Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Prince of Persia franchise; this is written purely for personal non-profit pleasure.

Rating: T for descriptions of violence/gore (possibly unnecessary, but just in case)

Author's Note: It was several years ago now that I went browsing through the Prince of Persia section here, and discovered to my astonishment that no one had yet written a novelization of Sands of Time. Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time has always stood out to me as an excellent example of good storytelling, so to someone like me a novelization always seemed like a no-brainer. "Well, then," I said to myself, "I'll just have to write one myself, won't I? It's not even that long of a game; I beat it in two weeks my first time through. So it should be easy to write!"

Famous last words. It's taken me an insanely long amount of time to write this deceptively short story, but that has less to do with the actual length or complexity of the original story, and more to do with my own resolve to push myself as hard as I could with this. I've written novelizations before, but I've always felt that they never quite reached the potential those stories offered, and that I could have done better but I just couldn't be bothered to try. So I came at this novelization with the resolve to make this the very best I could, to make this a story that anyone can read and enjoy, whether they've played the game before or not.

And this story is well worth the effort, if you ask me. At first glance, it's very simple and straightforward, but there are many understated emotions and themes running through the whole thing that begin to reveal themselves only gradually. The twists and turns of the story are pulled off to near-perfection, and all throughout you feel as though you were listening to someone actually tell you a story. I've always thought that was a very unique way to handle a story in a video game. I'll also admit that I am very partial to the Middle East. I love the clothing, the music, the languages, the stories they tell. From the first, I fell in love with Sands of Time because it seemed to capture the very essence of everything I love about the Middle East. Everything from the graceful fighting style to the music that mingles traditional sounds with modern rock served to make this one of my favorite games of all time.

I've learned more than I ever dreamed I could while writing this novelization. I feel that my writing has improved, as I strive to match it to the Prince's voice. I also feel that I've learned more about what a novelization should be. I know this game as well as probably anybody else around, as I've played it all the way through five times and have taken extensive notes and gone over those notes plenty of times, yet I often realized as I wrote that simply putting down everything exactly as it occurs in the game would make for a very boring read. Thus, I've altered things in many places – nothing to really change the story, but enough for the seasoned player to notice – such as architecture, traps, and conversations. I've added in some of my own ideas, taken out some extraneous details, and tried to spice things up as well as I can. I've also paid particular attention to the battles, since that has always been one of the highlights of the game for me, and since battles are often the weak points in my stories. I even took the liberty of slipping in a few tidbits of conversation from Two Thrones and the movie, and several references to Persian culture that don't exist in the actual game.

I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it (even though I wrestled with the words and agonized over every paragraph). I've worked on this as hard as I can, but I know there are most definitely improvements still to be made. I would love to hear any comments you have about this novelization, good or bad! (Oh, and just so you know, I will not be writing novelizations of the sequels.)

THE DANCE OF SAND AND TIME

Chapter One

Thunder rumbles. Soft rain patters among the palm trees, falling from misty clouds obscuring the dark Indian sky. Night sounds drift about like ghostly remains of the past. Suddenly pushed aside, the great wide leaves of palm trees swing wildly in the wake of a swift shadow. Clouds of dust slowly settle back onto the hard soil, quickly turning to mud as the rain falls harder. An unseen stream trickles by softly in the darkness. Sand, sand, always sand underfoot, sucking at the feet that run over it. Cool marble pillars glisten as the moon slips briefly out of the storm clouds. Soft, gauzy curtains swirl in the warm night breeze. The thick scent of oils and perfumes curls lazily through the air, mingling with the smell of wet earth. A lone shadow looms in the darkness beyond the curtains, sweeping them aside with one determined thrust.

Most people think time is like a river that flows swift and sure in one direction. But I have seen the face of time, and I can tell you they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm. Time is a dance, folding back over itself as the steps are repeated again and again and again. The same, yet different each time. Time is a desert, a mountain of sand stretching out to every horizon, endless and always shifting, conforming to the steps you make in it, yet always slipping back and falling into the holes, covering up your tracks until even you cannot remember from which direction you came. You may wonder who I am, and why I say this. Sit down, and I will tell you a tale like none that you have ever heard. I would ask that you make no interruption, for the tale is long indeed, and I have but a short time in which to tell you.

Know first that I am the son of Shahraman, a mighty king of Persia. On our way to Azad with a small company of men, we passed through India. My father did not come to India to wage war, but neither did he turn away from it, when he saw a chance to win honor and glory. A traitor in the Maharajah's palace offered my father his aid in return for a share of the spoils. Thus was a brave and noble king tempted into a grievous error.

The rain of the night had ceased, leaving the morning fresh and cool, not yet burned by the hot sun above. Raindrops mingled with dewdrops, beading the branches of trees. Everything seemed sharp and clear that morning, and the fresh air invigorated me. This was to be my first battle, the first time I would fight by my father's side. As his youngest son, I had always been forced to watch my father and older brothers ride away to battle, then return victorious with many tales of their brave deeds. But finally, on this day, I would make my father proud.

I stood at my father's right hand as he stood on the crest of a hill, surrounded by our mighty army and gazing across the lush plain at the mighty palace of the Maharajah of India. It was as glorious as our own palace, if not more so. Towers pierced the reddening sky, rising from thick stone walls. Massive wooden gates, strengthened with iron, mocked any attempt to assail them, while dozens of guards patrolled the parapets. Then my eyes lit up as I saw a flaming arrow shoot high into the sky – the signal!

