Prince of Persia 1. More Than a Memory

_WITHIN THE SWIRLING SANDS_

**C H A P T E R O N E **  
More Than a Memory

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**Disclaimer**: Prince of Persia belongs to Ubisoft, Montreal Studios and Muze Inc. I, Jen Zi, do not own PoP or have any formal ties to any of these companies, their affiliates, or subsidiaries. This story is not intended as copyright infringement and should not be reproduced or replicated anywhere for any reason, unless otherwise stated in written consent by myself. So in other words, please don't sue me or steal my stuff. I appreciate it. :P

**Author's Note**: Please review! This is my first fanfic, and I'd love any suggestions or criticism you can offer. :) It's a little shorter than I would have liked for my first chapter, but I promise the next one will be longer and more exciting.

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The Prince slid across the cracked marble floor, his heart throbbing in his chest like a war drum. His hand shot out from underneath his breast and grabbed hold of the dagger's glittering blade. There was a jerk as gravity caught Farah's full weight and she cried out as she nearly lost her grip on the hilt. He winced in pain as the metal dug into the flesh of his palm, slowly slicing through his grip, pulling half his torso over the gap. He steadied himself with his other hand, his body positioning in preparation to pull her back from the brink of oblivion; his mind determined never to let go. 

"Hang on Farah! I'm going to pull you up. Give me your hand!"

He lowered his free hand, even as the dagger slipped farther out of his reach in it's opposite. Farah looked up; her gaze meeting the Prince's. She smiled sadly, calmly; she knew her fate was sealed. The world froze around them, the sounds of the sand monsters bled away, the Prince's breath caught in his throat, his eyes hopelessly trapped within hers. Their minds met and for that one instant they shared a single consciousness; one love, two lives, and a mission only one would be able to complete. Softly, with her final breath, she uttered one single word, "Kakolukia."

And with that, her hand released the hilt of the Dagger of Time. She fell backwards, her luxurious black hair flowing behind her as her body fell silently, almost gently, towards the cold stone floor beneath it. All that was left was the Prince's outstretched hand, his cry, "Farah!", and then silence…

The Prince darted up-right in his bed, his eyes racing across the room as he searched for the query of his nightmare. "Farah!" There was no answer.

He fell back onto his bed as the recollection of his surroundings filled him. He was in his room; in Babylon. His breathing slowed and he wiped the sweat from his brow as he stared intensely at the silk canopy over his head, drifting effortlessly in the cool night air. _Just a dream_, he thought as he closed his eyes, trying to relieve his discomfort. _It's always just a dream...

* * *

_

A year's time had passed since the Prince's fated journey through time. Still, memories of those days persisted, lingering like dark clouds after a rain storm. He had tried so hard to disregard them, but they refused to be forgotten. Every time he found a moments peace, his mind would wander back to those days. An unrequited love, a desperate mission, a terrible horde. He had hoped after his rendezvous with the Vizier in Farah's bedchambers, that this whole mess would finally be over, but Fate had a crueler path in mind for him. He seemed forever doomed to dream of his mistake and the woman he would never be able to have.

Despite the occasional sleepless night, in the time since, the Prince had become less and less tormented by his ordeal as a whole. His wounds from his final battle with his enemy had healed at long last. He couldn't even imagine what must have gone through his father's mind when he had returned after supposedly sleeping in his tent, bleeding and exhausted, the night they had planned to storm the Maharaja's palace. Without the advantage of surprise, the Prince's father, King Shahraman, had abandoned plans to capture the city; its defenses were well-built and it would have taken months of brutal fighting to penetrate the city walls. That and they hadn't planned on needing them, so there hadn't been a single siege tower or battering ram in the entire host of the army. They had expected to take the city with speed and stealth alone as allies, but without the signal that the city gates had been opened, it had not been so. A grave oversight in his father's opinion, but one the Prince was personally grateful for. After their former capture, he wasn't sure the Dagger or the Hourglass would be any safer under a second onslaught.

