The Death of a Ghost
Summary: Things have been set right. But Dastan and his brothers will soon learn that the dagger does not give without taking in return. Dastan's very soul may be at stake.
AN: Hello again! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I am so happy that this story seems to be getting at least a little attention. :) I am sorry that I have not reviewed to many of you. Work has been so hectic lately that I just haven't had time to really sit down and write, but I promise that I will reply for this next chapter! I hope you enjoy it. I still can't tell whether this is going to be three or four chapters long...We'll see, I guess.
Chapter Two:
Dastan has never been to the ocean. Since he was young, he has watched sailors visit their Persian city, has seen their greatest carpenters construct boats and their most-skilled seamstresses sew sails for adventures far beyond his imagination. But the closest he has ever been to feeling the gentle lull of waves, smelling salty sea air, watching the sun set on a landless horizon, is his own bath.
The sensation he feels now, the relentless rocking, is what he imagines the ocean would be like; his back against the mast, the wind blowing his hair around wildly, water splashing against his face as wave after wave licks at the ship.
"Dastan?"
He can hear gulls circling overhead, their distant cries calling him to the sky. A chilly swell of air sweeps across his body, and he shivers, swallowing the salt coating the back of his parched throat.
"Dastan! Brother, please . . . ."
He sways with the ship, his legs gaining familiarity of the motion as time passes. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous, but he breathes in and out slowly, concentrating on the smells, the feelings, the sounds—
"You must wake! Listen to me! You must wake now, Dastan!"
0 o 0 o 0
Garsiv tries in vain to stir his younger brother. A massive sand storm rages outside their small tent, and the middle prince doubts very much that Dastan would be able to hear him even if he were lucid enough to understand him. The troupe is less than half a day's ride to Alamut. Garsiv grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists as he realizes that if not for the storm, they could be closer to help.
Perhaps, he scoffs to himself, glancing briefly down at his sleeping brother. The princess could very well have nothing to offer them once she actually examines Dastan. Or this could be a lie, a trick, a trap, or any of a hundred schemes to get Dastan into the holy city again. What is it about this young man that seems to tempt the anger of the very gods themselves? Garsiv shakes his head. Perhaps the very thing that made our father pick you from a crowd of hundreds, that made us accept you like a brother.
Dastan whimpers, his hands fisting the sand serving as the floor of their tent. How long ago was it that their father had brought this street orphan to them? Ten years? Fifteen? Garsiv barely remembers; with Dastan, time seems to bleed into one very long series of troubling situations.
"What is he doing here?"
"Garsiv," Sharaman scolds, placing a hand on Dastan's shoulder and squeezing with encouragement as his sons study the boy carefully.
At thirteen years of age, Garsiv is already tall and lean. His lanky limbs sprout the beginnings of firm muscles, which he attempts to show now by crossing his arms and flexing them intimidatingly. "Is he any good with a sword?"
The king smiles down at Dastan warmly. "I am sure with your excellent training he will be just as skilled as you are, my son." Garsiv scoffs and looks away dismissively—the only approval that Dastan will receive for the moment—which leaves Tus with the final say.
While three years older than his brother, Tus is shorter than Garsiv. His body is not well-toned, but what he lacks in physical strength, he more than makes up for in intelligence and wit. A king must be strong not only of the body but of the mind as well.
"My name is Tus," the young prince says carefully, examining the boy he is now to call brother.
Dastan is scrawny and small for his ten years, but he has a hard look in his eyes. More than that, his look is fearless and directed straight at the eldest son. Very few people—men and women alike—have the courage to look a future king in the eye. This boy does so without hesitation, and Tus, wise as he is, knows he needs someone like Dastan. Someone who will not be afraid to disagree with him and offer an honest opinion.
"Have you seen the garden, Dastan?"
The boy shakes his head and takes Tus's hand when it is offered to him—the first sign of trust between an orphan-turned-prince and his new family.
Garsiv shakes the memory from his thoughts with a frown. Sometimes he wishes that he had accepted Dastan so easily into their home. Perhaps if he had, there would not be such a strong, albeit brotherly, rivalry between them.
It had taken several weeks before the middle prince had come to understand why the king had chosen Dastan as their brother. The young man has a good spirit. As great as he is as a strategist and soldier, he is just as passionate about doing what is right and fighting for what he believes in—even if it means fighting his own family.
Garsiv looks down at his brother, surprised to find the young man awake and staring at him through half-lidded eyes. "Dastan!" He leans over the other prince, eyes shining with relief. "Are you all right?"
