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Chapter Text

Tus was furious, and he could tell by the way Garsiv moved beside him that he was, too. They both stood before their father, trying their best not to take out their frustrations on him. He was their King as well, and they had to remember that, even if the only other person in the room was their Uncle Nizam.

He and Garsiv were both filthy, the dust and grime of the road covering their clothes, along with their own blood and the blood of their enemies.

Enemies that currently had their brother Dastan in their grip.

It had been a sudden ambush on the road back home to Nasaf after weeks away, and though the soldiers with them had fought valiantly and bravely, less than half of their company had actually made it back to the palace, and of those men, most were injured. The two princes had only just finished briefing their father, King Sharaman, with help from their Uncle, who had been with them as well.

Tus looked to him now, and received gentle encouragement in the form of a quick smile and small nod. He could always count on Nizam in tense situations like these, and he would forever be appreciative of his uncle for that. Specks of blood marred his face and armor as well, and it was a wonder the man was even here with them, as Tus had seen him nearly killed only hours earlier. Nizam was one of the only men to have escaped the battle without injury. Not even Garsiv and himself had been able to do that.

In fact, the cut on his arm was beginning to become more of a problem than a nuisance, as it had been earlier. It seemed every beat of his heart sent a pulsing pain through the wound that radiated up and down his arm. And poor Garsiv beside him was in similar shape, relying on the steadying presence of the spear in his grip to keep him on his feet. He was barely resting any of his weight on his left leg now. Something had happened to it when his horse was shot from beneath him with an arrow and the dying animal had fallen with Garsiv still in the saddle.

Tus watched as his father sat down in the chair behind him roughly, a display that only the people in this room would ever witness, along with Dastan. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth, processing what his sons had just gone through. Tus almost shook the man, because Dastan didn’t have time for their father to process. But just as soon as Sharaman had displayed his emotions, he stuffed them down, immediately adopting his kingly demeanor and slipping into crisis mode as easily as if it were a cloak and not a state of mind. He stood again, looking over both Tus and Garsiv with a practiced eye. Both young men stood up straighter instinctively, not even entirely aware that they’d done it.

“We will send out our finest soldiers at once,” the king declared, “and we will bring Dastan home before night falls.” He gestured at his two sons. “Both of you will stay here and recover.”

“Father, no!” Garsiv voiced his opinion only a moment before Tus was able to do so.

Their father looked at him, his expression irritated. “Garsiv, you can hardly stand on your own,” Sharaman said. “You will be no good to Dastan if you get yourself killed trying to rescue him.”

“Father, I agree-”

“See, even Tus agrees that you should-”

“-with Garsiv,” Tus finished, causing his father’s gaze to snap to his. He shook his head. “I cannot sit here in this palace while Dastan is in the hands of those men. You didn’t see them, didn’t fight them. They are fierce warriors, and every moment he stays their captive is a moment I fear for his life. It should be me,” his voice broke. “He should be standing here before you, not me. He sacrificed himself in my place, and I cannot stay here while others search for him, knowing that our roles should be reversed.” He would never get that image of Dastan out of his head, stepping in to save him as Tus had been surrounded by enemies on all sides. One of them had let slip that they were only here for Tus, for Persia’s future king. No doubt to pressure Sharaman into a treaty or a ransom. His brother had overheard, had acted as if he was Tus instead, diverting their attention to him.

It had worked, and their enemies had redoubled their efforts, now going after Dastan instead of him. And they’d succeeded. One moment, his brother had been right there, fighting his way through their enemies’ ranks, and then the next moment, Tus had seen Dastan being picked up and tossed over the shoulders of one of the men, his body limp and blood seeping from a wound at his temple. Within minutes the enemy had all but disappeared and, despite their best efforts at running them down and retrieving their brother, he and Garsiv and the few men with them had been forced to admit defeat and retreat back to what was left of their group. With a party of warriors incapable of returning to battle, they’d had only one choice: return to Nasaf, get their men the help they needed, and start again with a larger force.

“If I must disobey you in this, Father,” Tus said softly, yet firmly, “then I will. I do not want to, so please do not make me. But I will.”

“As will I,” Garsiv added, stepping closer to Tus, the spear making a hollow sound against the marbled floor as the two surfaces met.

A silent battle of wills took place then, their father looking between them both for several long, tense moments. No one said a word, and even Nizam decided that this was a moment he had best stay out of; the only sign that he wanted to say something was the slight lift of his brows.

Their father sighed, throwing a hand in the air. “Very well, you will both lead the search. But please, see that your injuries are looked after before you leave again.” He drew closer then, bringing a hand to each of their shoulders and squeezing gently, his tone more serious than Tus had heard it in a very long time. “Bring your brother home as quickly as you can, and be careful. Get Dastan back.” He fixed them each with a look, and they both nodded at once.

“Of course, Father,” Tus assured him. “We will not return until we have Dastan with us. He is our brother, after all.”

“We will find him, Father,” Garsiv added, clapping a hand to Sharaman’s shoulder and returning the gesture.

Nizam came over to them, then, placing a hand on his brother’s back reassuringly. “I will make sure all three of your sons return to you, brother.”

The king only nodded solemnly. “May God’s favor be with you, my sons, Nizam.” He cast them one last somber glance and then swept from the room, every inch a King.

Left alone, the three men quickly dispersed, Nizam to prepare the men and Tus and Garsiv to see to their injuries. Within an hour, they were all gathered near the barracks, five hundred men standing solemnly and waiting for their orders. Tus knew they were as worried about Dastan as he and Garsiv were, for their brother made it a point to interact with the men as often as he could. Many of them were his friends, and Tus was not surprised to see Dastan’s own company as part of the gathered force. Those men would do anything for Dastan, and some had proven it earlier when they’d given their lives to protect him in battle.

Bis was at the head of Dastan’s rabble, as was Roham, even though Tus knew they’d both been injured in the earlier skirmish. Bis was never far from Dastan’s side, so Tus wasn’t entirely surprised to find him already back with the men and ready to go after the missing prince. Still, he walked over to him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Bis?” Tus asked gently, not wishing to hurt the man’s pride but knowing Dastan would never forgive him if he let anything happen to one of his best friends, especially on his account.

“I’m more than up to the task, sire,” Bis nodded, fire in his eyes.

“And you too, Roham?”

“Yes, sire,” the man answered, nodding.

And that was all that needed to be said on the matter. Tus would push no further. He simply nodded and returned to Garsiv and Nizam, who were already mounted in their saddles, the rest of the small army following their lead. He cringed as the wound on his arm was pulled while he climbed into the saddle, but the pain quickly diminished once he was situated and he grabbed the reins in steady hands. He turned his horse around so he was facing the gathered men, each of them watching him intently as he did so.

He had no energy within him to devote to a lengthy speech, nor did he want to waste time he could be using searching for Dastan, so he said simply, “Enjoy the hunt, men. Any of these men you come across, you make sure they don’t see tomorrow. We get Dastan back.” His words echoed throughout the courtyard, and moments after he’d finished a cheer went up through the ranks of men. Tus nodded, turning his horse back around and spurring it onward, Garsiv and Nizam following on either side of him. Together, they led their men through the main streets of Nasaf until they broke free of the royal city and returned once more to the open desert. There, Tus urged his horse to go faster, and soon five hundred mounted men thundered across the sands to meet out certain doom on unsuspecting enemies of Persia.

We’re coming for you, Dastan, Tus thought to himself, willing his brother to somehow hear his thoughts, to feel him drawing nearer. To know he would be safe soon. Stay strong, brother.

Chapter Text

Dastan was barely aware of his surroundings, and he had a feeling he should be grateful for that. All he was, however, was panicked. He couldn’t draw a good breath, could barely move without gasping in pain, and to open his eyes expended tremendous effort.

