This is the follow-up story to "The Bond Between Brothers". You can read this without reading that, but there are parts that would make more sense if you read both.

And might I say: Those reviews I got were AMAZING. I'm so glad everyone liked the story so much, and it definitely spurred me to write more. Thank you for the support!

Anyways: The story is set after the King dies and Dastan has run off with Tamina. I created another missing moment; they don't show Garsiv after the escape scene unti lthe next morning. If Garsiv was being himself, he would have ridden through the night and caught up with Dastan, even if he had to ride by himself. This is an interpretation of what caused Garsiv to lag so many hours behind. Just how does our angry prince handle himself when he has to feel other things too?

This story gave me stomach ulcers, I swear. I was going to write other one -shots involving their childhood instead, but this one's been controlling me almost since I posted its counterpart. BUT: I will be returning to your regularly scheduled stories that have at least some light-heartedness soon.

Now that I'm done rambling, I hope you all enjoy seeing this side of Garsiv as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If someone had asked Garsiv this morning how he thought he might die, the answer would have been simple: On the battlefield. This afternoon, his answer had changed; Garsiv now believed a slow descent into madness would ultimately defeat him.

There was no other way to describe the almost dreamlike quality today had taken on.

No, not dreamlike. Nightmarish.

Today…couldn't be real. This felt like one of his old nightmares, where he'd been trying to run and his feet wouldn't move. He felt more like the three year-old Garsiv who had woken up from bad dreams and ran to his mother's room to spend the night safely by her side.

He couldn't accept the idea that he wouldn't wake up from this. This had to be a dream.

Remembering the old trick his mother taught him to combat nightmares, Garsiv actually pinched himself. But instead of being jolted awake and put back in a world that made sense, all he got was a momentary stinging sensation.

He couldn't deny it forever.

No matter what he did today, his feet felt leaden. There was no sense of duty, no anger spurring him forward.

Garsiv meandered listlessly alone through empty halls in the Alamutian palace. His eyes were dull, his gait slow and heavy. Even in the finery befitting a Prince, he looked more like a slave who had thrown in the towel.

Garsiv tried yet again to jam the pieces of the puzzle together. But he knew this was a puzzle doomed to remain incomplete.

Dastan murdering their father would never make sense.

Just thinking his traitorous ex-brother's name made Garsiv tighten his grip on the hilt of his sword, the tanned skin of his knuckles turning white. This morning Dastan had been his little brother he would have died for. The little brother he had helped beat up bullies in their youth, the little brother who had a penchant for driving him insane.

In that last way things hadn't changed. Garsiv knew he would be tormented by the why of this for the rest of his life. Garsiv would not die a soldier's death against Persia's enemies; he would die screaming out his last breath, tortured by the fact that he would never know why his father had deserved to die like...that.

Gods. Again the scene of his father's death ran through Garsiv's mind, furthering his belief he was going mad. Even as he walked through tangible stone passageways, Garsiv saw nothing but phantom people crowding around as his father's skinned burned away, heard his own voice declaring Dastan a murderer, smelled nothing but singed skin.

He swallowed thickly and violently shook his head, forcing the real world to appear before his eyes again. Garsiv's breathing had become more labored as the memory replayed itself, and he tried to focus on fixing that instead of the doubts that were plaguing him.

But it didn't work. For at least the thirtieth time that day he tried to figure out why Dastan killed their father. Garsiv didn't want to believe it. Even when he accused Dastan, the word 'murderer' felt foreign on his tongue. But there was no other way around it; Tus had been the last person before Dastan to handle that robe, and if anyone was innocent in all of this, it was Tus. He had revered the ground their father walked on since he could comprehend what Crown Prince really meant. Tus spent every day trying to prove himself worthy of their father's respect, worthy of taking up his reign one day; he was too patient for something like this, honored their father too much to ever think about killing him.

Dastan was the only other suspect Garsiv's clouded mind could come up with. And Dastan had run off, even stealing Aksh, Garsiv's prized warhorse. Those weren't the actions of an innocent man. No, Dastan must have murdered the man who took him in off the streets. He had betrayed the people who called him family. Garsiv had been more than right to order him seized.