At first, Dastan says nothing, and Garsiv's insides twist in disappointment. But after the younger man draws in a long, labored breath, he speaks in a quiet, reserved tone.
"I didn't kill father."
Garsiv is taken aback by the statement. Of all the things he expected to hear from his brother, that is certainly not one of them. Before he can compose himself and react to the words, Dastan continues.
"It was Nizam. You must believe me. I would never—"
Garsiv places a gentle hand on Dastan's shoulder, not missing the way his brother flinches from his touch. "Of course you did not kill father, Dastan," he assures. "He is unharmed, awaiting your safe return to the palace once you are well again."
Dastan closes his eyes, attempting to swallow and finding his tongue too thick and his mouth too dry. "I will never be well again."
The older man scowls deeply and uncaps his water skin, raising Dastan up so that he may drink from it. After a small amount of water—much less than Garsiv wishes his brother would drink—Dastan settles back against the warm sand and sighs.
"Princess Tamina is waiting for us in Alamut," Garsiv explains as if the younger man had asked. "She says she knows a way to help you."
"She is lying," Dastan says with such quiet certainty that doubt begins to creep into Garsiv's mind. "She only wants answers."
"What answers?"
Dastan shrugs tiredly. "About the dagger, I would assume."
"What dagger?" Garsiv questions. This is the most that Dastan has said in many, many days, and if the elder prince can keep him talking, he may just find an answer to one of the several questions plaguing his thoughts. Dastan, however, speaks no more, his eyes closing slowly as he falls into restless sleep once again.
He said 'the dagger,' Garsiv thinks to himself, settling beside his brother and keeping one ear to the sounds of the sand storm. He searches his mind for memories of what Dastan could be speaking of. The young prince has owned many daggers throughout the years, but none that the princess would know about. Closing his eyes, he is sure that the answer is there, sure that he knows what Dastan is attempting to tell him, and just as he falls into the cusp of sleep, he remembers—but his exhaustion is too great a force to allow him to rouse and think on the matter further.
0 o 0 o 0
The storm continues through the night, waning only in the morning and allowing the first streaks of sunlight to warm the sands to a scorching temperature. When Garsiv wakes, it is to a quiet and empty tent. And as soon as he realizes that Dastan is not where he was the night before, he scrambles to his feet, kicking up sand and nearly toppling the tent before he makes it outside.
"Dastan!" he calls over the last of the storm. A few gusts of wind still toss up sand in protest, forcing Garsiv to squint and cover his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. His gaze sweeps what little desert he can see, which isn't much, but with the dwindling storm, every moment reveals more and more. Unfortunately, it also reveals that Dastan does not seem to be in the immediate area.
Several guards rush to him, cloths covering the lower half of their faces. Their eyes watch him expectantly, awaiting orders. Had none of them seen the youngest prince wander from their tent?
"Find Dastan!" Garsiv yells angrily, more frustrated with himself and his entourage than his brother. The men bow slightly and start off in different directions, each hoping that the young prince has not wandered far. Garsiv is known for his brutality in battle against his enemies. If Dastan is not found—and soon—they can only hope that the sand storm finishes them before the angry prince shows them just what kind of brutality he reserves for those who fail him and his family.
0 o 0 o 0
"Mother!" Dastan calls, struggling to stay on his feet as he squints against the sand swirling around his lone form. He turns around several times, making his dizziness worse and having to close his eyes to center himself before beginning his search again. "Mother! Where are you?"
Dastan!
A woman's voice wafts on the wind, surrounding him, teasing him. He does not know in which direction it is coming from, and his frustration heightens. How he knows the voice belongs to his mother, he is not entirely certain, but it is her. It has to be.
"Mother, I can't . . . I don't know how to . . . Help me! Help me, please!" Sand stings his eyes, and tears begin to slip down his dust-caked cheeks, leaving streaks in their wake. When was the last time he saw her? The market square—just after his sixth year. She was buying bread, smiling as she spoke with the vender about the good harvest that year. Wheat was becoming plentiful, and prices were lowering little by little. Dastan could actually enjoy more than one meal a day.
And then she was gone, her satchel lying in a crumpled heap on the dusty street and the bread stomped into crumbs. Bandits—slave-traders. They had stolen her from a crowded market, and no one said anything, not a word. No one offered help, ignoring his cries until he became annoying and was slapped away.
Mama! Mama! Someone took my mama! Mama!
"Mother!" Dastan's voice grows weak, hoarse, and he coughs up the sand collecting on his tongue and at the back of his throat. "M-Mother! Help me! I can't find you! I can't see you!" A coughing fit brings him to his knees, and he covers his mouth and nose by pulling the collar of his shirt up and over his face. He feels as if he is six again, helpless and desperate and without hope. All he wants is his mother—her cool hand in his as she smiles down at him and asks him playfully if he loves her. And of course he loves her; she is his mother, his everything.