He’d woken hours ago in a cave of some sort, his head pounding from the blow he’d taken during the battle. There were brightly colored cloths hanging from the rocks around him, candles lit everywhere, lending a soft and gentle nature to what would have otherwise been a harsh, cold cave. He hadn’t stopped to admire the view, though, instead concentrating on the armed guards watching him several feet away, where the cave walls almost came together, creating a gap in the rock. The rest of the room was completely sealed. He’d have to get through those men if he were to try to make his escape.

Dastan had sat up, or tried to, at least. He’d managed it eventually, but his vision was blurry and his hands were bound, which made the process rather frustratingly difficult. He’d been sitting with his back propped against the wall and his eyes closed, preparing himself for a fight, when he’d heard someone coming. Or rather, several people.

He’d opened his eyes to find a man entering the room flanked by three more armed guards. Whoever these men were, they meant business. Their attack had come out of nowhere, and they’d had the numbers and the resources to pull it off easily, all while besting some of the finest men in the Persian army. He was only comforted by the fact that his men had dealt as good as they’d gotten and that their enemies had suffered just as many losses as they had. Dastan had looked at this new threat with narrowed eyes, refusing to be the first to speak.

“I have been asked to gather information from you, through any means necessary,” the man had smiled cordially, as if they were speaking as longtime friends and he hadn’t just brandished a knife. “Our lord seems to think you will not need my special brand of persuading, given that you are a Prince of Persia. And princes tend to be soft men.” A smirk lit the man’s features. “For your sake, Prince Tus, I hope that is true. Though I would not mind if it weren’t.”

Dastan smiled back at the man, as cordially as he’d smiled earlier. He even made his voice sound cheery. “You seem to know my name, but I have yet to learn yours.”

“Apologies, prince. Where are my manners?” The man leaned forward in a mock bow. “I am Rafa.”

“I admit I’m not entirely pleased to make your acquaintance, Rafa,” Dastan admitted, grinning.

“I imagine not,” Rafa agreed. “Nevertheless, on to the questions-”

“You’ll find I don’t speak very much in the company of strangers. Only small talk, really. Nothing of importance,” Dastan had let the man know upfront that he wouldn’t be divulging any of his father’s secrets.

Rafa let loose a genuine grin at that, twirling the dagger in his hand with obvious glee. “Well, then, Prince Tus. I can assure you the next few hours will not be something you wish to remember, should you survive.”

And so the two had lapsed into a sort of game. Rafa would ask his questions, Dastan would remain silent, and Rafa would finish out the repeating cycle by inflicting a new wound. Dastan lost count of the number of times he was punched, kicked, and otherwise injured. The worst of it had been when the man had taken his dagger to Dastan’s face, carving a line above his left eye and then later returning to carve another on his cheek and, finally, his right temple. Before the hours with Rafa were over, he sported another cut on his arm and one across his shoulder, and still another at the top of his back. It felt like it stretched almost from shoulder to shoulder. Rafa’s parting gift had been a thrust of his dagger into Dastan’s side, the blade sinking in to the hilt and emerging from his back. The man had made sure to miss anything vital, but it still hurt worse than any wound Dastan had received before. He remembered letting loose an involuntary groan as Rafa had slowly pulled the dagger back out, his breath hitching in agony. As soon as he’d removed the dagger, Rafa had shoved his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the ground. “Well, Prince Tus, you have surprised me. Few ever do.” His tone had been admiring, and he’d even given Dastan a little bow before he’d swept from the room with the men he’d brought with him, leaving him alone with the two guards from before. Despite his best efforts, Dastan had lost consciousness mere minutes after the man had left, and he remained in the same spot he’d fallen.

Panicked was a good word for how he felt. With this many injuries, blood still slowly seeping from several of them, he wasn’t sure how long he’d survive. Not because he was afraid his wounds would kill him. Whoever this lord was that Rafa was working for obviously needed him alive, otherwise Rafa would have made good on his threat and been much more heavy-handed with that dagger. No, the state he was in was concerning Dastan. There was no way he could escape on his own like this. If it weren’t for the blood loss or the pain he felt with every breath, then the agony he felt pulsing in his knee with every beat of his heart would have been enough to do him in. There was no escaping on that leg. He knew that his father and brothers were likely already searching for him, and he took comfort in that, but there was no way of knowing when they’d manage to reach him, or if they would be able to defeat the forces surrounding him.

So he closed his eyes and tried to rest, and he might have managed a few minutes before he heard footsteps approaching. He didn’t try to open his eyes until the footsteps stopped, and even then it was an effort. When he finally managed it, he was looking up into the face of the man kneeling next to him. The man smiled, a scar on his cheek crinkling as he did. “Good to see you are still in the land of the living, prince.” He stood, gesturing to two of the men with him, and two chairs were brought in and positioned so they faced each other. As he sat, those same men came toward Dastan and lifted him roughly into the other seat. He couldn’t help the grunt of pain that the sudden movement caused.

The man across from him smiled as he adjusted the robe he was wearing over his clothing. Expensive clothing, Dastan noticed. Clothing almost worthy of the Persian palace. “Allow me to introduce myself, Prince Tus,” he bowed his head slightly. “I am Kosh.”

Dastan sighed a breathy laugh, the pieces of this puzzle finally coming together in a way that made sense.

“Is something funny?” Kosh asked, a brow raised.

“No,” Dastan admitted, shaking his head slightly, stopping when it caused the room to spin. “No, everything just became very clear. You know,” he smiled softly, “my father has been searching for you for months.”

Kosh chuckled. “Indeed, I did know that. Why do you think we are in a cave?”

Dastan glanced around him at the expensive dyed cloth that hung from the walls of the cave, the numerous candles that made the room bright, the rugs that lined the floor. He raised a brow. “A very nice cave.”

“Even on the run, a man such as myself cannot be expected to live in a manner to which he is unaccustomed,” Kosh shrugged.

“I see,” he said, more important questions vying for his attention. “Why am I here?”

At this, the warlord smiled. “I did not want it to come to this, I assure you. However, your father refuses to leave Koshkhan alone and continues to hunt me and my men. I am hoping that by taking you, his firstborn and heir, he will listen to reason and abandon this foolish pursuit.”

“If you’ve stooped to such measures, has it been a foolish pursuit after all?” Dastan inquired. He knew well enough that Kosh and his men had to be getting low on supplies and friends. The Persian army had been hunting them for months now, never letting up. Especially not now, after what they’d done in one of the cities near Nasaf. For almost a year, the warlord and his men had been attacking and looting cities and small towns and villages along the Persian border to the north, killing and taking whatever they pleased. Sharaman had ordered them dealt with at once, but that was more easily said than done. They were entirely unpredictable, and no one could tell where they might appear next. When they’d dared to come so far into the interior of Persia and attacked a city only a day’s ride from the royal city of Nasaf, the King had been outraged and had instructed his sons to meet out justice immediately. The three had been tracking Kosh and his men for weeks with no luck, and had been riding back to Nasaf to regroup when the attack had come today. Dastan smirked. “Why would you need me if my father was not close to breaking you? Only a desperate man attacks when he could stay his hand and remain hidden.”

Kosh’s lips twitched, his eyes taking on a dark tint, where earlier they had been open and almost friendly. “Careful, Prince Tus,” Kosh said, his words dangerously low and carrying a warning. “I can always have Rafa come back and finish what he started.”

Fair enough. “Point taken,” Dastan nodded, bringing his bound hands to the wound in his side as pain flared bright and hot deep inside him.

“Word has already been sent to King Sharaman that we have you as our captive. All we ask in return is that Koshkhan be left in peace.” Sharaman had ordered a company of men to remain in Koshkhan, deterring the warlord from returning. It appeared to be working. Unfortunately so, for Dastan. Kosh appraised him, smirking. “I hope for your sake he complies. Otherwise things could get…unpleasant.”

