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: So, it's been a little longer than I had originally hoped...Thanks bunches to Lahearsa, who got me into gear! I probably would have been absolutely stumped if not for you. I read your message, and I sat down and made myself write, and before I knew it, Chapter Four was written and ready to go! So, ya'll can give her a HOO-RAH for this one. ;)

Sidenote: Anything you see within /backslashes/ is a flashback or a memory. The italics are just Tus's inner self-whumping. ;)

Anyway, it's 2 in the morning, and as much as I hate to post things without at least glancing through them, I am majorly exhausted and need to go to bed. So, I apologize in advance for any errors that you may come across. I just really wanted to get this posted. Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing! I hope you are all getting my replies. :D Enjoy!

Chapter Four:

You are a coward.

Tus turns, his back to the ledge, and slides down the smooth stone until he slumps to the ground. His unfocused eyes stare into nothing.

You are a coward.

/When Dastan is eleven, Tus teaches him to read and write. The youngest prince is easily distracted and bored beyond measure, but Tus persists because even Dastan's tutors have given up on him.

"The alphabet is very simple, Dastan," Tus sighs with exhaustion, rubbing at his closed eyes, then peering down at the illegible mess on the young boy's parchment. "If you would pay attention for more than a mere moment, you might actually learn something."

Tus has known how to read and write since he was six. He had no idea how illiterate his father's people were. He will have to have a serious discussion about the number of available schools in their city. Education should not be solely for nobility, as their ancestors believed.

"Simple for you and Garsiv," Dastan mutters, frowning at the symbols that Tus had drawn as a reference for him—pristine lines and loops converging to make words and phrases—and then at his own shaky, indistinguishable handwriting. "I was not meant to be a reader or a writer, Tus. Just give up on me, already."

Tus draws his eyebrows together and places a finger under Dastan's chin, pulling his face upward to meet his gaze. "Dastan," he says carefully, quietly, watching as a questioning look takes the boy's face, "you are a part of this family now—every bit as much as Garsiv and myself." He leans closer, giving a stern look to make his point. "And I will never give up on you. No matter the circumstances."

Dastan smiles and sniffles lightly, picking up his quill, dipping it in the ink well to his left, and pressing the tip to a fresh piece of parchment./

You are a coward.

The young man was not born of royal blood. He knows life on the streets, has seen the worst of humanity. When they were children, Dastan would entertain them with stories from his life before the palace. Robbers and murderers, thieves and magicians, slaves and lovers.

You are a coward.

/"Dastan, have you ever been in love?" Garsiv jokes one evening after the young prince has finished a story about a woman who fell in love with a man from the market and married him that very day.

Dastan laughs delightedly despite Garsiv's jibe and shakes his head. "A story for another night, brother." It is the first time he has called either of the boys as such, and something about the princes changes that night.

"Oh, come now! You must tell us!" Tus encourages amidst Garsiv's reenactment of Dastan's story and their father's chuckles. "You were really in love once?"

At twelve years, Dastan seems fairly young to have ever experienced such a large feeling, a feeling that neither Garsiv nor Tus have yet experienced themselves. But the look in his eyes says that this story is one that is begging to be told.

With a mischievous smile and a dramatic gesture, the young man starts his tale. "A great sandstorm was rolling in over the city, blanketing everything from view." He covers his eyes and moves his head around as if attempting to search in the dark. "I ran from the marketplace, dodging vendors who were desperately tying tarps over their stands. Fruit flew to the ground and rolled underfoot, tripping unsuspecting passers-by."

Dastan stands up tall and straight with a proud smirk on his face. "But I, with my astounding ability to sense everything around me, was able to avoid them." He jumps around lightly on his toes as if the fruit from his story has suddenly appeared under his feet. The three listeners laugh happily and clap as the young man continues to dance around on his toes. "And then, I heard it!" He stops, standing very still with a hand cupped to his ear and his eyes looking up distantly. "A cry from a damsel in harm's way! I scurried to her rescue, ears perked and feet light."

Again, he dances around the floor on his toes, this time making an arc around the room. Halting and stooping near the center of the room, he continues. "She was clutching her ankle, a victim of the dreaded fruit! I scooped her up!" He makes a scooping motion and stands. "There was no time to reach my home! I raced into an alleyway—"

"How old was this woman you graced with your eternal love, Dastan?" Garsiv manages past the laughter bubbling up from his throat.

Dastan cocks his head to one side, considering the question for a moment before saying, "Perhaps twenty years or so."

Garsiv laughs harder.

"You mean to tell me," Tus asks, "that you carried a woman of twenty years to safety? By yourself?"