Unfortunately, his deepest scars could not be seen in a mirror. He had returned to Babylon, his home city, a different man. Whereas he had once been brash and overly self-confident, the Prince was quieter, more reclusive, and less keen on his own skills. He smiled much less than he had in the past, and his once quick, sarcastic sense of humor was replaced by a more demur, serious tone. His seemingly increased interest in politics though, was a welcome change amongst his family. Before his trip to India, the Prince had cared little for events happening beyond the borders of his empire, but now he was keenly interested in the goings-on of his kingdom. Especially so, it's fragile relationship with India. In the time since their failed invasion, the Persian empire had turned swiftly from its former aggression with the rival nation, mostly to the Prince's credit. Although met with suspicion at first, he had eventually managed to convince his father and his advisors to "let sleeping dogs lie." And at least for now, relations between the two countries had become somewhat amicable, though still far from ideal.

The Prince wrestled with the sheets in his bed as thoughts of Farah returned to him. He had managed to sleep undisturbed for nearly a week before her voice had once again claimed his dreams. He kicked off his covers and rolled over, cradling his arms as he lay on his side and squeezing his eyes closed. Why couldn't he just forget about her? Surly a year later he should have found a new beauty to occupy his thoughts… And yet there were none.

There were, of course, many beautiful women within the palace. Entertainers for his father's harem, dancers at the parties, serving girls, and all manner of slaves and guests, but none of them had replaced his affections for the Indian princess. There was always something about them that reminded him of his lost love, and yet he was always distinctly aware of the differences that set them apart.

He sighed and tried to force himself onto happier thoughts. Farah was gone. She was safe, probably sound asleep in her bed, in her father's palace. She probably never even thought of him -- yearned for him -- the way he did for her. It was like an insatiable hunger that no amount of worldly temptations could quake.

_ The past is finished and over with. Farah is nothing more than a memory now.  
_  
She was better forgotten, he knew, but his heart refused to allow him the luxury. Surly being stabbed by a sand monster would be a sweeter pain. His thoughts drifted off as sleep finally took hold of him. _No, she was so much more than just a memory...

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	2. A Prince's Awakening

_WITHIN THE SWIRLING SANDS_

**C H A P T E R T W O **  
A Prince's Awakening

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Author's Note**: Sorry this took me so long to get up… I ran into some writer's block. Or laziness. You decide. :P Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And thank you to my three little reviewers! You didn't say much, but I appreciate the commentary. :)

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The Prince slowly opened his eyes as the dawn's light splashed into his room through the balcony doorway, bathing his bed in its incandescent glow. He reached up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he rolled over onto his back and yawning, pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning casually against the head board. As he began to regain full-consciousness, the Prince glanced around his room while running a hand across his bare chest, his eyes finally settling on the navy blue silk curtains draped loosely in front of his window as they danced in the morning breeze. He watched as the insignia they bore twisted and folded with the fabric; an image of a Persian sphinx, its long wings stretched behind it, its human head facing backwards towards them even as its lion's body sat poised in the opposite direction. It was his family's insignia, a symbol of Persian royalty. 

The Prince had a lavish, luxurious room. It was a large, rectangular apartment, with a high, vaulted ceiling. To one side, the wall was parted by several large, bell-shaped columns, supporting the roof that lead out onto the Prince's veranda, each entryway covered by a long, flowing curtain the color of the night sky. The white marble floor was covered in thick, extravagantly decorated Persian rugs. Silk tapestries clung to the walls, imported from as far away as China and depicting all manner of war scenes and mythical creatures in a variety of bright colors. Carved wooden benches and chairs adorned with opulent cushions and plush pillows sat in little clusters in the corners and center of the room and elegant glass vases and bowls sat atop every table filled with lush plants, the most fragrant flowers, and all manner of fruits and sweets for him to snack on at the slightest whim, each mysteriously watered and restocked each time he entered as if by some kind of magic. His bed dominated the room. It stood in the middle, canopied with silken draperies that twisted around its ivory posts, tied in place with soft cording, and was wide enough to comfortably sleep four or five people; it's white and blue sheets and pillows thrown askew from the previous night's tossing. On the opposite side of the room stood two recessed passageways. One opened into a small hallway leading into a private sauna made of marble and decorated from floor to ceiling with mosaics depicting raised archways and flowering vines, a small pool sat in the center for bathing with two fountains to either side. The other widened into a large closet filled with the Prince's clothes, armor, and weapons. His eyes stayed fixed on the elegant drapery and for a moment he was lost in admiration, nearly forgetting the importance of the day.

Today would see the beginning of Mehregan, the autumn festival in honor of Mehr, the God of light and of love. He shaded his eyes from the light. Why hadn't anyone come to waken him earlier? The Prince was sure he had reminded his servant, Izad that he wanted to speak to his father before the afternoon's procession through the city… He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, crossing the room and pushing through the curtains hanging before the entrance to his private bath chambers.

The Prince dipped his hands into the water lying in the basin of one of the fountains. He rinsed off his hands and forearms before cupping some of the cool liquid and splashing it onto his face. He watched the water fall back into the pool and as it settled, he took a moment to admire his appearance in its reflection. He had let his hair grow out after returning from the Maharaja's lands, but now due to the festivities, his father had ordered it cut again. Somehow the Prince didn't like the way it looked now. In truth, it looked no different from the way it had always looked before; same length, same style, but now he found it strangely unappealing. He studied his image a moment longer before drying himself off with a towel.

Next, the Prince journeyed to his closet. He walked through the numerous rows of different assortments of clothes, occasionally reaching out to stroke the arm of a certain shirt, or admire a pair of familiar pants. Normally, the job of choosing his clothing for the day would be left to his dresser, but the man was quite old and probably still asleep; the Prince decided to be lenient and not disturb him. After all, it was Mehregan… And besides, he was twenty years old now. Surly, he could dress himself well enough. And what kind of warrior requires another man to help him clothe himself anyways? Certainly not a very strong one and the Prince preferred to think of himself as both strong and a warrior.

He stopped before a row of neatly folded clothing and flipped through a stack of pants, withdrawing a pair from the bottom of the pile. They were bleached stark white with a gold and russet intertwining stripe down each leg and looked to be a comfortable fit, if not a little baggy. He unfurled them and draped them over an arm as he browsed for a suitable shirt in the rack next to it. The Prince's eye caught on a fluttery little long-sleeved number. It was a beautiful cobalt blue, the color of the ocean, and was light enough to be reasonably tolerable in the fierce desert's heat. He withdrew it from the rack and again placed it over his arm as he continued through his collection. Next, he headed over to the stands that held his array of armor. As he walked past, he inspected each piece; this breastplate was too damaged, this one the wrong color, that one was too heavy, was that blood dried on the front of that one? The Prince rubbed his forehead, suddenly aware of how incredibly inept his experience with fashion was. He thought for a moment and then remembered the new plate his father had ordered made a few weeks prior. He hadn't had a chance to try it out yet and his father would probably be expecting him to wear it anyhow. The Prince found the article in question towards the back of room. It had been carefully set upon a bench and looked newly polished. It was a Bronze corselet, covered by thick leather strips that met at the chest and swept downwards in a smooth construct, studded at his sides, and devoid of shoulder plating. It appeared a little plain, but it had been designed for warfare not impressing girls. He pulled it up off the bench with his free hand, slipping it inside the armament's hollow, and then reached down to collect it's corresponding blue sash and double belts; blue for peaceful times, red for war.

Returning to his room, he stripped out of his bed clothing, a simple white caftan, and donned his chosen attire. The Prince slipped on some simple brown leather boots and as a final touch, grabbed a pair of matching arm cuffs. He ran a carved ivory comb through his hair and smoothed his goatee with his hand. Standing back, he brushed his hands across his torso and hips, smoothing any stray wrinkles, and with that, he deemed himself ready for the day.

* * *

A servant nearly collided with the Prince in her hurry as he stepped into the hallway outside of his bed chambers. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, your Prince ship, I was just coming to awaken you."

The Prince blinked and took a step back. She was a young woman, pretty from the Prince's estimations of her, with long dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail and dressed in an elaborate red silk caftan decorated in a floral pattern that started at the collar and wound down her dress, stopping at her knees. As luxurious as it seemed, it was still a pretty standard dress for house servants of the royal family. She had dark brown eyes that twitched nervously as she bowed and stared at the ground, aware of the Prince's up-close inspection.

"Where is my servant, Izad? I asked him to wake me hours ago…" the Prince responded quietly, still watching the girl intently.

She kept her eyes respectfully glued to the floor in front of her and responded, matching the Prince's tone of voice perfectly. Unfortunately, her eyes betrayed her discomfort; clearly she was not accustomed to speaking so directly to one of her masters. "Yes, master Izad sent me, your Prince ship, he apologizes for not having sent someone sooner, but there's been a situation… Your father has --"

The Prince cut her off, "My father? What's happened?" He felt a knot form in the back of his throat. The King had been ill for quite some time now and as of late he'd taken to his bed. Because of the demands of the month's celebrations, he'd made the decision to lead the traditional procession through the city, despite the warnings of his physicians. The Prince hoped his father had not over taxed himself.

The woman flashed the Prince a glance before clearing her throat a little and continuing, "The venerable King Shahraman has received an urgent message from Phoenicia, my lord. He has asked that you and your brothers meet with him at once in the Throne Hall. I was asked to come find you, my lord." She bowed and waved a hand in the direction of the hall in question. The Prince frowned. A message from Phoenicia? Now? What could they possibly need today of all days? He had a bad feeling, but he thanked the servant for her time, and bustled past her through the corridor in the direction of his father's Throne Hall.

The palace was a wonder to behold. Its magnificent corridors and rooms were part lavish comfort, part work of art. The marble floors were strewn with cashmere carpets, silk cushions, and ornately decorated chairs, the walls with silk paintings, elegant mosaics, and mirrors. Walkways were lined with carefully manicured trees and flowers, thick enough to give adequate privacy, but not keep out a breeze, and every courtyard was adorned with fountains at the center of square pools, brimming with delicate Koi fish. Peacocks strutted through the polished gardens and all manners of exotic and beautiful animals basked in the palace menageries. It was so large, that without a guide one could be lost for hours in its expanse. But the Prince knew the palace intimately and cut his way through its many lyceums and antechambers in a matter of moments.

Turning a corner, he saw the door leading into the Throne Hall. Standing before it, he recognized the silhouette of his older brother, Basim. Basim was a tall man with broad shoulders, lanky muscles, and a very handsome face. He was well known amongst courtesans throughout the empire for his comely smile and sultry disposition. There were only two things Basim excelled at; war and sex, and he partook of both on a daily basis. Turning, he spotted the Prince in the doorway.

"Kilek! Little brother, you've finally decided to join us, have you? And here I was just telling your friend Izad you'd be "busy" with that pretty little serving girl for the rest of the morning!" Basim grinned from ear to ear as he strutted towards his brother.

The Prince couldn't help but smile. Basim could turn anything into an innuendo. As he reached him, he brought up one of his fists and made a slow punch towards the Prince's chin, which quickly turned into a jab in the ribs with his opposite hand, and finally enveloped him in a tight bear hug lifting him off the ground a little bit. Kilek mockingly gasped for air and as his brother released him he replied, "Yes, well not all of us can spend our time chasing little serving girls around the house everyday, brother."

"No? Perhaps we'll take a gander over to the brothel later and we'll see just how virtuous you truly are… I'll make a man of you yet." He arched his eyebrows a few times to make his point.

The Prince shook his head and chuckled a bit. Basim had been in Media for the past six months due to a clan uprising in the Northern provinces. Although he would probably be recalled after the festivities, Kilek had to admit, he had missed his brother in his absence and regretted not having more time to spend with him before he would inevitably leave again. Unfortunately, any plans would have to wait; now wasn't the time for pleasantries.

"So, there's been word from Phoenicia?" Basim's smile vanished and he nodded solemnly. "The Egyptians… They've attacked Sidon."