“Surely you need me alive in order to bargain with my father?” Dastan asked, trying to shake the man’s confidence.

“Alive? Yes,” the warlord nodded. “Intact? No.”

Ah. So this was yet another game they were playing. “I see,” Dastan said. Not a good time, then, to let his captor know that he wasn’t Tus, but Dastan, the boy the King had pulled from the streets, the youngest son of Sharaman with no claim to the throne and no royal blood. He had a feeling that wouldn’t help his situation very much right now.

Kosh stood, smiling at him as he gestured to his men again. Dastan found himself unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the cave yet again as the men took the chairs and retreated the way they’d come. “I have had a lovely chat with you, Prince Tus. Do stay alive long enough for your father to make a decision, will you?”

Dastan grimaced from the ground. “I’ll do my best,” he breathed out, his words softer than he’d intended. He couldn’t get a deep breath again. The short tumble to the floor had proven to be too much for his body to handle.

Kosh left the room with a sweep of his cloak, and soon Dastan was left alone once again, his only company the guards that lingered outside the narrow entrance to this makeshift dungeon. That was fine by him. He was indescribably exhausted. He wasn’t even focused on his injuries anymore, or the situation he was in. He just wanted sleep, as much of it as he could get.

I hope you’re coming soon, Tus, he thought. And tell Garsiv to bring his favorite axe. He’s going to need it. You both will. He sighed, closing his eyes and welcoming the relief that simple action brought to the burning sensation that had been plaguing him during his entire conversation with Kosh. As he finally slipped into the sleep he craved, he thought, Garsiv. Tus. Hurry, please.

Chapter Text

Tus was ready to scream at the heavens, even if that would undoubtedly make him seem like a madman. Not a good look for a future king of Persia. But in that moment, he didn’t care. He needed a way to release some of his pent up frustration and anger and worry.

They’d managed to return to the site of the ambush quickly, and he’d wasted no time in leading the men onward, along the same path he and Garsiv had followed earlier in pursuit of the men who had attacked them. The tracks were still clear and they rode for hours, only stopping when the sun set and the tracks became too difficult to see. He hadn’t slept much that night, despite his exhaustion. Garsiv had looked much the same as he that next morning. Both of them were worried about Dastan, what he might be going through in this very moment and where he might be. The only one who seemed to look refreshed was their uncle, Nizam. Tus had asked him the secret to sleeping so peacefully when Dastan was missing, and his uncle had simply replied, “Because, I know we will find him and bring him home. There is no other option.” Tus wasn’t sure he would ever be able to have that level of confidence in himself.

He had ordered the camp to be taken down and packed away as quickly as possible, and they’d been on their way shortly thereafter. And now here they were again, another day gone by, the sun set, and the tracks they’d been following lost to the night. They had to be getting close. There was no way those men had ridden more than a day to the ambush site.

Once more, an image rushed through Tus’s mind of an injured Dastan, lying chained in a camp much like this, wondering if his brothers were coming for him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, banishing the thought, and clutched the beads in his hand closer, rubbing his thumb over them again and again, the gesture comforting.

“You’ll worry those beads into nothing one of these days.”

Tus jerked his gaze toward his uncle Nizam, who had just entered the tent that he and Garsiv were sharing. Normally they had their own tents, but they’d needed the horses to be swift and lighter than normal, and so they’d ordered only one be brought.

Nizam smiled gently. “Shouldn’t you both be sleeping?”

Garsiv shot their uncle a withering look. “Not all of us have the ability to push Dastan from our minds so easily.”

“Garsiv,” Tus admonished, even though he’d been thinking the same thing.

Their uncle flashed that gentle smile again. “It’s alright,” he said, taking a seat next to Gasrsiv, who had his bad leg stretched out in front of him to relieve the ache. “One day, when you’re older and have seen more of the world and the way it works, you will understand that I am not forgetting Dastan. In fact, that’s all I’ve been able to think about recently. No, you will see that in order to think rationally, to be the warriors that Dastan needs in order to survive, you must detach from your emotions at times. Like here, and now. Right now you aren’t thinking like warriors, or even leaders of an army. You’re thinking like brothers. All rash anger and revenge.” He looked between the two brothers, quirking a brow. “Am I wrong?”

Garsiv’s shoulders slumped. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely the right way to approach this, uncle,” Tus said. “Before this ends, we may need what you call our ‘rash anger and revenge.’”

“Perhaps,” his uncle conceded, standing. “Either way, you should both try to get some sleep before morning comes. Your emotions will do you little good if you don’t have the strength to act on them.” He swept from the tent, vanishing back into the night just as quickly as he’d come.

“He has a point there, at least,” Tus sighed, sinking into a chair and bringing a hand to his face. They would be no good to Dastan if they were exhausted.

“What do you think is happening to him?” whispered Garsiv. “I swear, if they’ve hurt him, I’ll kill them all.” His eyes were angry, his tone cold.

Tus knew he had the duty of a future king to be as impartial as he could when dealing with his enemies, to treat them with fairness and a certain level of respect, even. But right now, he was forgetting everything his father had ever taught him about diplomacy. Right now, he agreed with Garsiv. “Whoever they are, I assure you they will pay,” he said, his tone a match for his brother’s.

As much as the three brothers bickered and fought amongst themselves, there was an unspoken rule among them: when one needed the support of the other two, they gave that support, no matter what. Their bond as brothers was deep and strong, despite their occasional disagreements. They each knew that the others would be there for him when the time came.

“Our uncle was right,” Garsiv sighed, reclining against the pillows at his back. “We really should try to rest.”

Tus agreed, and the two immediately lapsed into silence, the only sounds the flickering of flames and the neighing of horses. Before Tus knew it, the sun had risen and Garsiv was shaking his shoulder to wake him. In less than an hour, Nizam had the men ready to go and they were riding once more, Tus sending up a silent prayer of thanks for keeping the tracks they were following fresh and not sending any rain to wash them away.

Prepared for anything, they all wore their armor already, their swords and bows at the ready. For all they knew, they could turn a corner and come face to face with their enemy. Hopefully the scouts that had been sent ahead would warn them of something like that first, though.

And indeed they did.

Tus pulled his reins, gently coaxing his horse to stop as he saw the two scouts returning. They came straight to Tus and Garsiv, their Uncle maneuvering his horse closer so that he might overhear the report.

“Sire!” one of them said, inclining his head in an informal bow. “We have news, sire. We’ve found them. Only half an hour’s ride from here. We saw men wearing the same armor and bearing the same banners from the ambush going in and out of caves in the rocks.”

“Good work,” Tus smiled for the first time in days, congratulating the scouts.

“They have lookouts, sire,” the man continued. “From what we could gather, we estimate their company to be three hundred strong. Though there could be more men concealed within the caves.”

“A risk we’ll have to take,” he said, resigned to the fact that he might lose more good men today. “Was there any sign of Dastan?”

The man shook his head, his face falling as he frowned. “No, sire. We looked for as long as we could, but we saw no sign of him.”

“They’ll be keeping him away from prying eyes,” Tus mused, nodding. “Very well. We’ll ride for as long as we can, then dismount and go the rest of the way on foot.” He turned to Garsiv. “Have your cavalry ready. You’ll go in first.”

“With pleasure,” Garsiv growled, turning his horse around and going to his men to prepare them.

“Let’s get going, then,” Tus said, spurring his horse onward.

Soon, they were dismounting and tethering their horses, creeping forward on foot. There was always a profound sense of calm that washed over Tus when he went into battle. He would not go so far as to call it peace, for he knew better than that. It was more an absence of fear, a sense of purpose that settled over him. He knew what he was capable of with a sword in his hand, knew exactly what to do. A welcome reprieve from the uncertainty of being trained to rule an empire. From the doubt that constantly plagued him. He had no doubt when he was in battle.