Dastan places his hands on his hips and centers an indignant look on his eldest brother. "Yes, Tus. I did." The answer makes Garsiv's laughter ring louder. "What?" The youngest prince looks between his three listeners with genuine confusion on his face. "I did! And she kissed me!"

This quiets the laughter, and Garsiv sits up eagerly, eyes shining as he asks, "Where? Where did she kiss you?"

"Quiet," Dastan commands, one finger raised admonishingly. "I will get to that part." He stoops, pretending to set his invisible cargo on the ground. "We were safe—" He gives the three a pointed look. "—for a time. She was upset because of her ankle and because she had lost her younger brother in the fray." He bends to one knee and throws his arm up violently across his shirt. "I used my outer robe to fashion a binding for her ankle and wound it tightly." Sitting down, he brings his knees to his chest and wraps his scrawny arms around them, resting his chin between his knees. "We stayed curled against one another for much of the day. It was nearly nightfall when the storm passed."

He stands and offers his hand to the non-existent woman. He bounds across the room, back to his listeners, bringing his arm around and bowing to his invisible companion and pretending to kiss her hand. "We made it safely to her home, where her brother was waiting for her." Straightening, he closes his eyes and leans forward, puckering his lips. After kissing the air, his eyes fly open, and he turns to the three with a satisfied smile. "And she was so grateful, she invited me to their evening meal!"

Garsiv laughs again, falling backward onto the bed as Sharaman and Tus clap appreciatively.

"A wonderful story!" the king proclaims, his eyes glistening with amusement. "Dastan, my son, you have a gift! Such details! I could see everything so perfectly."

Dastan shrugs one shoulder in thanks, looking away as his cheeks redden. "My mother was a great story-teller." He swallows and looks to the ground uncertainly.

"Was she?" Sharaman encourages gently, a hand stretching out to grasp his arm.

Dastan nods. "Her mother was a traveler, a gypsy, who told her everything about the world," he explains. "My mother would tell stories to the children around our home." The young man smiles at the memory. "They called her the 'Mother of Lies.'"

The three sitting before him have the decency to frown at the name that the people of their city had given the youngest prince's mother. "Dastan," Tus says softly, "that is . . . awful."

Dastan shrugs again, this time with indifference. "It was not said as an insult," he decides. "And she did not seem to mind." With a laugh, he says, "I was once the 'Son of Lies'—" His smile grows wide with mirth. "And now I am the 'Prince.'"/

You are a coward.

Dastan is dead. Their father's favorite son has perished right before their very eyes. Tus and Garsiv are not blind—they have noticed their father's doting nature toward the youngest prince since Dastan was brought to the castle many years ago. There is no question that the king loves them all unconditionally, but Dastan is special in Sharaman's eyes.

You are a coward.

/Tus winces when Dastan hisses in pain, the future king's nimble fingers carefully covering a nasty mark on the young man's back with a wet bandage. Several bright red welts mar the youngest prince's back, and Tus can only sigh and shake his head as Dastan bites his lower lip and clenches his eyes shut tightly.

"Taking blame for your friend is noble, brother," he says softly, "but taking his punishment only punishes you. It teaches him nothing."

"Bis did not steal that woman's basket in the marketplace," Dastan spits angrily, grunting as he agitates his wounds further. "He went after the boy who did and received the blame for the theft." He glances over his shoulder from his prone position on Tus's bed as best he can, narrowing his eyes. "We are not thieves."

Tus shrugs nonchalantly. "You certainly do not have need to be," he reasons, placing another bandage on the younger's back. "Then again . . . old habits die hard, I suppose."

To the future king's great disapproval, Dastan turns, forcing himself to sit up and face his older brother despite the obvious pain.

"I have never been a thief," he seethes, tears welling in his eyes. "I have always earned what I keep." He straightens his shoulders as much as his damaged back will allow. "Thievery is a coward's way."

Tus smiles at the statement, a gentle tolerance lacing his tone as he asks, "And where did you learn that?"

Dastan swallows and looks away before answering, "My mother."

Tus is silent for a long moment before he clears his throat and shifts the subject. "Father would have believed you," he says matter-of-factly. "If you had told him the truth, that is."

"Father is not only subject to his sons, Tus," Dastan says, a strange edge appearing in his voice. "To us, he is a father first and a king second. But to his people—who are a great deal many compared to us three—he is a king only. And he cannot put his family before their wishes and concerns." He gives the older man a hard look, his eyebrows drawn together in a serious manner that makes him look much older than his fourteen years. "When a wrong is committed, the people will cry for redemption. And if that cry is not met with justice and fairness, then the king cannot rightfully call himself their leader."

