeling of a great, invisible hand squeezing his throat shut, Dastan looked at his brother and his wife-to-be. This was all wrong. So wrong he wondered if her Gods were not punishing him for what he had done. King Sharaman's old hand settled on his shoulder, drawing his eyes back to the face of his father.
"Oh my son," King Sharaman said sadly, "your marriage should not be to fix another man's mistake."
Dastan stared at his father, unable to speak past the feeling of his own heart shattering.