Right, this is the first thing I've posted in a while. I'd say be gentle but hey, what does that achieve? Be brutally honest, and say what you think!

One Last Wish

Dastan sat under a plain orange umbrella, a clay cup resting in his hand. To his right, Sheik Amar laughed into his drink.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were some kind of holy man," he said, raising his hand to a few passing high rollers. "I'm not much of the praying sort, and even less of the paying sort, but you walked right out of a request to God you did." The women on the arms of the men winked at the turbaned Sheik, their ostrich feather costumes much more plush and adorned now that a few ostrich races had been transformed into a gambling empire; with many dice games, acrobatic shows and tournaments. Best of all, at least in Sheik Amar's mind, was that through Dastan his business has found a patron and someone who helped him expand, tax free of course. When the Prince of Persia first showed up unannounced in the Valley of the Slaves, Sheik Amar had been certain he was ruined, and to this day, these many years later he could not be sure why the Prince had helped him. When they'd once touched upon the subject, all he'd gotten from Dastan was a strange sort of smile and few words of nonsense. "I was looking for an old friend I owed a favour too. I think I've repaid him now, so I'm just enjoying the scenery." Was what he'd said.

"I guess I'm lucky that you do know me better, because I've got doubt you'd sell me for a camel if you thought I was worth something to someone."

Dastan looked fondly at his surroundings. His face was weathered from years of desert travel, the lines in his skin pronounced and his hands calloused to the point he'd had to start cutting the dead skin from them. Grey hairs tinted his hair and beard and his blue eyes were sallow. The buildings around him fared much better against the passing of time than he had. He glanced at the empty space over Sheik Amar's shoulder. It had been three years since the Ngbaka warrior had passed away, his wife and daughter choosing to stay in the Sheik's household, but never stepping foot on the racetracks and games rooms that Seso had kept a watchful eye over.

"What? I wouldn't dream of it! How could I possibly trade the noble Dastan, my best friend and my best customer for one camel?" the sheik replied, a calculating glint in his eye. "I'd sell you for two."

Dastan shook his head, unable to keep a smile of his face whilst Sheik Amar roared with laughter at his own wit. If there was one thing he could count on when he came here it was that he'd have enough of a good time to forget the first memories he'd made there.

At the age of forty seven Dastan hardly felt old, but the stresses and strains of his life had taken their toll on him. Old scars still gave him grief, friends were starting to lose their battles against ill health and his father had made his final journey to Avrat to rest there forever more. Bis was still a strong man, ever at his side as a friend and a councillor, but he saw his brothers little because of their duties. Tus was the wise and mighty ruler of the Persian Empire and he was beloved as a leader, Garsiv was beside him as his advisor, although in Dastan's experience Garsiv wasn't exactly one to give the best advice, as much as he meant well. He'd never forget the time Garsiv had told him the best way to win a woman's heart was to compliment her breasts. He still carried the scars from that particular incident, one above his heart and the other down his side. He absently wondered quite how it was Tus managed.

The loud creak of the ostrich cages opening for the next race broke him from his thoughts. He could hear the crowd cheering, and the sheik stood up, waving his hand wildly and cheering on his favourite bird. Dastan didn't stand, because he hadn't put any money on that particular race. He just took in the atmosphere and felt the old memories swamp him. This place was one of the few places that gave him a sense of peace, for all of its madness. It was one of the few places that felt the same after his long journey and the leap back in time which had followed. Here, he felt like he'd made a difference and that someone was happy because he'd succeeded. He sighed, thinking of Alamut; his palace and his prison, his home and his poison. Alamut did not feel the same. Alamut did not feel anything to him except a nightmare of a cage.

"Go go go! Come on!" Sheik Amar shouted from the edge of the box high above the crowds. "That's it!"

"I'll never understand why you get so involved when you've already set the results." Dastan said, taking a sip from his cup and wincing at the sour taste. With a subtle flick of the wrist, he deposited the last of the bad wine over the side of the box.

"It's all part of the show, see? If the guy who organised it doesn't look like he knows who'll win, no one thinks it's a fix. More people bet on an honest race, I get my fair share, everybody wins." Sheik Amar told him, not even bothering to turn around. "S'good business."

"If you say so." Dastan said. He was starting to feel hot, even in the shade, so he decided it was time to leave. "I'll make sure never to place a bet unless you say so. That's good for my wallet."

The ride back to the palace was dull and Dastan had no patience for it. Riding through the desert was fine. He'd travelled that road more times than he'd travelled to Avrat, or any of the Persian cities that lay just outside the edges of every Alamutian map.