Tus sits back slightly, taking in his brother's words with a contemplative frown. "Wise words for such a young tongue, Dastan." He narrows his eyes as a playful smirk takes his lips. "When did you become so scholarly?"

The young man gives a toothy grin. "When I found two older brothers to make me look as such."/

You are a coward.

Tus closes his eyes as the words echo in his head, the last words his brother heard from his lips. What had he tried to say afterword?

I'm sorry.

Dastan, I did not mean it. I take it back.

You are the bravest man I have ever had the honor to know.

You are my younger brother, and we are going to get through this together.

No. All he could think to say in his anger and his hurt was . . . .

You are a coward, Dastan.

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv feels sick. He stares at his younger brother's body, may leagues below them, unmoving and twisted horrifyingly. He stares at Dastan, who only moments before was full of life—however little it may have seemed. Dastan, the Persian lion, the prince who rose up against an army and came out victorious—who came out broken and now lies far, far below. Alone.

Did he slip? Had he let himself fall? What did he feel as he was falling? Anger? Sadness? Fear? Perhaps nothing? Had he died on impact? What if it had taken a moment? What if he is still alive?

For a moment, Garsiv contemplates going down to check, to make certain. But the thought is quickly dashed as the sound of Tus's crying reaches his ears. His elder brother has not cried since they were children.

0 o 0 o 0

/The sickness takes hold very quickly. Many are dead before the alchemists begin to study it and search for a cure. The Persian people feel its full wrath, dropping in the streets by the dozens every day.

When it finally reaches the palace, Garsiv is the first to fall into its clutches. Blood spills up his throat and past his lips with every cough. The alchemists forbid the king and Tus see the sickly boy for fear of Persia's ruler (and future ruler) contracting the illness—gods forbid that Persia have no ruler.

So the young prince of merely seven years sits miserably in his chambers, alchemists surrounding him every moment of every day, their faces covered with cloths as they poke and prod him with various terrifying instruments. He is asked to breathe into smelly tubes and cough into fowl cups and lick ill-tasting wooden sticks and he just wishes that he would either get better . . . or let the sickness have him.

Darkness fills the sky, and the alchemists leave, unable to work with such meager lighting conditions. They wish the prince a good night and send silent prayers to the gods that the boy still be alive in the morning. And when they are gone, Garsiv closes his eyes and sighs, which unfortunately sets off another coughing fit.

"Garsiv?" a small voice whispers, and the young prince is able to quell the fit long enough to look around. From his balcony comes the soft sound of bare feet landing on the ground, and a moment later, Tus appears out of the shadows, a cloth tied hastily around the lower half of his face.

"Tus!" Garsiv croaks, attempting to sit up and moaning when the action causes a painful sensation to erupt in his chest. He coughs violently, doubling over as the familiar copper taste fills his mouth. When he settles and is able to look up again, Tus is at his side, eyebrows drawn together and eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Oh, Garsiv," the older boy says solemnly. "What have they been doing to you?"

"Not much," Garsiv offers feebly, shrugging with one shoulder. "Waiting until I die so that they may open my chest and dig through it like animals."

Tus's face scrunches. "Do not say such things, brother. You will make me sick."

"You will be sick if you stay here much longer," the young boy warns, eyes pleading. "Go, Tus. You should not be here. Go."

In an act of defiance, Tus climbs up and into the bed, sitting beside Garsiv and crossing his arms. "I will not move from this very spot until you are well again."

Garsiv closes his eyes and grits his teeth. "You do not want to be here, brother. And I do not want you to see."

Tus furrows his eyebrows. "See what?"

The younger boy pauses a moment before taking a shaky, liquid-filled breath and whispering, "Me." He swallows the blood at the back of his throat and gags at the strong taste. "I do not want you to see me."

The unshed tears that Tus was able to keep at bay for only a short while begin to spill down his cheeks, and he takes Garsiv's small hand lightly in his own. "You do not have to always be so brave, Garsiv."

Garsiv swallows again as his eyelids suddenly become heavy. "You are brave, Tus. Not me."

Before he falls into a restless sleep, he feels a cloth-muffled kiss placed on the top of his head and hears his brother's quiet words. "I am only brave because you give me the courage to be so."/

0 o 0 o 0

The alchemists had found them curled into one another the morning and had disappointedly began treating Tus as well. A cure was found within the week, and their country was set right—or as right as it could be after a mass disease had wiped out more than a fourth of their population.

Tus's tears spill down his cheeks now as they had when they were children, and the situation now seems just such a time for tears. But Garsiv cannot bring himself to do the same for his younger brother. It is not because he is not sad—the despair he feels now rips through his entire body, tearing him to pieces slowly and painfully. The fact that he cannot cry rests with a thought that will not leave him, that holds him to this very spot.