And now his everything is gone.
0 o 0 o 0
Garsiv checks behind him to make sure that the camp is still within sight. If he loses it, he may not find it again until the storm finally settles completely, and who knows how long that will take? Right now, his main concern is finding Dastan, and the longer he and his men spend looking for the young prince, the less chance they have of reaching Alamut in time.
Last night had been . . . strange, to say the least. How can Dastan think he killed their father? And what about the young prince's reaction to a very rare moment of comfort on Garsiv's part? Dastan has never shown fear, never admitted defeat even when the odds were against him. But the Dastan that approached their uncle in a sea of celebrating soldiers had been afraid, had been shaking from more than mere exertion. And their troubles had not started until after they had met that princess and Dastan had returned that—
Garsiv stops in his tracks, a thought occurring to him quite suddenly.
The dagger, the one Dastan had acquired sometime during the raid; is that what the young prince had been talking about the night before? Yes, of course! Garsiv had the answer just as he had fallen asleep. How could he have forgotten such a fine detail? And if Dastan is right, if all the princess wants is answers, then how will the younger man get any better?
Damn you, Dastan! Garsiv has no time to feel guilty about the thought. If the youngest prince were not busy being trapped in his own misery, they could be nearing the holy city by now.
Dastan now seems part of an ever greater mystery. And the only way to solve it is to find that dagger.
0 o 0 o 0
When Garsiv finds Dastan, it is initially with a sense of relief, then a growing anger, and finally a gnawing worry; all before he is even able to reach the young man.
"Dastan?" he asks the still man carefully, walking around into his brother's line of sight to make sure he does not startle him, then leaning down to settle in front of him. "Why did you leave the camp?"
Dastan's eyes remain distant when he answers, his voice small and defeated. Garsiv must strain to hear it above the sands. "I'm looking for my mother."
Garsiv sighs and puts a hand on the younger prince's shoulder, intent on consoling him. When they were younger, Dastan would have nightmares about his mother's abduction. Garsiv's own mother had died during childbirth, and he did not know enough about mothers to sympathize. But Dastan had seemed so shaken by the incident that Garsiv had grudgingly allowed the boy to climb into his bed after a particularly bad night.
And when the nightmares had stopped, when Dastan had no longer needed the comfort of his adoptive brother—not Tus, whom he seemed to take to more easily—Garsiv refused to believe that this was the cause of his disappointment.
When Dastan flips the older man onto the ground, pinning him to the sand, Garsiv knows he should not be surprised. No one sneaks up on the young prince without suffering some kind of consequence. But in the short time that he was able to speak to their father at the palace, the middle prince had learned of Dastan's waning instincts.
The look on the young man's face now—one that holds no recognition or coherency—means danger.
"What have you done with her?" Dastan snarls into his brother's face, seeing not Garsiv but the faces of a thousand thieves that could have taken his mother. "Tell me! Or I'll break your neck!"
"Dastan," the older man chokes the name out, a difficult task considering the grip the other has on his throat. "Brother . . . please."
Dastan's grip loosens and leaves his neck, making Garsiv believe that his brother has finally seen reason. When he rights himself, however, he finds several of his men holding the struggling young man down.
"Release him!" he shouts hoarsely, rubbing at the sore muscles beneath the skin of his neck. The men hesitate, giving Garsiv time to scramble forward and take his brother's face in both hands. "Dastan, listen to me," he hisses harshly, jerking the young man's head slightly to get his attention. It seems to work; Dastan's struggling abates, and his gaze centers on Garsiv's eyes. "You are my brother. You are in the desert, and we are on our way to see Tus and Princess Tamina in Alamut."
Garsiv sees a small spark of recognition in Dastan's eyes and presses on in the hope of regaining enough of the young man's trust to get them where they need to be. "Dastan, do you remember? Speak, you half-wit. We must go before the winds change and bring the storm back to us!"
Dastan breathes heavily, looking around in confusion before sagging into the hold that the surrounding men have on him. "Garsiv?" he asks tiredly, and the older prince relaxes.
"Yes, brother."
"Do you know where my mother is?"
Garsiv's heart stings with unfamiliar sadness and guilt at what he is about to do. "Yes, Dastan. We are on our way to see her now." He grits his teeth when Dastan nods and accepts the lie, content for the time being. Setting a dangerous look on the soldiers still clutching his brother, Garsiv says, "Go."