This news shocked the Prince. Sidon was an ancient city in Palestine and a satrap of the Persian Empire. It was one of the largest cities in all of Phoenicia and a dazzling port, well known as "the city of gardens", that Kilek had visited many times in the past. He could still remember chasing his brothers through the banana and citrus plantations outside of the city walls as a child and splashing his friend Nebu as they swam through the city's harbor on a hot summer's afternoon. The thought that it had come under siege by anyone, much less the Egyptians, was disconcerting. "How bad is the fighting?" He asked in a slight daze.

"Bad. From what we can tell, the Egyptians have around 35,000 men. The city's fortifications are holding at the moment, but if they breach the defenses, we don't have enough men stationed in the city's garrison to hold them back. Undoubtedly they need reinforcements…"

The Prince regained his composure. "And father? Has he given any orders yet?" Basim shook his head. "No, but can there be any doubt of the response? If the Egyptians want war with us, brother, they've certainly gotten our attention."

"Then let us hope it is not already too late…" Kilek responded as he pushed past his brother and headed for the entrance to the Throne room.

* * *

Upon entering the Hall, the Prince immediately spotted his father, resting calmly on his throne. He was dressed in a plum colored turban and robe that fell to his feet and wore a large jewel encrusted scimitar at his waist. As always, he wore scant jewelry; a sapphire brooch pinned to the front of his turban and several large diamond and ruby rings that glittered in the sunlight each time he moved his hands. At his side stood the Prince's other three brothers; Hadi, Dara, and Jabbar. Jabbar was the eldest and therefore stood immediately to the King's right, Dara was second in age and stood next to his older brother, there was a gap, the place Basim was to fill, then stood Hadi, and directly at his left was Kilek's place. All three of his older brothers had donned their best armor and stood at attention as they listened to the messenger give his reports. Said messenger was kneeling on the procession before the throne addressing the king, and was mid-sentence when their father spotted Kilek and Basim at the doorway. 

"Ah. My other sons have arrived at last!" The King interrupted the messenger as he stood from his throne and took a few steps towards them, his arms outstretched in greeting. The Prince bowed slightly, but Basim, not being one to waste time on formalities, was immediately en route to their father. Kilek followed shortly behind.

Out of all of the palace's chambers, the Throne Hall was the most impressive. It was a colossal room made entirely of carved white marble. Elegant scrolling motifs embroidered the walls and floors, tall, thin columns stood at each end of a large staircase leading to the pavilion housing the throne, which was surrounded in torches and giant red banners bearing the family insignias. Huge bird like sculptures sat on the main floor, edged in gold scroll work, and gleaming in the sunlight softly pouring through the Hall's numerous windows. The ceiling was a vaulted masterpiece with stunning golden chandeliers hanging from its heights. The trickling sound of water could be heard from beneath the balustrade, emanating from a small fountain at it's base. No detail had been sparred in its construction, and it was covered in all of the opulence the Persian Empire had become famous for. But today, the Throne Hall seemed eerily empty. Usually it would be filled with military officials, guards, nobles of the court, and a variety of guests, visiting magistrates, and servants. Other than a few guards standing watchfully along each of the walls, only the King and each of the Princes were present. How strange, the Prince thought to himself, that after an attack such as this his father had not called a large-scale meeting to discuss the best course of action…

Basim gave his father a quick greeting before stepping back and taking his place at his brother's sides. Kilek climbed the final step and smiled at his father before giving him a quick hug. His father said nothing but from the look on his face, the young Prince could clearly see that he was pleased to see him. A little self-consciously, the Prince then took his spot, last in line, next to his brother, Hadi. Hadi smiled and leaned over slightly so he could whisper in his younger brother's ear as the King returned to his seat. He nodded for the messenger to continue.