The princess.

The Lady of Alamut knows what is happening here. She knows what is—what was—wrong with their brother. She has the answers he seeks. This . . . is her fault.

With a growl, Garsiv tears himself away from the ledge, glaring around the small balcony at eyes filled with sympathy. The princess is not present. He pushes himself past the onlookers and back into the palace. She stands defiantly in the center of the room, her eyes blazing with anything but sympathy.

"I am sorry about your brother," she forces past her lips, the words sounding almost like an insult.

"Save your apology," Garsiv spits, striding towards her and grabbing her upper arms tightly. "You know how to fix this, how to bring him back."

Tamina's eyebrows draw together, and she scowls as she says, "I do not know what you are talking about. Your brother is dead. There is nothing I can do to—"

"You lie!" the prince yells, shaking her fiercely. "What about the dagger?"

Tamina huffs and pulls out of the man's grasp. "And what do you know about the dagger?"

"Nothing," the man admits angrily, waving an arm in the air as he begins to pace, "except that Dastan believed it was the only reason you were marrying him."

The princess looks taken aback, then hurt. "He told you this?"

Garsiv stops pacing and stares at her hard. "He did," he affirms. "Is there truth to this? Is the dagger so important to you?"

Tamina frowns in contemplation and looks away from him. "It is important, yes," she says carefully, choosing her words before she says them, "but . . . its importance had nothing to do with my agreement to marry your brother."

The prince swallows and looks back towards the balcony. "This dagger . . . It has the power to bring Dastan back?"

Tamina gives him a harsh look, her head lowered so as to glare at him through her eyelashes. "The dagger's power is not meant to serve man's wants, prince. You would be well to remember that."

"He is your betrothed!" Garsiv points out, gesturing towards the balcony. His breaths come is stuttered gasps as his desperation grows. "He is a prince. He is the Lion of Persia." He searches wildly for something that will bend her to his plea. "He is . . . my brother." Her eyes seem to soften, and he continues quickly. "He was not born of royal blood, but he is as much my brother as Tus, and . . . I cannot leave him like that. I cannot leave him . . . broken."

0 o 0 o 0

/Garsiv has only begged once in his life, and it is not a part of his past that he likes to remember. It is when he is eighteen. He and Tus ride the desert on a whim, having left the palace with little word on where they are going. Dastan, thoroughly opposed to the idea of his elder brothers leaving without so much as a single guard, is left behind to his own antics. Why should the youngest prince have all the fun?

They ride for most of the day before stopping and making camp, finding it to be a mistake when they are suddenly overrun by several bandits.

"What have we here?" the leader of the group, a big man with obscene amounts of jewelry pierced through his face, asks with amusement as he dismounts from his horse. "A couple of travelers?"

"Yes, we are on a pilgramage," Tus says casually. "We travel to Alamut to pray for our mother, who is very ill."

The big man squints his eyes at the two of them, looking back and forth before something clicks and he bares a gold-plated smile at them. "No, you are not mere travelers." He turns to his horde with a flourish of his arms. "Boys! Do you know who we have here?" His teeth shimmer as he turns his attention back on the two. "Princes! Of Persia, no less! We are in the presence of royalty!"

The men laugh, and Garsiv's hand slides to where his sword should be. But it is on the ground, where the two had been sitting. He did not have time to grab it before the men arrived. "What is it you want? Ransom? I assure you, we are more trouble than any ransom we are worth."

"How about," the man starts carefully, rubbing his chin and looking Tus up and down, "a little humility?"

Before Garsiv can wonder what he means, Tus is grabbed from behind, a sword pressed beneath his chin and digging into the soft skin of his jaw. The middle prince takes in a sharp breath, stepping toward his brother and reaching out but stopping as the sword is pressed more firmly into Tus's neck.

"Now," the man says with a wicked grin, staring Garsiv down with dark, beady eyes, "beg."

Garsiv's eyebrows furrow, and he shakes his head slightly. "What?"

"Beg, prince," the man commands. "Beg for your brother's life, or we will slit his throat."

Garsiv swallows hard, looking back into Tus's eyes. Small rivulets of blood are beginning to run from the wound that the sword is making, and this only serves to fuel the young man's anger. "Let him go."

The leader gives a bark of laughter. "This is how Persian men are taught to beg?"

"Persians are not taught to beg," Garsiv spits. "We are taught to fight." He sets a dangerous gaze on the man. "And kill those who would order us to do anything we do not want to do."