Riding through the city, escorted or not, always left him feeling uncomfortable. He was never able to decide what troubled him more, the awe filled stares of the people who remembered the stories of how Dastan had won the city through war and returned it peacefully in the same day; or the hate filled stares of those who regarded him as a traitor, a cruel Persian warrior who had taken the city by force and taken their Princess by politics. He'd never forgotten the look on Tamina's face when they'd announced the joyous birth of their only child and had heard the disproving roars of the crowd, one of whom had the audacity to declare the royal blood was now tainted beyond all salvation.

Princess Tamina. She was now queen of her city, ruling justly and wisely, beloved by all who laid eyes upon her. The long years didn't mar her features at all, as her time inside the palace gave her the lifestyle needed to grow old so gracefully. Prince Dastan, for he was an eternal prince, never the king, knew that if he wanted to he could have stared at her for hours. He rarely got the chance to, for aside from their bedchamber and meals Tamina refused to let him have access to her, instead busying herself with councils, planning events and teaching her daughter the ways of the dagger, and the utmost importance of its protection.

Dastan rode through the palace gate, dismounting his horse and handing it over to one of the stable boys. As ever, Bis was waiting for him inside the doors of the palace when he returned.

"How much did you lose this time?" he asked Dastan with a grin.

"I tried to bet the captain of the guard, but apparently he wasn't worth the water to needed for the camel to get him there."

"Why do I have a dreadful feeling that when this Sheik of yours comes to collect his winnings, he'll end up sitting on Alamut's throne?" Bis asked, the spark of humour never leaving his eyes. Dastan laughed.

"You should never be afraid of that Bis. He'd have to fight Tamina for the throne, and after two minutes alone in a room with her, even the warlord Kosh would walk out empty handed."

"There's not a doubt in my mind."

That night, Dastan waited in his chambers for Tamina to make her appearance. He rubbed at his chest absentmindedly, he thought about how the many years of his life had passed by and left him as he was.

He'd never told Tamina about their time together protecting the dagger. It had crossed his mind many time to say something to her, but he'd never found the time or the place to tell her, and the years had hardened her heart into a wall of stone which he had no hope of ever breaching. There were no secret gates, no defences he could get around, no way to outwit a sentry and sneak by. She'd completely cut herself off from him.

Years before, when they were engaged, he'd bantered with her, returned her sharp barbs with as much wit and gentle mockery as her venom would let him, but unlike before she had never let her guard down. Without the shared experiences of hardship and the many times they needed to rely on each other to survive, there was no way to win over her animosity and prove himself to her.

He'd spent years trying to accept the hard fact that Tamina simply hadn't needed him, and because she'd never needed him, he was unnecessary, a man she was bound to but had no use for, and she resented him for it.

No, that was wrong. She had found a use for him once. Running a hand through his greying hair, Dastan remember the joy he'd felt when she'd come to him in a passion, pulling him towards the bed chamber with a look in her eyes that had nearly given him a heart attack. It happened night after night for three months and then she disappeared for two days. It was only when he overheard two gossiping courtiers that he learned she was pregnant. Nine months after that, and barely nine words spoken between them, Tamina went into labour and banished Dastan from their chambers. Three days later she emerged, tired but satisfied, cradling their baby girl.

"This is my daughter, Farah." She had said softly. Dastan approached her and touched her shoulder, surprised when she didn't flinch away. Looking down at the sleeping baby he knew he was in love. Farah was perfect.

"She's beautiful," he said, reaching down and placed his hand in hers. Her tiny fingers tightened weakly around the tip of his finger and he could barely breathe. Tamina looked up at him as though he were a stranger.

"Would you like to hold her?" She said. Dastan looked at her hard. Her pupils were dilated and breathing was relaxed. He realised that she must have taken something, either to calm herself down or to get rid of the pain, but either way, she was not acting like herself. Swallowing the hopeless despair that even as the father of her child, she could not find it in herself to love him; he said that he would love to hold her.

"Hello Farah," he said, rocking her gently when she started to squirm, her tiny limbs clumsily clawing the air as she scrunched up her face in her sleep. "I'm your father," he could feel his hands shaking slightly. Facing down hordes of warriors, scaling walls and leaping death defying heights didn't make him at all nervous, but holding this little bundle of a person was taking all his concentration. "Hello," he said again. He could think of no other words to say to her. She squirmed a little harder and without a word Tamina took her from his arms.

"Your arms are more used to holding a sword then a child, Persian," she said coldly. Her frown softened as she gazed down at Farah, "But you've given me a baby girl. At least you can do one thing right."

It was at that moment that Tamina appeared, her slim body slipping through the moonlight like a shadow and tearing Dastan from his memories. She settled on the edge of the bed, her smooth, tanned back to Dastan.

"Did you have an industrious day?" he asked, the faintest hint of humour colouring his words. She didn't turn, speak to him or acknowledge him in any way. Sighing wearily, he slipped under the silk sheets and rested his head on a well muscled arm.

Another day passed without them exchanging a word.

Right, there's chapter one, please do tell me what you think!

Macs