"Now, my son!" my father cried, raising his sword high into the air and sweeping it towards the Maharajah's castle. We urged our horses to a gallop at the head of our advancing army, the newly-risen sun glistening off helmets and sword tips. As we swept down the hill, the Maharajah's forces rushed out to meet us, but they were easily overwhelmed. I felt pride swell in my chest as I watched my father's troops break through their ranks all around me and make for the main gate. Our friend the traitor had assured us he would see to it personally that it stood open and ready for our attack.

I held my sword ready, eager to win some honor for myself, but my father motioned me onward, past the press of footmen fighting around the main gate. Flaming boulders soared through the air, flying from catapults on both sides, as we galloped into the courtyard. Confusion raged throughout the whole courtyard, as fires broke out and soldiers fought desperately. My father reined in his horse and called out to someone behind me.

I turned in my saddle to see an old man striding up to us, to all appearances unaware of the fighting around him, as if he was merely taking his regular stroll about the palace courtyard. The man had a pointed grey beard, and the red spot upon his forehead denounced him as an Indian. He wore deep red robes and a turban the color of dried blood, and leaned upon a smooth wooden staff carved in the likeness of a cobra. After a moment, I realized this was the traitor to the Maharajah that my father had spoken of.

"Your Majesty," the old man said when he drew near to my father. "I trust you'll remember your promise. The Maharajah's treasure holds lie within." He gestured grandly to a great stone arch behind him.

Eager and impatient, I spurred my horse towards the arch before either of the men had a chance to stop me. This could be my chance to prove my worth to my father, and I would not pass it up. Yet as I neared the archway, a flaming boulder smashed into the stonework above my head and the archway began to crumble and fall. I urged my horse to run faster, but even so I could see that I would not make it. The archway quickly filled with rubble, blocking the way onward. Abandoning the horse that had been a gift from my eldest brother, I leapt from the saddle, vaulting myself through the arch just as the rest of the wall collapsed, cutting myself off from my father and our ally. I fell to the ground, momentarily stunned, but soon picked myself back up, ready to face the battle on my own.

Already, the walls of this magnificent palace bore gaping holes from our assault, and fire raged in many places, creating a thick cloud of smoke that dimmed the rising sun. Even as the golden disk rose higher in the sky, men fell with anguished cries as our army cut through them. Do you think I felt regret as I gazed upon the destruction we had wrought, or at least humility at the speed with which a world can be transformed from a good one into a hell? If you think so you are mistaken. From that time, my only thought was the honor and glory I would bring my father as I fought in my first battle. I started towards a battalion of my father's men, hard at work with a battering ram against a gate leading farther into the palace. But I had not taken more than two steps when a flaming boulder fell from the sky, crushing the men in one fell blow. The gate caught fire, and I was forced to retreat.

The rubble of the fallen archway was easy enough to climb, and I made my way up it to one of the parapets, now devoid of soldiers. Crouching down so as not to be a target to my own troops, I hurried along the top of the wall towards the sound of clashing swords – towards the sound of glory. Soon I came to a tower, passing through it to emerge onto a stone balcony. No sooner had I stepped through the doorway than a loud cry met my ears.

A man in a green turban – one of the Maharajah's guards – rushed towards me, spear in hand. At last, my first real battle with lives at stake, instead of mock battles on the training grounds! I should have been pleased, but as it was I barely had time to draw my blade from the sheath on my back. The man thrust forth his spear, and the sharp point whistled past my ear as I whirled out of reach with the skill many years of training had taught me. I jabbed my sword into the spearman's belly with a sickening crunch, and his blood fell with a splat upon the ground. The only sound that issued from my enemy's throat was a weak gurgle, then he fell at my feet, dead.

I stood staring at his corpse for I know not how long. You must understand that this was my first kill, and I was not yet used to the reality of death. I could hardly believe what my eyes were telling me: that I had ended this man's life, had caused the red flow that now stained the stones beneath my feet.

A nearby explosion shook me from my reverie, and after wiping my sword on the dead man's clothes, I mounted a ladder resting against one wall. From this higher vantage point, I could see the battle raging below me on all sides, man pitted against fellow man in the epic dance of battle. The pounding of the catapults' barrage against the castle punctuated the ever-present clash of steel and cries of dying men. Battle, I discovered, was just as glorious as I had always imagined, yet it was frightening as well. I glanced down at my sword, imagining I could still see the blood upon it, then hastily replaced it in its sheath.

Still rather shaken by my first kill, I entered another tower room and was relieved to find a full pitcher of water waiting for the guards who normally inhabited this tower. I let the cool, refreshing liquid slide down my throat, attempting to push aside thoughts of how it would feel to have blood seeping up my throat instead as my life faded away. Many men that day sought to win honor and glory, that their king might say to them, as Khosrau said to Rustam: "You are the noblest of my warriors." From the moment my sword tasted blood, I knew this would not be my way. I would win my father's praise not by killing, but by being the first to find the Maharajah's treasure hold...and the wonders that lay within.

Note: Khosrau was a mighty king of Persian legend, and Rustam (also known as Rustem) was his greatest warrior.