The man nods in understanding, a strange smile taking his lips. "Yes, I can see that you are strong, boy." The use of the word boy irks the young man somewhat, and he suppresses a growl in the back of his throat. He looks to Tus, who looks mildly afraid but also . . . trusting. The middle prince has seen that look plenty of times, and it always makes him give in to Tus's wishes. The future king believes that Garsiv will do what is right and stands behind his decision fully, no matter the consequences.

The man continues. "But now you have no choice. It is either beg, or lose your brother." His wicked smile only widens. "And the future of Persia." So, he knows that Tus is the future king, that he holds all of Persia's fate in his hands. If he kills Tus, then Garsiv will have to step up and take the throne. If he kills them both, then Dastan will have to step up and take the throne. Neither options are particularly desirable.

So Garsiv swallows hard and glares at the man, muttering something under his breath.

"I am not sure I heard that, prince," the leader says, dramatically placing a hand against his ear and speaking loudly so that all his men may here. "Would you be so kind as to speak up?"

Garsiv scowls. "Please," he says through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come now," the man laughs. "You can do better than that." He points to Tus. "Your brother's life depends on it!"

The young man looks at Tus again, his eyes softening at the look he finds there. Tus will gladly die for him, if it means that he is able to live. He has said as much as often as the subject is appropriate. Tus will die for him. And he cannot scrounge up enough courage and respect and love to save his brother's life? With a sigh, Garsiv closes his eyes and does something that he has never done before.

He falls to his knees.

With an imploring look, Garsiv sets his gaze on the leader of the bandits and holds it there with earnest. "Please," he begs, exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please, release him. He . . ." He falters and looks to the ground, releasing a shuddering breath before continuing. "He is my brother. If you must kill someone, kill me. Not him."

A silence rings throughout the small camp before the large man speaks. "Let him go."

Garsiv's head snaps up in surprise. He did not expect it to be that easy. The man clearly wants to torment them both. Why not continue with the game?

Without a second's hesitation, the bandit holding Tus removes his sword and steps away, disappearing into the shadows. The leader mounts his horse again and looks down at Garsiv with something that looks vaguely like respect.

"Be well to remember this night, prince. It may save your life, or another's, some day."

And then the group is gone, leaving Tus and Garsiv to wonder what in the gods' names happened./

0 o 0 o 0

Garsiv remembers that night with a sharp clarity, and is agitated to find that the man was right. Humbling himself, if only for a moment, seems to be a successful tactic.

"The dagger," Tamina starts, pulling the prince from his thoughts, "is more powerful than you can imagine." She stares at him studiously, as if attempting to memorize his face. "Once it has been used, the person's soul begins to tear. One or two uses can go unnoticed for a time. But if your brother has used the dagger before, if he has used it as much as I fear . . . then there may be no hope for him." Her eyes narrow. "Even if we bring him back."

"But you can?" Garsiv asks hopefully. "You can bring him back?"

Tamina pauses. "Yes," she concedes, finally. "With the dagger I can bring Dastan back."

"How? How does it work?" The prince steps forward desperately, his eyes feverish and his hands shaking.

She explains what Dastan apparently already has knowledge of, her words sounding more and more fantastic as she continues. The dagger can turn back time, can bring the past forward so that it might be repaired. But only one will have knowledge of this moment, of this future.

This particular fact brings a frown to Garsiv's face. Dastan has knowledge of the dagger, which means he must have used it at least once—more than once, by the looks of him. Which also means that he has seen at least one future that does not exist to the rest of the world. What kind of future would put Dastan into such a state?

A grim one, Garsiv decides solemnly. He nods as Tamina finishes the instructions, how the dagger works and what he must do once he goes back.

"No," a voice says from behind them, and the two turn to find Tus standing at the balcony's entrance. "It must be me."

"Tus?" Garsiv questions, stepping towards his brother as the man slumps against the archway.

"It is my doing," Tus explains as guilt twists his face. "Dastan is dead because of my words, what I said to him just before his death." Offering his brother a determined look, he continues with an authoritative tone. "It must be me. I must fix this."

Tamina produces the dagger from her robes and looks between the brothers. "You must make a decision soon. The longer you wait, the less time you will travel . . . It is possible you may be too late already."

Tus extends his hand towards her, palm facing up, and his eyes clearly demanding the weapon. The princess looks to Garsiv, who frowns but slowly nods. Stepping forward, she places the dagger in the future king's hand, watching as his fingers curl around its hilt and his thumb rests on the red jewel.

"Tus," Garsiv whispers, and the older man looks at him questioningly. "Save him."

Tus's lips tighten into thin lines as he nods, taking a deep breath before pressing the jewel down.

AN: Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :D