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Whispers and murmurs buzz through the air as Darayavahoush e-Afshin approaches the Grand Temple for the first time in over a millennia.
He feels the eyes of the Daeva Tribe follow him, the man of fear and legend. A hero and a horror.
On the trip over from the Pramukh estate, Dara thought of seeing Nahri this evening. Seeing her treated with the respect a Banu Nahida deserved - with the respect she deserved. The respect and treatment he had promised her when she’d taken his hand by the river.
But now, arriving at The Grand Temple, all his hopes for her happiness are overshadowed by a fresh wave of grief.
This ziggurat temple is a beacon of the Daeva faith, of their religion. It is a place where his people have been attacked. It is a place he had once protected with his life.
It is a place that stands for the people who had turned him into the man he is today.
The monster.
Dara stares up at the building, hands clasped behind his back, as though sizing it up. Determining whether it is a threat or not.
Religion is a weapon unlike any other
“Afshin,” a man calls above the mumblings of the crowd. Dara does not turn away from the building, instead glancing out of the corner of his eye towards the owner of the voice. An elderly man, in ivory robes. “I hope you will allow me to show you about the temple…”
It is as if a dam has broken.
Requests and calls beckon Dara from all sides, one after the other. Some asking if he will have a glass of wine with them, others asking to hear tales of old Daevabad, one after the other pelting him until the crowd has his full attention.
Dara fiddles with the collar of his jacket - suddenly constricting - doing his best to greet each voice.
He had not expected such a warm reception in Daevabad. He should be glad for their admiration.
But he is not.
Instead he is nervous. Resentful.
He wants Nahri. Nahri wouldn’t be here gawking for his attention, praising him for his crimes. She’d be keeping him on his toes with barbed remarks, or asking him infinite questions.
“Afshin, could I have a moment of your time. Just a moment!” a young scholar calls, emerging from the crowd and bowing his head to Dara.
“Afshin!” A man’s voice booms. “There’s something inside I’d like to show you!”
He offers a few rakish grins that seem to placate a handful of admirers, and good natured nods that satiate those clamoring to adjoin themselves to him. How curious it is that all these people who have never known him, are so eager to be close to him.
Not you, Dara - Darayavahoush is who they want...
Yes, they wanted the man of their myths. The lethal warrior and defender of their values.
Not him. The weary traveler weighed down by grief and past transgressions.
Dara has always been good at adapting to survive and if playing the part of a legendary hero is what is needed, then so be it. He will perform for them. He will be Darayavahoush e-Afshin.
Perhaps it will even feel good.
There is a curious tugging at the knee of his trousers. A firm yank.
Dara looks down to see a very small Daeva boy staring up at him with dark eyes wide in wonder.
The noise of the crowd seems to fade somewhat and Dara stoops to a knee.
“Hello,” he says. “And what is your name?”
“Bilal,” the boy says, now able to meet Dara’s eyes.
Dara takes notice of the coal Afshin mark, drawn on the boy’s temple and his heart lurches. It is apparent that the Daeva people know nothing of what it meant to be an Afshin. Of the sacrifice it wrought.
But at the same time…
His heart lifts. If Dara were truly a monster, then why would a child want to resemble him with this tiny Afshin mark? Why would he approach Dara at all? Did it matter what the Afshins had stood for in the past if it made this child smile now?
Dara lifts his finger to touch the boy’s temple, exaggerated astonishment on his face, “You must be very brave to have received your mark so young.”
Color rises in the boy’s cheeks and there is a tap on Dara’s shoulder.
He turns his head to see a small girl with braids before him, her round eyes fierce.
“I’m Hishma,” she declares, raising her chin. “My brother says Afshins can’t have braids.”
For a moment Dara thinks he may choke. She sounds so hopeful. Surely, he isn’t such a nightmare if this girl longs to be like him.
Removing his cap, Dara places it on Bilal’s head then gives Hishma’s braid an affectionate tug.
“An Afshin would wish for such a braid to be their own,” he says, and his ever present guilt subsides at the way a smile lights up her whole face.
Soon more children flock to him, showing him their skinny limbed muscles, asking him how old he is, bragging about foot races and scrapes.
And then his Banu Nahida appears and all reason is stolen from him.
Perhaps this dreadful night would not be so dreadful after all. Dara has promised her answers this evening, and he intends on being forthcoming.
Maybe the truth isn’t as terrible as it seems.