He took a deep breath, letting that calmness settle over him completely, then signaled his brother to go in. A grin spread over his features as one hundred and fifty men swept past them on horseback, the ground rumbling slightly beneath their feet as they passed. Tus heard shouts erupt as the cavalry was spotted, and then Garsiv’s men sounded their battle cry and he could no longer tell who was shouting or why. He gave them a moment to race ahead, then signaled the rest of the men to start their own attack.

Tus turned the corner to find the enemy retreating into the caverns, many of their comrades already dead. So, it would be a bloody battle within the caves, then. So be it. He was ready for it. By the time they caught up with Garsiv, their enemies had disappeared into the rocks.

“Quickly!” Tus shouted. “We can’t let them escape again!”

And so five hundred men plunged into the caves, weapons drawn and ready. Tus and Garsiv stuck together, sweeping through the passages slowly and cautiously, wary of traps or ambushes that might be lying in wait. The fighting was quick and fierce. In such confined spaces, it was difficult to maneuver a weapon with the usual ease. The archers were able to defeat more of their enemy than anyone else. Very quickly, a pattern began to take shape. They would come across a group of their enemies, and the swordsmen would attack immediately while the archers stayed back a bit, letting their arrows loose as they saw fit. Many men fell in that way.

It was difficult to tell underground, but Tus thought the battle might have been going on too long. Even Garsiv was starting to favor his injured leg the longer they searched. They could have been in the caves for an hour, or only ten minutes. It was almost impossible to tell, especially in a fight. Time did strange things when a man was fighting to survive. The world simply fell away.

Yet there was still no sign of Dastan, though he suspected they might be getting closer to finding him. Dyed cloths of beautiful colors began to line the rocks, candles illuminating the spaces around them instead of torches. The decor made the caves feel almost gentle, instead of the death trap they were quickly becoming. Whoever their enemies were, they had money. No simple mercenary would go to these lengths to make a hideout feel more like a sanctuary.

Shouts and cries echoed all around them, but Tus and Garsiv paid it little mind. They simply kept moving through the caves, fighting anyone that came for them. At one point they even got separated from their Uncle without realizing. It wasn’t until Garsiv asked where Nizam had gone that Tus even noticed the man was missing.

He immediately sent some of the men with them to look for their uncle, but any thought of him was soon swept to the back of his mind as they came across an unusually quiet portion of the caves. More candles and cloth hung here than anywhere else, and as they continued down what passed as a hallway, they suddenly found themselves staring at two guards.

The two parties stared at each other for a moment, no one moving, before suddenly leaping into action. Within moments, the two men had been dealt with and Tus rushed forward to see what, exactly, the men had been guarding.

His heart transitioned through many emotions all at once as he finally laid eyes on Dastan: joy at finding him, worry at seeing the state he was in, and finally fury towards the men who stood all around him in this chamber.

“Dastan!” Garsiv shouted behind him, limping to a halt next to Tus as he took in the room around them. A sneer soon dominated his features. “What have you done to him?” he growled as the rest of their men followed them into the room.

Dastan lay on the ground, his hands bound in front of him, unnaturally pale. Cuts and bruises marred his body, and if Tus hadn’t been able to see the slight rise and fall of his chest, he would have thought his brother to be dead. His attention focused entirely on the man in front of him, though, as he spoke.

A scar along his cheek crinkled as the man grinned. He spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture as he bowed his head. “Prince Garsiv, Prince Dastan,” he said. “Welcome. I admit you are unfortunately unexpected. But now that you are here, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Kosh. So nice to finally meet the men who have been hunting me for months.”

Chapter Text

“You,” Garsiv spat. He hefted his axe and pointed it at Kosh, a wicked smile on his face. “You’ll pay for this.”

“Prince Garsiv, then, I take it,” the warlord said, a half-smile lighting his features. “Your love for battle and war precede you, young prince.” Before his brother could say anything more, Kosh turned to Tus and appraised him. “And that makes you Prince Dastan. Not the man I was expecting, I will admit.”

Tus scowled. “It is my turn to introduce myself properly,” he growled. “I am Prince Tus, heir to the throne of the Persian Empire.” He pointed toward Dastan with his sword, fury coursing through his veins as he got another good look at his brother. “That is Prince Dastan.” He watched the shock pass across the warlord’s features, relishing in it, before continuing. “You’ve made a grave mistake, Kosh.”

A scowl now marred the man’s face, that cool surety and arrogance in his eyes replaced at once with fury that could perhaps rival Tus’s own at the moment. “Very clever,” he spat. “Very clever, indeed.”

“There’s no way out of this, Kosh,” Tus said, trying to be diplomatic, despite every instinct within him wanting to kill this man where he stood. It was what his father would want. “Surrender, and there may be a chance our father shows you some aspect of mercy.”

“Or don’t,” Garsiv added with a grin. “And I’ll happily kill you here and now.”

“Both tempting offers,” Kosh said, “but, unfortunately, neither are entirely to my liking.” He smirked, a bit of that arrogance coming back into his eyes. “Allow me to introduce a third option.” He made a gesture with his hand and some of his warriors parted their ranks, revealing what they’d been hiding during the entire conversation. Tus tried his best not to react, but he felt the blood drain from his face all the same as the hood was ripped from his uncle’s head, revealing the bloodied features of Nizam. “Let me and my men walk out of here alive and unharmed, or your Uncle dies at your brother’s side.”

“Uncle, are you alright?” Tus asked, his fingers itching to swing his sword at Kosh’s throat.

“I’ve been better,” Nizam admitted. “Worry about Dastan, not me. No serious harm has been done.”

“Yet,” Kosh amended. “I would urge you to make your decision soon, Prince Tus.” He glanced at Dastan, still in the same position on the floor of the cave, oblivious to what was going on around him. “I fear your deceitful brother may not have much longer.”

It took everything in him not to growl in frustration in that moment, or even show that he was frustrated. He needed to have a sound mind right now, the ability to think rationally. His father would be able to do it. To make the right decision, here and now, under so much pressure. But Tus was not yet his father. He lifted his chin, lowering his sword but keeping it at the ready at his side all the same. “Very well,” he said, words icy cold and firm.

“Brother,” Garsiv said tersely, glancing his direction. “What are you doing?”

“The only thing we can,” Tus said, the anger in his words clear, though that anger was not directed at Garsiv.

“You may yet make a wise king, little prince,” Kosh bowed his head mockingly. He gestured again and two of his men bent toward Dastan, lifting him between them. A groan pulled itself from his brother’s throat at the movement, his eyebrows coming together in pain.

“Leave him where he lies, Kosh,” Tus threatened, his sword raising ever so slightly without him realizing as he took a step forward.

“I think not,” the warlord shook his head. “Your brother and Uncle make fine hostages, and I quite like keeping my head where it is.”

“Dastan has spent enough time as your hostage. You need only one,” he tried to bargain with him.

“Mmm,” Kosh hummed, then grinned. “He comes with me. Now please, step aside so that my men and I might pass.”

Tus stared at him for a long, tense moment, then grit his teeth and did as the man had asked. “Do as he asks,” he commanded his men, earning a growl of frustration from Garsiv. But they did as they had been told, and it took all the restraint Tus had in him not to reach out and throttle Kosh as he passed him, a smug and arrogant smirk on the man’s lips. He locked eyes with his uncle as he was roughly shouldered past the two princes, trying to convey to him the same strength that he always seemed able to give to him when he needed it. And then came Dastan, body once again limp as he was carried at the back of the procession.

A closer look at him revealed more injuries than Tus had first seen. The left side of his face was streaked with dried blood from two cuts along his cheek and above his eye, his chest and back in a similer state, the battle leathers he’d been wearing a few days ago missing. He looked to Garsiv to see his own fury mirrored back at him. Tus knew that all it would take was one misstep, one mistake on Kosh’s part, for his brother to attack the man. He subtly shook his head, silently begging Garsiv to get control of his emotions and not risk anything. He only glared back at him, but a bit of that fire in his eyes seemed to cool beneath Tus’s steady gaze.

