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tanarillSo, as you may or may not already know, the Boy leaves for Budapest on Saturday. This has been making me Sad, since I will not see him for another six months. I mean, I support it and all, because when else will he get to spend six months in Hungary? (Actually, probably more like five, given that he has all of December off so he can travel Europe and learn new things. Possibly that, in Europe, in the winter, it is cold. *Ahem*.) This still means I will be Boy-less until February at least, and maybe somewhat into March.
So today and tomorrow are going-to-his-house days, and then we will say tearful goodbyes and not be anywhere close enough to kiss each other for months. ;_;
Here, have some fic.
Title: Deeper Wounds
Fandom: Prince of Persia: Sands of Time
Rating: G
Warnings: Still not considering anything that isn't PoP:SoT as canon. Also, the prince here is being a whiny emo brat, for no good reason that I can tell.
It had been a mistake, and he'd fixed it, and for a while he thought that would be the end of it. Life, as one might say, went on.
And then he had discovered that even though he was the only one who remembered, he still did remember, and the memories of something that hadn't happened left deep marks. For example:
He stood over the man - no, that was wrong, the body - and wiped his dagger. Then he called the guards, calmly, to come and dispose of the would-be assassin. Behind him, he heard his father watching him, silent and awed. He sheathed the dagger.
None of the balanced quite correctly. The Sands of Time had an odd weight, far heavier than one might expect, but they flowed and poured within that dagger as if they had all the time in the world to do it. He kept having to stop himself compensating for little changes in balance that didn't occur in a main gauche made of plain steel. And he almost never needed it for a finishing blow.
He suspected that, having cut his fangs against enemies that did not stay down and always required a finishing blow, fighting humans, who could take far less abuse and did tend not to get back up again, would always feel too easy. It didn't matter, and probably never would, that they were Hashishin who didn't so much move as flow. His muscles remembered those terrifying twenty-four hours of no sleep and constant terror and these days, he found them reacting before he'd even realized there was an enemy.
Later, after the guards who'd been killed by the assassins on their way in had been found and the investigation well underway, he went back to his room and collapsed onto his bed without bothering to take off his clothing. He wasn't injured; he was exhausted. After a while, he felt more than heard his father come in.
"Father," he said, and the hauled himself upright.
"My son," said King Sharaman, and then stopped. The pause was a familiar one, the kind of pause made by someone who had a lot to say and didn't know how to put it. "My son," said the king again, "you saved my life today. You have proven yourself a warrior time and again. Your tutors have always declared you a prize student, and of late have been most lavish with their praise. And yet . . . "
Oh. They were going to have this talk. "Father."
"Something about you has changed."
Into the sudden quiet, he found himself saying, "Yes."
"Something that happened in Azad. You and Prince Athusa became great friends, did you not?"
He winced internally. While that was true, and there would probably be no harm in allowing his father to think that it was his association with his counterpart that had focused him so, it was still a lie. "Yes," he said.
"And you miss him?"
"I-often feel lonely." This, at least, was the truth. He'd liked Athusa, because while the other prince was more poetic and philosophical, his father also held high expectations of him and they could commiserate. But it really wasn't Athusa he was missing.
"Ah," said King Sharaman, as if he'd heard that last thought. "Prince Athusa is to wed soon. And you are a man, now, who has brought upon his family honor and glory and has lived a full score of years. You are longing for the companionship of a wife."
He looked up, sharply. His father laughed, and then said, "Am I correct, my son?"
"I-yes," he said.
The king nodded. "We shall have to see about finding you a wife. It is a pity that the Sultan of Azad has already promised his daughter."
"There are princesses in India," mused the prince to himself.
His father looked at him. "What?"
"Nevermind," he said quickly.
"No, no. The maharajah of India has a daughter. Even better, he only has a daughter. If you marry her, then all of his territories will become yours when he dies."
"I doubt he'll be happy about a proposal."
"Ye-es," said the king, stroking his beard. "And I hear the daughter is headstrong, as well. Bringing such a suit will be no mean feat."
"Father, any noblewoman-"
"Would not bring such a fabulous prize. Honor and glory to this house!"