Kilek examined the man before them as he began speaking once more. Although kneeling, the Prince could tell he was an extraordinarily tall man. He was about a decade younger than the King with a long, well-kempt gray beard in the Persian fashion, dark eyes and a nose that bent just slightly to the side. There was a nasty scar that ran from under one of his eyes down his cheek and part way down his neck that the Prince guessed was fairly recent from the discoloration around its edges. He had short, carefully trimmed hair in the military style so as best to fit under a helmet and his clothes appeared worn and dirty; clearly he had come straight from the warring city without even changing garb.

"…We desperately need reinforcements, my King," He was saying, "The Egyptians have the city surrounded and they're attacking sporadically day and night."

"What weapons are they using?" King Shahraman rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he stared off into the distance at an object the Prince could not discern. His voice was just barely over a whisper and sounded hoarser than usual.

"Mostly axes, arrows, scaling ladders and battering rams, my Lord."

"How many Ballistae and siege towers?"

"I saw none, your highness."

The King shifted in his chair and dropped his gaze back on the man. He grunted a little in acknowledgement before looking back off into the distance.

Jabbar, the King's eldest son and heir to the throne, spoke up. "The Egyptians are fools if they think they can take a well-fortified city like Sidon with no Ballistae of siege towers. Its walls are far too high to simply scale," he scoffed in an unnaturally loud voice. Jabbar was not a man of great stature, but he had a fierce appearance and reputation. He was almost seventeen years older than Kilek and had seen many a battlefield. He was hailed as a military mastermind and just the sight of his army was enough to unnerve even the strongest of his opponents. Jabbar had bright, golden brown eyes that many compared to those of the great Bengal tigers from India, short, black hair, and slightly crooked, average features. He almost never smiled and appeared to be constantly sulking. As for his reputation, Jabbar could have made even the great war goddess Ishtar, blanch with the inhuman cruelties he subjected his defeated enemies to. He had never seen defeat and all those who met him on the battlefield quaked in fear as he mercilessly led them to the slaughter.

"The Egyptians are not fools, Jabbar and we should not underestimate their tactics. They have conquered many a city using these same methods and I assure you, they work quite well," Dara, the second oldest brother chimed in. Dara was the complete opposite of Jabbar in every way. He was kind and preferred study to warfare. The most pious and religiously involved of the brothers, he spent almost all of his time studying philosophy and appeasing the gods. That and though none of his designs had thus far succeeded, he was a gifted architect. Dara was less athletic than the rest of his brothers and lacked their muscular frames, not a heavy man, he was still much thicker around the middle than any of his other brothers and his arms lacked the same definition. He had a slightly rotund face and looked young for his age. Although only two years junior to Jabbar, he had accomplished almost none of his brother's military standing and had only seen battle once or twice in his life, though he had gained enormous standing in his father's court and was popular amongst the nobles. Because of their immense differences in personality and beliefs, Jabbar and Dara squabbled almost constantly.

Jabbar scowled at Dara, but was prudent enough to keep his comment to himself. Hadi chuckled quietly and then leaned over and whispered in the Prince's ear. "They're mosquitoes… All I hear is incessant buzzing." Hadi was only three years Kilek's elder and one of his closest friends. They practiced their fighting skills together and studied side by side through most nights, joking and thinking up even newer and deadlier tricks to beguile and annihilate their enemies. Hadi was the only person who could match the Prince in his acrobatics, if not surpass him and the two were almost inseparable. Kilek was just slightly taller than Hadi, a fact he hadn't allowed his older brother to forget, but Hadi had more muscle and better upper-body strength. Hadi was also quite handsome. He had long, chestnut brown, wavy hair and was clean shaven with far away light brown eyes. He had a thoughtful appearance and a sweet smile that could make any woman he so much as glanced at blush and giggle. He was also a clever conversationalist and because of his caring and sentimental demeanor, he had more female admirers than he could keep up with. Unfortunately, Hadi wasn't made out for warfare, his overly friendly nature made him a bad leader and although the Prince would never say so aloud, his older brother was a bit of a coward. He was better suited to the life of a poet than a warrior, but Kilek couldn't help but respect the man's efforts enormously.

"And what would you suggest, my son?" The King asked, clearly indicating Dara.