Eventually Garsiv stopped his aimless wandering and looked around. He was in a dimly-lit hallway that he supposed was a back passageway. Garsiv was alone in his self-perceived insanity.

He certainly was acting insane. Normal Garsiv would not have let anything keep him from blindly charging after Dastan and bringing him back to justice. Normal Garsiv would be loudly swearing up and death his condemnations of Dastan. Normal Garsiv would already have caught the man he used to call a brother.

Instead he had allowed one of the other generals to pull him away from the horse whose saddle he had almost leapt into, citing the need be the one to explain it to Tus—although Garsiv was lucid enough to realize he was just trying to keep him from completely losing his bearings in the middle of the desert. He had waited for Tus to get back to the city and delivered the full story to Tus himself. He had lingered around as Tus went through a rushed coronation and hurried off to write the tragic announcements messengers would be taking back to Persia and to their allies.

He had turned his back on his father by letting Dastan run. He had abandoned the principles he lived his life on to hide in the dark.

Nausea flooded his system as everything assaulted him at once. Garsiv pressed his flushed forehead against the cool stone wall, trying so very hard to reclaim his sanity.

In that brief moment of almost-clarity, he became aware of the small weight sitting in his pocket. The prince tensed and swallowed hard before wrenching the apple from that morning out of his pocket. He examined it closely, turning it this way and that in his fingers.

Suddenly an earlier memory from that day flashed through his head: he had stabbed through another apple that morning, pretending to himself that it had been Dastan's head. The apple was a tangible reminder that he was not in a dream, but in a very gruesome reality.

He lost it.

Garsiv howled in rage and slammed the apple into the wall. When it didn't immediately break into tiny pieces, he continued to brutally the apple bash into the stones, over and over and over until nothing was left but shreds of red skin and white fruit sliding down to the floor. This time he wished with a passion it was Dastan's head he was beating into the wall, that the red was his blood and the white his brain.

"I hate you!" he snarled, still punching the wall with his hand even when there was nothing left of the fruit. His knuckles were going from battered to blood drenched as he continued his new mantra. His breathing had hitched into what a lesser man might admit was nearly a sob, his body was quivering with anger and pain—he was no longer Prince Garsiv, fearless leader of Persia's armies.

He was just a man who had lost the father he loved in the worst way possible.

Finally someone caught his hand in a forceful grip, preventing Garsiv from continuing his reign of terror on the wall. Already knowing who the hand belonged to, Garsiv ultimately opened his eyes and stared listlessly at the wall.

"You know acting like this will change nothing."

Even through the whirlwind of emotions that were assaulting him at the moment, Garsiv could hear the worry in Tus' voice. He felt a brief pang of guilt at causing his brother more problems today of all days, and it was enough to make him drop his hand and pull away from the wall to look at him.

Garsiv was instantly jealous at how composed Tus was. He knew his brother felt the pain of their loss as much as Garsiv did. But Tus had something Garsiv was never able to grasp: an understanding of emotions. Garsiv knew what they were, could identify them…but he had trouble dealing with most. And today those evil words he did not understand – grief, fear, confusion, and, worst of all, betrayal and helplessness—had him frenzied.

Tus must have seen how lost he was feeling, because Garsiv soon became aware of hands grasping his shoulders. Tus at least had the decency not to hug him. The second prince heaved a tired sigh and met Tus' gaze. It confirmed for him that Tus was still human- he could see past the façade to the shaken man inside.

"I should have gone after him hours ago," Garsiv muttered, voice hoarse from repeatedly cursing Dastan. If that soldier hadn't interrupted the furious haze that had clouded Garsiv's vision, hadn't brought Garsiv back to reality, where he had to think about the why, he would already be riding after Dastan.

"Maybe. But being on a horse would not change what you're feeling, brother. Perhaps it was better to let it out here."

"Oh stop being a mother," Garsiv retorted, turning so his back was against the wall. It felt a little comforting to have this relationship with Tus again.