As soon as the last of their enemies had exited the room, Tus followed behind. Close enough to strike if something were to go amiss, but far enough back so as not to risk Kosh’s ire. Whenever they came across a group of men skirmishing, the warlord would call out to his men, as would Tus, telling them to cease their fighting. The soldiers of Persia gazed at their prince with confused expressions until their eyes lit upon Nizam and Dastan being ushered from the caves. Then their faces would harden with rage, their grips on their weapons growing tighter.

By the time they reached the entrance to the system of caverns, most of the fighting had died down, the midday sun blazing hot and bright as the vast company of men exited the tunnels. Kosh’s men quickly got their horses prepared to leave as their leader turned and smiled at Tus and Garsiv. “My dear princes, it was an honor to finally meet you face to face. You are worthy opponents. I hope you understand when I say I wish never to see you again, however.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Garsiv spat.

Kosh laughed. “Indeed.” He gestured, and his horse was brought to him immediately. He swung into the saddle lithely, now looking down on his would-be killers. “As a parting gift, and a gesture of good faith, I leave your brother to you.” The two men who had been carrying him came forward and dumped Dastan roughly at their feet, quickly scurrying away to their own horses after they did.

Garsiv knelt next to him immediately, his leg evidently forgotten, and Bis and Roham appeared almost instantly. “Brother?” Garsiv brought a hand to Dastan’s cheek, tapping it lightly, trying to get a response. “Can you hear me?”

Tus refocused his attention on Kosh, knowing Garsiv had things in hand. “And our uncle?” he asked, gesturing to where Nizam stood next to a horse, two men holding on to his arms on either side of him.

Kosh turned in his saddle as if only just remembering that he had two captives, then smiled and looked back to Tus. “I think I’ll hold on to him for a bit, an assurance that you won’t follow me as I make my escape.”

“That was not part of our arrangement,” he growled.

“No, but it better suits my purposes,” Kosh agreed. “Be thankful I left your brother with you.” A nod of his head had his men lifting Nizam into the saddle, his uncle protesting the entire time. Tus was about to say something but was interrupted. “You and all your men are to remain here. As soon as I am certain that we are not being followed, I will release your uncle so that he may return to you. No further harm will come to him, but I must ensure my men and I are given the chance to disappear before you begin searching for us again.”

Tus set his mouth in a thin line and looked to Nizam, silently asking if he was okay with this. Nizam nodded once, softly, giving his blessing on the matter. Tus looked to the ground for a moment, then back at the warlord sitting smugly on his horse in front of him. “What assurance do I have that you will keep your word?”

The man shrugged. “There is none I can give that you would believe.”

That much was true, and everyone here knew it. Tus would never trust anything the man said. He nodded once, resigned to the situation he was facing and hating himself for what he was about to say. “Very well, Kosh, we will remain. But know this: you have lived in hiding for many months. I assure you, you will not have to hide much longer. From this day forward, you will be hunted as you have not been hunted before. However, I offer you this once more before anything escalates further: surrender now, before my father’s mercy, and mine, is spent.”

Kosh frowned at the threat, gathering his reins in his hands. “Then I guess we will see each other on the field of battle again soon, Prince Tus.” He inclined his head, then dug his heels into his horse’s flank and spurred the animal onward, his men following his lead. Tus’s eyes never left his uncle’s form, not until he was swept from view by the sand kicked up in the wake of Kosh’s retreating men. They turned the same corner Tus and his men had hidden behind earlier, and then were gone, the sound of horse’s hoofbeats slowly fading until all that was left was the cloud of sand and dust that had formed behind them.

Some of the men made for their horses, but Tus stayed them with a raised hand. “Stop,” he commanded, and they each stood still, looking to him in frustration. “I wish to go after them as well,” he said. “But we cannot risk harm to Nizam. We will do as Kosh demanded, for now.” The men grumbled but did not disobey his orders.

After he was sure no one was going to make a foolish decision, he turned immediately back to his two brothers, kneeling beside Garsiv. “How is he?” he asked softly, taking in the full extent of Dastan’s injuries. It was worse than he had previously thought. Kosh might have been telling the truth when he’d said Dastan was near death.

“Hard to tell,” Garsiv said, throat tight, his words softer than usual. “Tus, what they’ve done to him…none of us here are equipped to deal with this. We have to get him back to Nasaf as quickly as possible.”

“Sire!” Bis said suddenly, glancing toward Tus with a smile on his face before looking back to Dastan, whose head was cradled gently in the man’s lap. Brown eyes stared half-lidded at Bis as Dastan’s brow crinkled in confusion.

“Bis?” His brother’s voice was rough and weak, but it was there.

Tus grinned, reaching a hand out and grabbing his brother’s, squeezing ever so gently to let him know he was there. “It’s good to see you awake.”

Those brown eyes came to rest on Tus then, widening ever so slightly as he recognized him. “Tus?” He looked to his right, gaze finding “Garsiv?” A slow grin spread across his face as he closed his eyes. “I knew you’d come.”

“Of course we did,” Garsiv assured him. “You’re our brother. Besides,” he looked at Tus and grinned. “We couldn’t let you have all the glory, could we?”

Dastan laughed softly, wincing a moment later as the movement caused him pain. “No…no, I suppose not.” His words were quiet, almost slurred. They were losing him again.

“Take him back into the caves until we can get one of the tents up,” Tus ordered. “He doesn’t need to be out here in this heat, and we have no way of knowing when Nizam may return.”

Bis and Roham immediately took it upon themselves to carry Dastan back into the cool shelter of the caves, far more gentle with him than Kosh’s men had been. Tus made to follow, intent on not letting his brother out of his sight again, but he needed to see to the men in Nizam’s absence. He looked to Garsiv and his brother nodded his reassurance, already following behind Dastan.

Knowing that he would be looked after, Tus reluctantly turned and ordered that the camp be partially raised, the better to provide more shade and to access the supplies they needed. Food and water for the men, along with healing supplies should anyone need them, Dastan chief among them. Tus stayed outside as his orders were followed, talking with the wounded as their injuries were seen to and offering comfort to the friends of the dead. Their losses were few, but he felt each one keenly all the same. Kosh would pay dearly for this entire affair when they caught up with him.

When his most important tasks had been completed and all was in order, he quickly retreated to where Dastan and Garsiv were. Only three healers had made the journey with them, but Tus had sent the best of them to treat Dastan before he’d done anything else, and he was eager to know what the man would say of his brother’s injuries. Namely, of Dastan’s ability to travel. Tus wanted to return to Nasaf as quickly as possible but would risk no further harm to Dastan if he could avoid it. If that meant staying here until he was stronger, so be it. Kosh would not be reckless enough to return here, especially with fewer men at his side.

He entered the shelter of the cave, the temperature shifting subtly without the insistent heat of the sun shining upon him. A harsh intake of breath had him hurrying forward to where Garsiv stood watching the healer do his work. The man, Kamran, was part of Dastan’s company, composed of those who had lived on the streets of Nasaf before joining with the Persian army. Tus had no doubt he would do everything in his power to save him. Dastan was propped against the cave wall, a cloak draped across his shoulders, features contorted in a grimace as the healer prodded his side. “I am sorry, my prince,” he muttered as he inspected the wound. “The herbs I gave you earlier should be taking effect soon.”

Dastan shook his head slowly, eyes closed. “Do what you must.” His voice was weak, strained. Hearing it made Tus wince in sympathy.

He looked to Garsiv in silent question and his brother inclined his head toward a small alcove nearby. The two quietly made their way to it and Garsiv sighed, shifting his weight to his good leg. “It is worse than I had feared.”

His heart sank to hear those words. “Tell me.”