He really didn't want to marry Farah, or at least, not this Farah. She wasn't the woman who'd fallen in love with him, with whom he's fallen in love. She didn't remember their journey together through the palace of Azad. But he said, "As you wish, father."
It wasn't over. And his memories, those memories of a time that wasn't, cut very deep indeed.
So today and tomorrow are going-to-his-house days, and then we will say tearful goodbyes and not be anywhere close enough to kiss each other for months. ;_;
Here, have some fic.
Title: Deeper Wounds
Fandom: Prince of Persia: Sands of Time
Rating: G
Warnings: Still not considering anything that isn't PoP:SoT as canon. Also, the prince here is being a whiny emo brat, for no good reason that I can tell.
It had been a mistake, and he'd fixed it, and for a while he thought that would be the end of it. Life, as one might say, went on.
And then he had discovered that even though he was the only one who remembered, he still did remember, and the memories of something that hadn't happened left deep marks. For example:
He stood over the man - no, that was wrong, the body - and wiped his dagger. Then he called the guards, calmly, to come and dispose of the would-be assassin. Behind him, he heard his father watching him, silent and awed. He sheathed the dagger.
None of the balanced quite correctly. The Sands of Time had an odd weight, far heavier than one might expect, but they flowed and poured within that dagger as if they had all the time in the world to do it. He kept having to stop himself compensating for little changes in balance that didn't occur in a main gauche made of plain steel. And he almost never needed it for a finishing blow.
He suspected that, having cut his fangs against enemies that did not stay down and always required a finishing blow, fighting humans, who could take far less abuse and did tend not to get back up again, would always feel too easy. It didn't matter, and probably never would, that they were Hashishin who didn't so much move as flow. His muscles remembered those terrifying twenty-four hours of no sleep and constant terror and these days, he found them reacting before he'd even realized there was an enemy.
Later, after the guards who'd been killed by the assassins on their way in had been found and the investigation well underway, he went back to his room and collapsed onto his bed without bothering to take off his clothing. He wasn't injured; he was exhausted. After a while, he felt more than heard his father come in.
"Father," he said, and the hauled himself upright.
"My son," said King Sharaman, and then stopped. The pause was a familiar one, the kind of pause made by someone who had a lot to say and didn't know how to put it. "My son," said the king again, "you saved my life today. You have proven yourself a warrior time and again. Your tutors have always declared you a prize student, and of late have been most lavish with their praise. And yet . . . "
Oh. They were going to have this talk. "Father."
"Something about you has changed."
Into the sudden quiet, he found himself saying, "Yes."
"Something that happened in Azad. You and Prince Athusa became great friends, did you not?"
He winced internally. While that was true, and there would probably be no harm in allowing his father to think that it was his association with his counterpart that had focused him so, it was still a lie. "Yes," he said.
"And you miss him?"
"I-often feel lonely." This, at least, was the truth. He'd liked Athusa, because while the other prince was more poetic and philosophical, his father also held high expectations of him and they could commiserate. But it really wasn't Athusa he was missing.
"Ah," said King Sharaman, as if he'd heard that last thought. "Prince Athusa is to wed soon. And you are a man, now, who has brought upon his family honor and glory and has lived a full score of years. You are longing for the companionship of a wife."
He looked up, sharply. His father laughed, and then said, "Am I correct, my son?"
"I-yes," he said.
The king nodded. "We shall have to see about finding you a wife. It is a pity that the Sultan of Azad has already promised his daughter."
"There are princesses in India," mused the prince to himself.
His father looked at him. "What?"
"Nevermind," he said quickly.
"No, no. The maharajah of India has a daughter. Even better, he only has a daughter. If you marry her, then all of his territories will become yours when he dies."
"I doubt he'll be happy about a proposal."
"Ye-es," said the king, stroking his beard. "And I hear the daughter is headstrong, as well. Bringing such a suit will be no mean feat."
"Father, any noblewoman-"
"Would not bring such a fabulous prize. Honor and glory to this house!"
He really didn't want to marry Farah, or at least, not this Farah. She wasn't the woman who'd fallen in love with him, with whom he's fallen in love. She didn't remember their journey together through the palace of Azad. But he said, "As you wish, father."
It wasn't over. And his memories, those memories of a time that wasn't, cut very deep indeed.
