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: Wow! Sorry for the delay on this story, Kats and Kittens. Things have been very, very busy for me. I am officially moved into the new apartment! Still have quite a few boxes to unpack, but I do have a bed (no more sleeping on the floor), and it is wonderful. I wrote most of this story on my down time, poolside. I have a very nasty sunburn to prove it, too. And the ending was actually written at an Earl May while the Mom-Boss was getting flowers for our new deck. I will try and get pictures onto my livejournal and post a link in the next chapter. ;) Speaking of, this chapter is considerably shorter than the last two, so I'm sorry for that, and the cliff hanger is a doozy too, so I'm very sorry for that. More soon, definitely! Hopefully by Friday at the latest. Thank you very much for the reviews! I love you all! Enjoy this next chappie. :)
Chapter Three:
Dastan is drowning.
The more he struggles against his black prison, the farther under he is dragged. The young prince has never drowned before, at least not that he knows of—unless a large mug of his favorite ale counts. He has drowned himself in plenty of those. As the youngest of the three princes, he has never had to show any kind of restraint, any kind of proper showmanship. It isn't expected of him because he has no obligations except to be brother of the future king. The particularly nasty gossips attribute his behavior to his upbringing before he joined the royal family. And perhaps that is part of it. But when push comes to shove, Dastan is ever-loyal to his kind and his family.
When he was younger, he imagined that a life under water would be filled with adventure, with excitement and mystery. He didn't expect this. There is a pressure in his chest that tightens with every attempted breath. Each pull of air becomes shallower, more difficult to draw in than the last.
Dastan does not much like drowning. In fact, he thinks it is a perfectly horrible way to die.
0 o 0 o 0
Tus strains against the extra weight, one hand gripping Dastan's shirt, the other desperately clinging to smooth, well-crafted stone. Above him, several footsteps and shouts sound—the heart of them belonging to Garsiv. The middle prince appears over the side of the balcony, leaning down to him with an outstretched hand.
"Tus! Take my hand!"
The future king grunts, attempting to shift his weight and freezing when the sound of ripping fabric echoes from below him. He and Garsiv share a panicked look.
"Dastan!" Tus calls. "Dastan, take hold of me!" The young prince is just as unresponsive as he has been.
"Dastan! Take hold of Tus, or you'll kill the both of you!" Garsiv shouts angrily, reaching down further. His fingers just graze his older brother's wrist. He hates himself for the thought, but years of studying under his tutor's watchful eye have taught him that Tus's life must come first. As future king, Tus must be saved before anyone else—Dastan and Garsiv included—so if the middle prince cannot find a way to pull both his brothers to safety . . . he will have to tell Tus to let go of Dastan.
The thought spurs him forward, and he is able to grasp his elder brother's wrist as several hands grab him firmly around the middle and legs. "Hold on, Tus," he whispers breathlessly, willing his tired arms to hold out just a little longer.
Tus grips both of his brothers tightly, his muscles protesting the action and making their ache known. Dastan still hangs limply from his fingers, his dead weight threatening to tear the older man's arm from its socket. Looking up at the middle prince with a pained expression, the eldest brother murmurs, "Hurry, Garsiv."
The drop from the tower is frightening and will most certainly kill them, gods forbid something should go wrong. With Garsiv's waning strength, the worst may be yet to come.
0 o 0 o 0
The young prince hears shouting, vague and blurred. But of two things he is absolutely certain: the first is that the voices, even muffled by the surrounding darkness, are familiar, and the second is that he wishes they would find him and take him from this empty, suffocating place.
Tus! he shouts into the nothing. Garsiv!
His brothers have always been there to help him when he needs them most—usually it is the other way around, but on occasion it is Dastan who has to be dragged from the local ale house and thrown into his bed by a grudging Garsiv or a solemn Tus.
But if there has ever been a time he needed them the most, it is now, at this very moment.
"Das . . . ."
A voice breeches the dark, and Dastan's heart begins to pound wildly. Someone has found him here, someone has come to free him.
"Das . . . ."
The voice grows distant, and the young man panics, forcing his aching body to move, to fight for air and freedom.
"Dast . . . ."
It is strong again, near. He can almost recognize it now. The pressure on his chest lessens, his energy resurfaces. He is going to make it—he has to!
"Dastan!"
The name rings loudly in his ears, pulling him towards the surface. And when he breaks through the prison . . . .
0 o 0 o 0
. . . . he awakens to a terrifying world.
Heights do not bother Dastan—they never have. He was born for jumping off of rooftops and diving from beams and buildings. Even the fall is not what twists his stomach.