“Tus…” Garsiv shook his head. “He needs father’s personal healers in Nasaf. Kamran will do all he can, but there is infection in many of his wounds already. Kosh and his men did little to prevent it and likely hoped it would be his death. Dastan’s strength is all but spent. That he is awake at all is no small thing.”

Tus let out a heavy sigh. He had prepared himself for the worst, or thought he had, but actually hearing it was an entirely different matter. “We will leave as soon as Nizam returns, then. We can ride through the night if need be.”

Garsiv nodded. “It may be his only chance.”

“Until then, we will do our best to make him comfortable.” Tus turned back to Kamran, kneeling next to him. “Can he be moved? The tents have been raised, but if you think it better to keep Dastan here I will arrange for everything necessary to be brought to you instead.”

“Normally I would say no, but it would be far easier to treat his wounds by daylight rather than by torchlight. It will not be easy for him, but it will be better in the end,” Kamran explained, already gathering his things and packing them back into his bag. “I will go ahead and prepare a few things.”

“Whatever you need, you have simply to ask,” Tus said, standing with him. The healer nodded and left, his footsteps hurried. Bis and Roham had already taken positions beside Dastan, ready to help him to the tent. His brother’s eyes were only half open, his breathing labored. Sweat lined his brow but Tus could see the slight tremor running through his body. He lingered on the pain in Dastan’s eyes for a moment before returning to himself. “Quickly, get him to the tent,” he ordered.

Dastan’s friends were as gentle as before, but he could still see that the movement pained him. Tus stood frozen as they carried him away, his feet unwilling to follow. He worried the beads in his hands as he mumbled to himself, “It’s my fault. It should be me.”

He almost flinched as Garsiv’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. He had forgotten his brother was still here. “You are not to blame for this, brother. That guilt lies at Kosh’s feet, not yours.”

“And yet, Kosh came for me.”

“Would you not have done the same as Dastan, had your roles been reversed?”

“You know that I would.”

“And Dastan knows as well.” Garsiv smiled. “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, nor do I.”

Tus attempted a smile of his own. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by helping me to the tent.” At the raised brow Tus leveled at him, shocked that he would admit to needing help, Garsiv shrugged. “I’m loathe to admit it, but Father may have been right in this one instance. My leg needed rest and I gave it none. Now I pay the price.”

Tus threw his arm around Garsiv’s shoulders, shaking his head. “You should have one of the healers tend to it. If nothing else, they could at least give you something for the pain.”

“After Dastan is cared for, then perhaps,” he conceded. A brief grimace twisted his features as some of his weight rested on his bad leg. Tus went a little slower after that, and when they finally made it to the tent where their brother was he guided Garsiv to a nearby chair and gently lowered him toward it. If he happened to see Garsiv slump in relief, he didn’t mention it.

Bis and Roham had been stationed outside, guarding their friend and keeping those who did not need to be inside away. Tus was grateful for them, as he had not thought to place anyone on watch. Now, he made his way over to Kamran, who was bent over Dastan, frowning at the wound in his side. It seemed the worst of his injuries, and Tus grimaced as he beheld it. He took note that Dastan made no protest as the healer went about his work and he asked quietly, “Did you give him something that would make him sleep?”

Without looking up, Kamran nodded. “I thought it best, sire.”

“Thank you,” his voice almost broke. “You do me a great service.”

“It is my honor,” Kamran smiled. “Prince Dastan once did the same for me, many years ago when we were boys who had nothing.”

Tus smiled and pulled a nearby chair closer, sitting beside his brother and smoothing back the tangled, dirty hair from his face. “It seems his two greatest talents are getting into trouble and caring for those he loves.”

The healer chuckled. “Too much trouble, sire.”

He grinned, and the two lapsed into silence as Kamran continued to work, cleaning and bandaging Dastan’s many injuries. Another of the healers came in soon after and assisted where he could, offering Garsiv something for his leg, which he readily accepted. A little while later, Tus found himself in the same position, the cut on his arm beginning to make itself known after the day’s events. After it was cleaned and wrapped anew, he returned again to his place at his brother’s side. Garsiv had taken up a position nearby as well, close enough to stay alert to all that was happening but not close enough to interrupt the healers.

The sun continued to turn in the sky outside, and as the time passed Tus became increasingly worried for Nizam and for Dastan. If their Uncle did not return soon, he would have to make the difficult decision to split their company in two, half to journey to Nasaf at once with Dastan and the other half to remain behind and either wait for Nizam or go in search of him.

He brought the beads in his hands closer to his chest, worrying the smooth surfaces between his fingers as he watched Dastan’s eyes flutter in his feverish sleep. He could only hope Nizam would come rushing into the tent in the near future. Dastan’s life might depend on his speed. Hurry, Uncle, he thought desperately.

Chapter Text

Far from his nephews and their ever-present problems, Nizam couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. True, the plan hadn’t gone exactly as hoped, but the ultimate goal had been achieved: capture a Prince of Persia and make him suffer until his inevitable rescue. He knew how to manipulate his brother’s emotions, and placing one of his beloved sons in peril was the easiest way to do so. Sharaman would no doubt commit the full force of the Persian army to hunting down Kosh and his men now. As soon as he saw the state Dastan was in, the order would be given. And in doing so, Sharaman would unwittingly bring about his own end.

He was ripped from his inner musings as the men surrounding him began to slow their horses, prompting his own to do the same. They had been riding for quite a while now, but Nizam was not concerned as the distance between himself and his family continued to grow. Within a few moments, the entire company had come to a halt. “This way,” the man next to him said, nodding with his head toward the front of the host. “My lord Kosh would like to speak with you.” He spurred his horse into a gentle trot, and Nizam followed, eager to have this little chat and be done with the man.

Kosh was a means to an end, nothing more. As soon as Nizam had what he wanted, the man would become irrelevant.

Nevertheless, he smiled as he came into view, appearing as ever the benevolent brother to the Persian king. How deceptive a disguise he wore. He couldn’t help but be pleased with the ruse. Kosh beckoned him to the side, and the two maneuvered their horses away from the group so that they could talk privately. “You have done well, Kosh, despite your initial error in capturing Dastan instead of Tus. It seems that was the better choice in the end, anyway.”

Kosh smiled, all humor in the gesture missing, the light of it not quite reaching his eyes. “I do this to free Koshkhan, Nizam. Not for you. Where is the payment you promised?”

Nizam sighed, reaching within the folds of his robes and handing over a leather pouch filled with some of the finest jewels in the Persian treasure store. “That should be enough to carry your campaign for a while longer, I’d wager.”

The man opened the pouch, rifling through the contents for a moment before appearing satisfied and retying the string that kept it closed, concealing it a moment later within his saddlebags. “And the other portion of your promise, Nizam? Will you keep your word?” He eyed him distrustfully.

Nizam nodded once, calmly, even if he had no intention of keeping his promise. If everything turned out the way he meant it to, he would never have to deal with Kosh again. “You have my word, as before. As soon as I am on the throne, Koshkhan will be given back to you, to do with as you wish. You will see no meddling with me as king, I assure you.” That much was true, at least to a certain extent. He intended to claim Koshkhan long before the man was even born.

Kosh nodded, giving him another smile. “Very well. Then our business here is complete.” He turned his horse around, intending to ride back to his men, but Nizam called out to him, causing him to pause.

“Remember to play your part, Kosh,” Nizam warned. “My brother will seek to destroy you after this. In order for my plan to work, you must continue to do as I’ve instructed.”

The man sneered. “We will play our parts to perfection, of that you can have no doubt, Nizam. As cunning as your deceptions are, so are mine. Now, you’d best get back to your nephews, before you are missed.” He smirked. “Or before the young one dies.” With that, he spurred his horse, dust kicking up in his wake as he rejoined his men and set off again, the entire company gone within a matter of minutes.