Tus stayed quiet for awhile. He might have known how to handle his own emotions, but he apparently didn't know how to handle them when they overwhelmed his baby brother. Garsiv took the opportunity to pry himself out of the dark pit in his head he'd fallen into today. Tus was right; acting this way would change nothing. He kept reminding himself of that as he slowly crawled his way back into his right mindset.

Finally: "If anyone can bring him to justice, brother, it will be you. Do not feel ashamed of yourself for being human."

Ha. Garsiv snorted derisively. Oh he felt plenty of shame. He had enough going through his now clearer mind to share with Tus twice over. He brushed over the topic of shame for now.

"Where's Uncle Nizam?"

"Preparing for the trip to Avrat." Garsiv nodded, figuring that was the answer he would get.

"You?"

Tus tilted his head in question. "Me what, Garsiv?"

Garsiv rolled his eyes at Tus, but to be fair the question could have meant many things right now. How are you, what have you been doing, what are you going to do… He settled on one: "What do you intend to do?"

"I will stay here in Alamut. I need to stay in one place and put the pieces back together."

Garsiv nodded again. "Then I will attend Father's funeral. We will be represented there so long as I'm breathing."

Tus turned to face him, looking at him speculatively. Garsiv knew he was trying to figure out whether or not he had recovered well enough to ride out. But Garsiv didn't care if Tus approved or not; he had lost too much time to Dastan already. "Do not fret so much Tus. I'm leaving tonight. You and I both know you won't stop me."

Tus managed to chuckle at that. "Not this time, little brother." He caught Garsiv's fist as it flew out to hit him; he was well aware how much Garsiv hated being called little.

Garsiv took his hand back and shook his head, then pushed off the wall to start back down the hallway.

"Be careful, Garsiv. I can't lose you too."

Garsiv smiled wryly and turned to clap Tus on the shoulder. "You cannot be rid of me so easily, brother." He tightened his grip for a brief moment. "I will make sure Dastan" —he almost spit at the name—"is brought to you."

Tus nodded and gripped his shoulder as well. They made eye contact for a few seconds, and it was enough. It was a reminder that they would be brothers through all of this. They would not betray each other in the same way in the same way Dastan had betrayed them.

Armed with the reassurance that no matter what, he had one brother whom he could count on, Garsiv made his way out of the palace. His eyes were sharp again, his walk determined. His head had snapped back to relaity and reality was demanding he bring that sick sonofabitch back to face his day with the executioner.

Oh he'd take pleasure in watching that. Dastan might once have been family, but that had all changed now.

Garsiv got to the stables and started searching for a decent horse. He had an eye for horses, and it didn't take long for him to discover the one he wanted. Ironically it was another black stallion, though he was perhaps a hand shorter than Aksh. It didn't matter. Garsiv found some sort of poetic justice in the idea of catching Dastan on a horse match the one had had stolen.

The supplies for the chase were stuffed in saddlebags and stacked nearby, and without asking a single stablehand whose horse this was, he got it saddled. Within five minutes he was walking the horse out of the barn and shouting at his men, who were lurking nearby.

"Get moving, all of you, or I'll have your heads cut off with the traitor's when we get back!"

They all started scrambling about like startled cockroaches, and Garsiv kept walking the stallion. Let them catch up. They had no choice, and he had more important things to deal with than them right now.

He had lost precious time to Dastan today, but that was alright. Dastan would have to stop so that frigid, whiny princess could get her beauty sleep in. Garsiv didn't need that, and his men knew better than to complain about riding through the night. Garsiv would take a sizeable chunk out of Dastan's advantage in the cool night air, and then the fun could really begin.

Soon it wouldn't be Garsiv who was living a nightmare.

When they got out of the city, Garsiv kicked his horse into a gallop. He would catch Dastan. Maybe not tonight, but soon. Before the funeral, after the funeral, it didn't matter: this would be his mission until the end.

I hope you guys liked this one! Like I said, I'll be going back to writing more like "Brothers" after this. Anyone have an opinion on whether I should do just one-shots or start a multi-chapter story? Either way, it'll focus on the royal family (AKA it'll be in Garsiv's perspective; I enjoy writing for him too much).

Much thanks to my Betas, Mya Kirne and Juliette06!

Please review and let me know if this was a success or not!