Dara stepped forward slightly and although the Prince couldn't fully see his face from where he was standing, he could tell that his brother was pleased to be asked over Jabbar. "I've no simple answer, my Lord. I believe we should send reinforcements, as the messenger suggests, but also send a peaceful delegation party to Memphis. We should try to avoid war at all cost--"

Jabbar interrupted, "They will kill any delegation we send, peaceful or not. Father they clearly want a war; they have for years. An attack on Sidon cannot go unanswered; they will think us _weak_. " Jabbar hissed this word as if the thought were unthinkable to him, "We should march on their borders as soon as possible. We need to show those arrogant dogs the price of overstepping their leashes!"

Dara rubbed a temple but tried to remain calm, "Brother, to fix this dilemma, we need to keep a sense of rationality… We should try and reason with the Egyptians instead of running in, scimitars brandished, and unnecessarily shedding Persian blood. I think--"

Again, Jabbar interrupted, "Leave the military strategizing to me, _brother_. Go back to your books and leave the important matters to someone--" The King raised his hand to silence his sons and the Prince could see Basim shake his head amusedly from where he was standing. Jabbar quieted himself, though it was clear he was infuriated by being second guessed and Dara wore an agitated expression, though he was trying to remain calm.

The King focused his attention on the messenger once again. "How many are in the city already?"

The messenger perked up, having remained silent through the Princes' argument, and his voice held little confidence in his answer, "6,000 immortals are garrisoned within the city, your highness."

The King tapped a jeweled finger against the arm of his chair and watched the light dance off the surface of his rings. He contemplated the situation slowly before looking up. "Then I will send 30,000 reinforcements at once." He motioned for one of his stewards and an elderly gentleman in a black robe stepped up to the throne. He carried with him a wax stylus and small, sharp-tipped wooden writing utensil and quickly scrawled down the King's order as he spoke. "Take whatever available men we have here and in Sippar, Opis, Borsippa, Cunaxa, and Nippur and send them to aide Sidon immediately. I also want messengers sent to Tyre, Damascus, Byblos, Jerusalem, Joppa, and Shechem. Have them send whatever troops they have to Sidon as well. We cannot afford to lose it. It's too valuable to our empire's trade. Jabbar will accompany them. Dara, you will arrange a diplomatic envoy to be sent to Memphis, though I don't want you to accompany it and you should choose your men wisely. I get the feeling you may never see them again… Basim?"

Basim had been silent until now, "Yes, father?"

"Have you dealt with the problem in Media?"

Basim didn't look quite as confident as he sounded, but he tried to fill his voice with conviction, "Yes, father."

"Then you will recall half of your men and join your brother in Phoenicia. We will see what, if anything, Dara's envoy is able to discover and wait for a final judgment on whether to launch an offensive against Egypt. For now, we must protect our city as best we can..." He coughed suddenly, doubling over in his chair and grasping his stomach in pain. The Princes rushed to his side, but Jabbar, not wanting to be outshone by his younger brother, stuck a foot out in an attempt to trip Dara, who stumbled meekly and glared at him. Basim reached the King first, helping him to sit back upright in his chair and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. The King coughed into his palm a few more times before continuing.

"Today marks the beginning of Mehregan, one of our ancestors' most honored festivals and a time of peace through out the empire. It pains me to break this tradition, but it would seem I haven't a choice. My sons… You will continue with the day's celebrations. We must uphold our heritage lest we be reduced to the same barbarity as our enemies…" He coughed again and gasped for air weakly in his chair. "I do not have the strength to accompany you on this day. Go. Jabbar and Dara will oversee the procession and feasts." He waved a dismissive hand and the brothers bowed as Basim helped him to his feet. The messenger thanked the king deeply, prostrated himself on the ground, and then stood, dismissing himself to his chambers. King Shahraman took a step towards the stairs before turning to smile at Hadi and Kilek. "You look fine today, my sons… A shame I will not be able to ride with you." The Princes bowed as he turned and continued down the stairs, followed by his entourage, and out of the Hall.