He supposed that last comment had been meant as an insult, or a way of catching him off his guard. He could only smile at how foolish a ploy it was. He had no love for Dastan, and if the boy died he would feel nothing as a result. In fact…it would serve his purposes greatly if the boy were to die. Perhaps a slow death on the journey home. Nizam could have the boy ride with him. It would be a simple twist of the dagger, a recent wound reopened on the rough desert paths, noticed far too late. It was such a good plan, he wondered now why he hadn’t let Kosh kill any of the princes in the first place. It would have served him well all the same. Even if he would have rather had his Hassansins do the work. Relying on Kosh was not his first choice, but he didn’t want his greatest assets revealed just yet. Better to save them for when Alamut and the treasure within was in reach.

He guided his horse back onto the path, returning the way he had come, both annoyed to be returning to his stifling role as Uncle and also eager to gather his nephews and return to Nasaf, for the time being. As soon as his brother was apprised of the situation, he was sure Nasaf would be emptied of warriors within a matter of days, for the sole purpose of hunting down Kosh and his men.

A hunt that would lead the Persian army past the borders of Alamut, where one of his men would then reveal the threat to the empire lurking within: they were selling weapons to Kosh. With any luck, Alamut would be theirs within the day, and the empire would be Nizam’s soon after. He needed only one thing in order to make that happen. His scheme was genius, as none within Persia knew of the Dagger of Time, the Alamutians would never suspect, and the Hassansins were the very ones who had told him of its existence, helping him to claim it for his own.

As soon as he had it, everything would change. His pitiful excuses for nephews would never be born. His wretched brother would die before he ever ascended to the throne. Dastan would stay in the gutter and remain the street rat he was. And Nizam? He would be king for a lifetime. The wisest and most powerful king Persia would ever know. His name would be legend for generations.

Everything he did now was a means to an end. He didn’t care who got in the way, or even why. As long as he got that dagger, none of it would matter. It would be wiped away as if it had never happened at all. A dangerous proposition, and one Nizam delighted in.

He spurred his horse to go faster.

He had a throne to seize for his own.

Chapter Text

Tus startled as the coverings at the entrance to the tent were thrown roughly aside, his hand straying to his sword reflexively, even as he saw Garsiv do the same. He was halfway out of his chair before a grin spread across his features and his hand dropped from the hilt of his weapon. “Uncle!” He rushed forward, greeting him with a quick hug before pulling back and taking a good look at him. “Are you alright?” Tus frowned as he took note of the cut marring their Uncle’s cheek and the dried blood staining the neck of his garments and his features.

“Yes, yes, I am well,” Nizam assured him, smiling softly as he waved away the concern. “Kosh barely spoke to me, and his men only paid enough attention to me so as to make sure I did not leave before they wished.”

“It is good to see you, Uncle,” Garsiv smiled, limping over and wrapping the man in a hug as Tus let him go. “Though I would have gladly come after you and dealt with Kosh once and for all, if he had gone back on his word.”

“I am sorry,” Tus said suddenly, sobered at the thought of Nizam being in Kosh’s presence for as long as he was. “If I could only have done more to stop him from taking you, I-”

“Peace, Tus.” Nizam shook his head, admonishing him gently. “I would have done the same, had I been in your position. You did well, and no harm has come of your decision.” His Uncle brought a hand to his shoulder reassuringly, and Tus basked in the praise he had been given. It was not unusual to hear such words from the man, but Tus cherished them whenever they were given nevertheless. The only thing that could have been better in that moment was to hear his father say those same words instead.

Tus lowered his gaze, appreciative of the kindness. “Thank you, Uncle.” He sighed. “I was beginning to think Kosh would not let you go after all. I was preparing to send a search party after you.” 

Nizam shrugged. “My time with him was simple compared to the time he spent with Dastan. I only wish I could have been here, instead. But no matter. It is done.”

“It is good to have you back. We will leave as soon as the camp is packed away.” He called for Bis and Roham, who appeared instantly, and told them to alert the men that they were departing, trusting that every soldier in the camp would work to get ready for the journey back to Nasaf as quickly as possible. His attention was brought back inside the tent as Nizam spoke.

“What of Dastan?” Their Uncle looked to the still form lying on the bed nearby and frowned, stepping toward him and kneeling at his nephew’s side. “From what little I saw of him earlier, and the state he is in now, is it wise to travel?” Nizam asked softly, almost as if he were afraid to know the answer to his question.

Tus glanced back to Garsiv, a look passing between them as he shook his head. “Kamran has advised us that his greatest hope lies with more experienced healers in Nasaf. He has done all he can, but we brought only the most basic of healing supplies with us, the better to be light and swift in our chase. Dastan needs more than we can give him here.”

“Very well,” Nizam nodded. “And if we can get him home soon?”

Tus grimaced. “We will not know for sure until that moment comes to pass. He is more ill and more injured than I have ever seen him, Uncle. It will take time for him to heal.”

Garsiv clenched his fists beside them, staring at Dastan lying beneath the blanket that had been draped over him. He didn’t say a word, but Tus could guess what he would have said if he had. That Kosh would die for this, and that he would gladly be the one to deliver the final blow. Seeing the anger dancing in Garsiv’s eyes, Tus was glad now more than ever that they were brothers and not enemies.

“He can ride with me,” Nizam spoke softly, breaking the silence that had descended inside the tent.

For reasons he couldn’t quite place, Tus immediately bristled at the idea. “With all respect, Uncle,” he said, “Dastan will ride with me. I am the reason he is here at all. I made a vow that I would bring him home, and that is what I will do.”

Nizam appraised him for a moment, then inclined his head. “Very well, Tus, as you wish.” He stood from his position at the bedside and walked quickly to the entrance of the tent. “I will go and make sure that all is in order so that we may leave with haste.” He smiled as he left, and Tus nodded his thanks in return.

He stared after his uncle for several moments, lost in thought, until a heavy sigh roused him and he looked to find Garsiv sinking into the chair at Dastan’s side. “Garsiv? Are you alright?”

Garsiv didn’t answer for a while, just stared at Dastan with a frown on his face and an unreadable, faraway look in his eyes. Tus moved toward him and was about to ask again if there was something wrong, but that is when his brother spoke. “He’s too…still. Too quiet. It’s unnerving.” Tus hummed in agreement. “I keep expecting him to get up, to say something, joke about all this as he usually does.”

“I do too,” he said softly, bringing a hand to Garsiv’s shoulder.

“I know he and I have had our disagreements in the past. We’ve fought with each other, hardly ever see eye to eye on matters, but…Tus.” Garsiv shook his head, and Tus saw something he had not seen since their mother died: a tear slipping down his brother’s cheek. “We can’t lose him,” his voice broke as more tears joined the first. “I can’t.”

“Neither can I,” Tus shook his head. He laughed quietly as he sat on the bed at Dastan’s feet, willing those closed eyes to open. “Ah, Garsiv…who would have thought, when we first met Dastan, that the two of us would one day care so much for him?”

At this, Garsiv smiled softly. “I thought Father had lost his mind when he returned home with a street rat in tow, especially so soon after Mother died.”

“We weren’t very good at being brothers, at first.”

“We tormented him,” Garsiv huffed a laugh. “And he tormented us. Do you remember the time he ran away?”

“Well, we did put a snake in his bed. A deadly snake, I might add. After a week of sabotaging everything he was trying to do for Father.”

“It worked.”

“And when Father found out he nearly disowned us both,” Tus sighed. “It was foolish.”

“At the time, I thought he was ungrateful for what Father and Nizam had done for him. He always seemed so unhappy. I didn’t trust him…and I was angry.”

“We both were.”

Garsiv nodded. “We likely would never have formed the bond we now share if Father had not made the two of us go after him.” 