It is moments like these—when the height comes as a surprise, when the fall is unexpected . . . when the only thing standing between him and certain death is a flimsy, worn shirt and a waning grip. He looks up, seeing his brothers' desperate faces, hearing their argument about how to proceed and the tearing of fabric. Just as his shirt gives way, a cry ripping its way from Tus's throat, he reaches up and takes firm hold of his brother's wrist. Surprise etches the older men's faces as they look down at him.
"Dastan!" they both say at once—Tus's tone holds concern while Garsiv's emits relief covered by a strong amount of anger.
"Thank the gods," Tus breathes, latching onto his youngest brother's wrist and strengthening his grip.
"Do not thank them just yet, brother," Garsiv mutters, glancing around for a solution. "This balcony is too small to continue like this." And his strength is seriously declining. One moment longer, and he may not be able to hold both of them.
"He is right," Dastan says distantly, and the princes shift their attention to him. "Tus, you have to let me go."
Tus shakes his head emphatically, saying, "No. I will not."
"Tus—"
"Dastan, do not ask me to—"
"Tus," Garsiv interrupts gently, grunting as his older brother shifts to look up at him. The future king's eyes are laced with incredulity and hurt.
"Garsiv . . . no," he demands softly. "Please do not make me. We can do this."
"Tus!" Dastan calls again, trying to reason with the other man. Again, he is silenced.
"Dastan, for once in your life," Tus spits, finally showing a bit of frustration towards the younger man, "hold your tongue!"
The young prince sighs, doing as he is told. One does not have many options when dangling from a very high place. He listens as his brothers argue further.
"I will not release him," Tus hisses, as if Dastan cannot hear him if he does so. The younger man might have laughed if the situation were not so dire. "I will not be responsible for his death."
"You are not responsible for anything but Persia's future," Garsiv states, hating how the words taste on his tongue. They have been forced into his thoughts since he was old enough to read. To their father, not one of them is more important than the other; but to their people, Tus will always come first.
"And I will see that he is in it!" the eldest prince shouts with an authority that both Garsiv and Dastan are certain their father would be proud of.
Garsiv swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly and summoning the courage to beg the death of his younger brother. "Tus," he breathes, his tone conveying desperation and self-loathing, "I cannot lose both of you." He glances at Dastan around the older man. "And I am obligated to the future king of Persia." Dastan smiles weakly and nods his understanding.
Tus looks down at his brother—his little brother—with a crescendo-ing sickness in his stomach. Dastan's eyes, which have been dead for so long, are now vibrant and full of trust. Trust for him, not a future king of Persia but an older brother. With a heavy heart he looks back up at Garsiv, slowly shaking his head as tears well in his eyes and his throat closes around his next words.
"I cannot."
Sweat glistens on Garsiv's red face, gliding down his arms hand slicking his palms. Even if his strength lasts, his grip will not. "Tus, you must make a decision. Now." Tus's wrist slips, and the middle prince finds himself holding the older man by his hand only. "Tus!"
"I have made my decision, Garsiv," the now not-so-future king says solemnly, watching as a pained look crosses the other's face. "And I trust you to do the right thing."
Garsiv cannot believe what he is hearing. Is his older brother suggesting that he would rather die with Dastan than live with him? But then Garsiv would be king . . . alone. His chest hitches at the thought, and Tus slips further, hanging from the middle prince's fingers.
"Tus . . . ." Garsiv tries one more time to persuade the other man, seeing in his brother's eyes that his plea is in vain. "Please—"
Tus's fingers slip free of Garsiv's hold.
0 o 0 o 0
They fall.
Dastan's heart skips a beat and his eyes narrow as a gust of air rushes up to meet them—or are they rushing down to meet it? Stretching his free arm out, his muscles tense, anticipating the pull they will suffer any moment.
His fingers clash against smooth, polished stone, and he grips tight, halting their descent.
0 o 0 o 0
Tus gasps as he slips from Garsiv's fingers, able to catch a brief glance at the middle prince's devastated look . . . before almost immediately jerking to a stop. It takes him a moment to determine what has happened, but when he looks up and sees Dastan, fingers tightened around a protruding ledge and eyes shining with a suppressed amusement, his entire being surges with relief.
"As I was trying to tell you, brother," the young man says lightly, something strange and indistinguishable hidden in his words, "as noble as your sacrifice is—or would have been—perhaps you can save it for another day." Dastan gives him a pointed look—quite a feat while dangling hundreds of lengths in the air. "Very, very far into the future."
Tus's features darken, and he sets his jaw. "Dastan, we must speak."
The youngest prince tugs experimentally, gauging his strength and his brother's weight. Tus is in no way large, but he certainly doesn't go around jumping from rooftop to rooftop or sparring with Garsiv and the Persian army. Dastan is also not the one who has had to hold his brother's weight for an undetermined amount of time. Add the fact that he has also lost much of his former muscle over the days he has spent without food and sleep, and things do not seem in their favor.
"Perhaps we can save words for another time, Tus," the young man grunts, pouring all his strength into one pull and hefting his brother up until the older man is able to reach the ledge himself.
Tus grabs it gratefully, using another small ledge beneath them as a foothold to take some of the strain off of his arms. Sighing with relief, he closes his eyes and takes a moment to rest. The sound of his harsh breathing fills the small space beneath the balcony, and he rests his forehead against the cool stone.
"You should have told me," he murmurs into the ledge.
"You were fairly occupied," Dastan says with little feeling, a shrug in his words. "Intent on silencing me and arguing with Garsiv, so—"
"I meant about you," Tus interrupts as his head snaps up and he sets a dangerous look on his brother, his tone filled with more anger than he wants to express. He has never been so furious at the young man in all his life. "About this. How could you endanger your life like this?"
"You mean your life?" the young man mumbles bitterly, searching their surroundings.
"It could very well have been anyone," Tus argues. "Garsiv nearly reached you before I did. Have you seen him? Have you been out of your self-pitying-induced state long enough to even look? He is exhausted, Dastan! Because of you! He has traversed the desert between our home and Alamut several times for your sake. It is a miracle he was able to hold the both of us as long as he did. Do you think I could have done any better?"
Dastan is quiet for a moment, looking as if he is deep in thought about Tus's words. When he speaks, however, it is to say, "There are enough hand- and footholds to get to the balcony." He looks at the older man with blank eyes. "Do you have the strength to climb your way up?"
Tus scowls and shakes his head at the young prince. "You are a coward, Dastan."
The young man does not seem to be fazed outwardly, but his next words are soft and husky. "After you, brother."
A pang of guilt stings Tus's heart, and he opens his mouth to say something—anything. As he does, however, the words he wants to say stick to the back of his throat. So he merely reaches up and grabs the first hold, and the second, and the third, until finally Garsiv's frightened face comes into view.
"Tus!" the middle prince breathes, reaching down and grasping the man's arm.
Tus hesitates. "Perhaps . . . one of the men might be better suited to . . . ." The future king does not miss the hurt look in his brother's eyes as the other man nods and begins to turn. Tus grasps his hand lightly and gives him an imploring look. "It is not myself that I am worried about, Garsiv," he assures. "You are tired. Do not strain yourself."
Garsiv sighs, offering the man a tight smile and a nod before turning and allowing a Persian soldier to reach down and grasp Tus's arm.
0 o 0 o 0
His name is Faran. He has been in the Persian army since his seventeenth year, the same as his brother before him and their father before them. At twenty-seven years, he is brother-less and father-less and has learned much about battle and strategy and the bond between the Persian brothers. It is strong, unbreakable, just as his used to be with his older brother. And while the princes sometimes disagree, their father's wise words about family echo at the heart of their action.
So when Faran is told to pull Prince Tus from the balcony's ledge, he knows it is one of the most important tasks that Prince Garsiv has ever given him. And when the future king is safely out of harm's way, he turns to finish his assignment by pulling the youngest—and most precious—prince to meet his brothers. The sight that greets him, however, makes him pale and his breath catch in his throat.
0 o 0 o 0
Garsiv hugs his older brother to him tightly, blessed air surging into his lungs as relief washes over him. "I feared the worst," he whispers as Tus's arms surround him to reciprocate the action.
"I am not so easily rid of," Tus chuckles with a shaky amusement, swallowing hard and pulling back to stare his brother in the eye. "Dastan's luck has rubbed off on me after all, it seems."
Garsiv looks towards the balcony ledge, where nothing more is being done to bring the last of their trio to them. "Where is he?" he demands, unwanted worry creeping into his tone again. "Where is Dastan?"
The Persian soldier looking over the edge of the balcony turns to them, his eyes wide and his face pale as he says, "Your . . . Your majesties . . . ."
Tus and Garsiv share an alarmed look before pressing themselves to the ledge and leaning over. Garsiv's mouth slackens as disbelief surges up his throat and chokes a cry from him. Tus's breath hitches and barricades itself in his chest, refusing to release the burning pressure as they both stare on at the horrifying sight.
Below them—very, very far below them—lies Dastan's broken body.
AN: Oh...dear... Uh, bye now?