As soon as the King had disappeared, Jabbar stepped down from the throne and hurried from the room without so much as a glance towards his younger brothers. Basim chuckled loudly, completely calm despite the seriousness of the situation. He clapped a hand down heavily on Hadi and Kilek's shoulders grinning widely and pulling them with him as he walked down the steps taking two at a time so that his brothers had to keep ahead of him or be tripped. Dara sighed irritably, rubbing the side of his nose with a finger, and following his brothers.

"Finally a battle worthy of our armies", Basim was saying, "Perhaps I'll finally be able to see the two of you fight… Studying warfare in books and practice fighting in the towers is one thing, but we'll see how you fare against a real opponent… Piss yourselves and cry, I imagine." He ruffled the Prince's hair playfully with his hand and tightened his arm around Hadi's neck, getting him into a headlock. Hadi wrestled with his brother, struggling in his grip, before kicking his leg in between Basim's and tripping him up. Basim stumbled forward a bit, freeing the Prince who slipped under his outstretched arm, getting behind him, and brought his hand down on the man's back, pushing him forward into the railing. Basim was quicker though and twisted around, mid-push, bumping his back against the top of the rail before rushing his brothers. Hadi managed to jump to the side but the Prince was caught and thrown roughly to the ground, rolling backwards with enough force to tip over a standing lamp and almost knock over Dara as he came down the stairs. Servants ran in to contain the fire. Hadi was immediately doubled over in laughter and Basim bowed to his older brother who feigned an annoyed smile as he grabbed Kilek by the front of his breastplate, hoisting him back up to his feet and dusting the young prince off.

The Prince's head was still reeling from its impact with the floor, but he managed to laugh, punching Basim in the rib, who wasn't even slightly fazed. Basim opened his mouth to make some sort of taunt, but Dara beat him to it. "If the three of you are through, the King has given you all a task. There will be plenty of fighting to come so save it for the Egyptians." With that, he turned and made his way out of the Hall, nodding politely to his brothers and the guards stationed along the walls. Hadi could barely contain his laughter as the Prince smiled sheepishly, rubbing his hand against his injured head.

"Well, he's right. Enough play for now. The two of you should be getting ready." Basim shot his brothers his signature smile that had won over more than a few palace courtesans' hearts before continuing towards the doors. As he came to the guards, he turned, and always having to have the last word in an argument, chirped back, "I'll finish the two of you off later!" Hadi and Kilek simply smiled at one another.

* * *

  
Persian sphinx: Chances are you've seen a Persian sphinx before. It's somewhat like an Egyptian sphinx, only it's depicted as sitting upright, the human head is sometimes backwards (and bearded), and it has wings (although, don't some Egyptian sphinxes have wings?). If you have no idea what I'm talking about, do a Google image search for "winged sphinx".  
Mehregan: Mehregan or Jashn-e-Mehregan is an ancient Iranian autumn festival, observed on the ninth or tenth of October, and dedicated in honor of Mehr, also known as Mithra, the Persian god of Light and Love. It is a celebration of thanksgiving between family and friends, and charity to the poor. The festival symbolically ends with bonfires and fireworks.  
Caftan: Common Middle Eastern clothing worn by both men and women. If you'd like to get a better idea than my very vague and basic description, do another Google image search. Be sure to search for "Men's Caftans" or you'll just get a bunch of girl's clothing. Don't worry; I don't plan on making the Prince cross-dress in my story. :P  
Basim (bah-seem): Persian name meaning to smile.  
Kilek (key-leck): Name of an Iranian city. It's not a common name and doesn't stem from Farsi (modern day Persian) as far as I can tell. Why did I choose it? I've always liked the way it sounds and it seems like a good name for the Prince.  
Sidon: An ancient Palestinian city. The Egyptians didn't attack it, but that's my excuse for the Persian's opening hostilities with them… So, we'll just pretend it happened.  
Hadi (hah-dee): Guide, leader.  
Dara (Dar-ra): Wealthy, one who has kindness.  
Jabbar (job-bar): Powerful, the Almighty, bone-setter.  
Memphis: The capital of Egypt at this time, circa 525-ish BC. 


End file.