Tus remembered that day well. After learning what his sons had done, Sharaman had been furious and had yelled at them both until he was red in the face and seething. As punishment and recompense for their actions, Tus and Garsiv had been ordered to find Dastan and do whatever was necessary to convince him to return home with them. They had both been loathe to do as they had been asked, and had spent hours wandering through Nasaf enjoying themselves without a care as to where Dastan was or what he might be doing. No guards were with them, per order of the King, and so when they wandered into a portion of the city known for its crime thinking no harm would come to them because of their station, there were those who decided to take advantage of their arrogance. A fight had broken out, with Tus and Garsiv quickly losing their ground against their foes. They would have been captured or killed if Dastan had not intervened. He had appeared without warning, jumping into the fray from a nearby rooftop, and had helped them escape back to the palace. He had saved their lives, and in doing so finally made the two of them see him as something more than an unwanted burden and annoyance. Afterwards, slowly but surely, the three brothers grew closer and began to rely on each other more and more.

“Garsiv, if-”

What Tus had been about to say was interrupted as Dastan shifted and immediately stilled, groaning as his injuries protested the slight movement. “Dastan?” Garsiv leaned forward in his chair, and Tus watched as Dastan’s eyes fluttered open. “Can you hear me?”

It took a moment, but his gaze finally came to rest on Garsiv and his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Garsiv?”

“Yes, it’s me. Tus is here, too.”

Tus brought a hand to rest on Dastan’s leg to make him aware of his presence and his eyes came to rest on him next, that confusion in their depths lessening a bit. Tus watched as his brother glanced at his surroundings, his body beginning to relax a bit more as each moment passed. “This is no cave,” he finally said, voice soft.

“An astute observation, little brother,” Garsiv smirked.

“You’re here…in one of our tents…then this…,” Dastan looked between them, eyes widening, “This is no dream.”

Tus’ heart sank at the words, realizing that Dastan had thought the first time he’d seen them was a mirage. “This is real, Dastan,” Tus assured him. “We found you; you’re safe. We’re taking you home.”

“Do you remember when you saw us earlier?” Garsiv asked. Dastan nodded. “Why did you think that was a dream?”

“Kosh…he did not know he took the wrong prince…he called me Tus. I dreamed before. That you rescued me. Only it was a lie. My name was never spoken. I woke in the caverns later. When I saw you both but did not hear my name again…I assumed I was dreaming once more. I went along with it,” Dastan’s voice got thick with emotion. “But this…this is real.”

“I am sorry it took us so long to find you, Dastan,” Tus said, agonized over the revelation that even his dreams had tormented him.

His brother smiled. “With your skill at tracking? I’m surprised you managed it…at all.”

Garsiv smirked as he glanced back at Tus, and as soon as their eyes met they both began to laugh. Within moments the tent was filled with the sound of mirth as they both dissolved into fits of laughter, the stress of the last few days and their current situation melting away as if it had never been. Trust Dastan, hurt and ill though he was, to ease the tension they all felt; and a moment later he, too, began to laugh, the good mood he had inspired in his brothers clearly contagious.

They all sobered a bit, though, as he winced and brought a hand to his side. “Ah, no more laughing,” Dastan smiled softly. Tus shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, relieved that his brother was even capable of joking, let alone being coherent and awake. “Are you alright?” Dastan’s quiet voice caught his attention again and he looked to see that his brother was gazing intently at him.

“You’re asking me if I’m alright?” Tus huffed a laugh.

“Your arm,” Dastan tried to point to the bandage peeking from beneath the sleeve of Tus’ shirt but dropped his shaking hand to the bed a moment later, the effort too much for him.

“I am fine,” he assured him. “It is a simple wound.”

“And you?” Dastan shifted his attention to Garsiv.

“What about me?” Garsiv bristled, as he always did when anyone showed concern for him.

“Your leg…you have it stretched out as though it would pain you to bend it.” He looked between them both, concerned again. “You better not have received these injuries rescuing me.”

“Only you could be so worried about us when you’re the one who needs it,” Tus shook his head. “We’re fine, Dastan. It happened when they ambushed us a few days ago.”

“Then you…you should not have ridden out to find me.”

“What would you have done had either of us been taken?” Garsiv asked gently. At the look that passed across his brother’s features, Tus knew the answer, as he had before the question had even been asked. “Exactly,” Garsiv said smugly.

“What of Nizam? He was with us.”

“I am fine, dear boy,” Nizam chose that moment to enter the tent. He came to stand beside Garsiv and smiled down at Dastan. “One of the few to escape injury, I am happy to say.”

“But your face….”

“Just a cut, nothing more. It will mend far more easily than anything you have sustained, I’m afraid,” their Uncle said. “How are you feeling, Dastan?”

He took a moment to think about it but said simply, “Terrible.” His features were once more drawn and pale, sweat lining his forehead. The energy he spent talking with Tus and Garsiv seemed to have been all he had, and what little was left was quickly waning.

“I am sorry,” Nizam sighed. “We’ll get you back home in no time, my boy. Then you can rest properly.”

Dastan nodded. “Thank you…for coming after me.”

“Always,” Tus said, voice rough. He addressed his uncle next, “I take it that everything is in order for our departure, then?”

“It is,” Nizam nodded. “All that remains is this tent, but I have instructed several men to stay behind and take care of it so that we may leave at once. There is no danger now that Kosh has left, and they can catch up with us easily enough.”

“Very well,” he nodded. “Dastan rides with me.”

“As you have already said,” his Uncle smiled.

Tus stood from his seat on the bed, gazing down at his brother. “I am sorry, Dastan, but we have no other way to get you home save by horseback.”

“Just…get us home, Tus,” he sighed, expression already resigned. “I don’t care how.”

“I’ll remind you of that in a few weeks when you’re on the mend and complaining about having to share a horse with me,” he grinned. Tus motioned for Bis and Roham, who had been lingering just inside the tent, to come closer. “Carry him to my horse and-”

“I can walk,” came a weak whisper from the bed, as though Dastan doubted his own statement.

Tus ignored his brother entirely, knowing that was not an option, and finished what he had been saying. “And please, be gentle.” He knew he didn’t need to say it, that Dastan’s friends would be as careful with him as they had been earlier, but it made him feel better all the same.

He watched as they lifted him from the bed, wincing as his brother did and wishing again that he had been taken by Kosh instead. Nizam preceded them out of the tent and Tus followed close behind, Garsiv bringing up the rear. They each went to their respective mounts, Tus vaulting into the saddle so that he could help ease Dastan into position in front of him. It was slow going, and Tus saw his brother’s eyes flutter as his side was jostled, but in less time than he would have thought, the two of them were situated on his horse and ready for the journey back to Nasaf. 

The men were eerily quiet, and Dastan obviously felt all the eyes on him because a moment later he smiled and said as loudly as he could manage, “So many long faces. I’m not dead yet, you know.”

Soft laughter rippled through the ranks, and Tus managed a smile of his own at Dastan’s attempt to put the men at ease. He spoke to them, then, voice much louder than his brother’s had been. “We ride through the night! With any luck we’ll make Nasaf by tomorrow afternoon. We only stop if absolutely necessary.”

An answering shout of affirmation went up from the men and Tus said no more, simply spurred his horse forward and whispered in Dastan’s ear, “I am sorry.” Dastan’s body was already tense just with the simple movements of the horse beneath them, and it would only get worse from here.

“You already said that,” he whispered back, though Tus was sure he hadn’t meant his words to be so soft. “It’s alright, Tus.”

Before he could give himself time to think about it, he spurred the horse to go faster, and moments later they were cantering across the sands, Garsiv and Nizam at his heels and the company of men following soon after. They thundered across the desert as the sun began to descend in the west, and within minutes Dastan was unconscious in Tus’ arms. He only held his brother tighter, whispering an occasional comfort or plea in his ear, hoping that this mad flight home would be enough to save Dastan. Hold on, brother, just a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.