0 o 0 o 0
Their arrival to Alamut this time is met by several servants from the palace, Tus, and the princess herself. Garsiv, weather-beaten and exhausted, gratefully allows the youngest prince to be taken from him by awaiting hands.
"We were worried when the storm passed through," Tus explains, looking Dastan over with a critical eye before doing the same with Garsiv as he helps him down from the tired horse. The middle prince's muscles are stiff and aching, and he winces when his knees crack as he dismounts.
"We survived," he says simply, watching as his unresponsive younger brother is whisked away to the palace.
"How is he?" the future king asks softly, bracing himself for bad news.
Garsiv considers his options with a practiced caution, frowning and offering no more than, "Not well."
Tus grabs his brother's arm and spins him around so that they face one another, his eyebrows furrowing as he spits, " 'Not well'? Garsiv, our brother may very well be dying, and all you have to say is that he is not well?"
The younger man pulls his arm out of his brother's grasp and straightens his tired body, standing at his full height—which he is satisfied to find is quite a bit taller than his older brother. "If you want to know how our brother really is, Tus," he says in a low, cold voice, "you would be better to ask her." He points an accusing finger at the princess, who stands off to the side waiting for them.
"Princess?" Tus asks with confusion, glancing between Garsiv's glare and Tamina's wide eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demands indignantly, her hands forming fists at her sides. "What do you accuse me of? I am trying to help him!" She spins on her heels and starts towards the palace, but Garsiv hurries to cut her off, shaking from exhaustion.
"You," he says breathlessly, "will not touch one hair on his head until we are assured that your intentions for our brother are not only for your personal gain."
"How dare you!" Tamina hisses, looking to Tus for assistance. "He is not only your brother now. He is my betrothed, and I would not see him harmed to gain anything!"
"That is not what he believes," Garsiv counters in a low voice, his energy beginning to diminish now that his anger is dying.
Tamina falters, pursing her lips and carefully asking, "And what is it that he believes?"
"My lady!" a voice shouts from behind them, and the three turn to find a very frightened-looking servant running in their direction.
"Sasha?" Tamina questions, holding out her hands as the woman comes to an abrupt halt in front of them, breathing harshly. "What is it? What has happened?"
"You must come with me," Sasha demands, her gaze sweeping over them wildly. "You must all come at once! It is Prince Dastan!" Without any further explanation, the servant woman turns and scurries off back towards the palace, hoping that the three have enough sense to follow.
0 o 0 o 0
Dastan believes he can see the world from here—this tower that rises above the desert as if created from the very sand itself. He can see people and buildings. The sun glints off of every grain of sand, making the desert surrounding them sparkle. When he sees sights like this, he does not remember why he has been craving to see the ocean. Why would he want to see something like that when he has this beautiful sight?
His wandering gaze does not stop at the horizon. Closing his eyes, his mind travels further; across more desert, past oases, and continuing over the land of the slaves that people seem to be so frightened of. Dastan smiles as he recalls his friend, Sheik, and his beloved ostriches. Perhaps now that the business man has not met him, he can remain happy with his races and his life as a faux slave-trader.
Beyond that the Persian palace that Dastan has lived in for many years, the home that was almost taken from him because of that damned dagger. Granted, it was the reason he had been able to fix everything; but without its mystery and power, their uncle might not have gone after it in the first place. And where would they be now? Would Nizam still be harboring ill feelings for his brother? Would he find another way to make himself king?
Dastan has not traveled much farther than the palace, but he imagines that after their home lies more glistening desert, then rugged mountains that tower high over any palace that has ever been built, then the ocean, vast and blue and calling his name . . .
Dastan.
Dastan.
"Dastan!"
0 o 0 o 0
When Tus and Garsiv enter the tower room, their hearts seem to stop at the sight. Dastan, their brave younger brother, stands on the balcony wall, looking out over the holy city. Many of the servants stand at the ready, approaching him carefully and with soft calls of "Prince Dastan!" and "Please, your highness!"
The young man wavers on his feet, causing a hush to fall over the room.
"Dastan!" Tus calls, starting forward and stopping only when he hears Dastan's soft voice.
"Mother?"
The eldest prince holds his breath and glances back at Garsiv, who offers no more than a grim look. Turning back to their young brother, Tus's heart leaps as the Ghost of Persia takes a step out into—nothing.
"Dastan!" he cries, surging forward and grasping the thin fabric of the young man's shirt before they both topple over the side of the balcony.
AN: Wow! What a cliffie. Even I thought that was a little cruel...Stay tuned for the next chapter! I have the next few days off, so it shouldn't be long before it's posted! Later, gators. Catch you on the flip side. :D