Author Notes: Wow, so I've returned to this fandom waaaay later than I said I would! This idea has existed for a while, but I've just not quite had the words to put it together. I finally got it written as I have at last persuaded my beta, Chemical Nova, that yes, she should write for this fandom :D Anyway, this is just a rather angsty oneshot because, let's be honest, you CANNOT have too much brother angst! Please enjoy!

Last Lonely Souls

This was wrong. It was all he could think. The only feeling, the only thought, the only confusion. There was no other way to describe it, the wrongness bleeding in and out of his anger, now crackling in the background of his mind, abated by the thought of just what he had to do.

He had snatched the crown from his uncle's burn-scarred hands, the pain in his own dulled by the sheer shock that permeated his entire being. It had been an action that had caused most of the court to freeze to a dead stop, registering the tension that hung as if by its own volition over the corpse of the king. Second son had faced second son, and even Nizam had not been fool enough to try to protest at the dark anger that had swirled in his nephew's eyes.

Garsiv would be the one to tell Tus. Garsiv would be the one to hand him the crown. Garsiv would be the one to carry the crown to Tus. To carry the crown Garsiv was never supposed to even touch in his lifetime. To tell his brother, to tell Tus...

His mind stuttered, and his thoughts just froze as he mentally choked down everything that was threatening to overwhelm his senses. One of Alamut's bells, deep and sonorous, rang out over the newly trodden city. A slow toll.

Tus would wonder what it was for.

Because Tus didn't know.

How could he? Why would he? Of all the... their father...Dastan...

"Garsiv?"

He hadn't even realised where his boots had led him. Already to the outer palace gates, his horse gone, and a too heavy, too unwanted yet precious object cradled in his throbbing hands. He just looked at Tus, up on his horse, flanked by two Persian guards.

He must have returned upon hearing of the strange rioting in the northern parts of the city, Garsiv decided detachedly, the commotion caused by Dastan's escape.

Tus' eyes clouded, and something must have read on Garsiv's face, because he could not recall his older brother ever looking upon him in such a way. Slowly, Tus dismounted, and walked up to Garsiv, impossibly steady hands reaching to gently take the object of love and hate from his little brother's hands. The death grip they had held since snatching the crown from Nizam relaxed immediately at Tus' gentle touch, and somehow, impossibly, Garsiv managed to meet Tus' confused gaze, letting his hands dropped like dead weights to his sides. His mouth was full of sand, his throat clogged, and from all that he had to tell Tus, of all the anger he felt boil within and scream across his mind, he could only choke out three words, "It's yours now."

If it had not been for the completely dead look in his brother's eyes, Tus would have immediately denied it all. It sounded like a fantastical fable; the wise, kind old king murdered by malice of a bitter adopted son who had always hidden his true nature.

But for Sharaman to play the king, and for Dastan to play the son?

It seemed as if the sky had fallen, and the sands had flown inwards to blind them. But here they were, in the silence of a cavernous hall, its ostentatious decorations mocking the sole two brothers as they stared at each other, too aware of the heavy crown staring at them from the table, and the sweep of the morning breeze as it worked to blow away the traitor's fleeing tracks.

Garsiv had at first refused to explain, or rather, had been unable to coherently voice what had happened beyond sharp single words, that when combined made no sense to Tus. Words like Dastan, poison and robe. Tus, despite his horror at holding the crown of the Persian Empire in his hands, had somehow functioned enough to steer his younger brother towards the inner palace and some privacy. Every few seconds, it seemed, they had been accosted by men of the court, their eyes demanding action and orders from the son who would now be their king. But they had just as swiftly moved aside. The elder brother might not be as quick to anger as the younger – for no one now could acknowledge Dastan as such – but his cold, controlled fury was clear to all should they dare to stop the brothers in their path.

Alone, Tus had sat Garsiv down, and finally, had been forced to listen to the whole, sordid tale. It made Tus physically sick to think that Dastan was so spiteful to their family that he would use a gift Tus had given him to kill their own father. To think that his blood brother had been forced to watch their father die, not by the grace of age or the honour of battle, but by a cowardly torture set upon the family by one of their own.

Tus' world seemed to close in, and for more than a moment, that was all there was. In one morning, his family had been rent apart. He would have to wear the crown, he would have to address the people, take on the mantle of leadership, and somehow make the right decisions while Dastan was getting further and further away, and Sharaman would never move again. He would have to put the call up for mourning. He would have to bring Dastan – his brother – to justice by any means.

A shaky breath as Garsiv seemed to gather himself, signalling intent to break the silence and voice what Tus barely wanted to think, "Let me go after him, Tu-" Garsiv broke off at his older brother's name sharply, with a choke, before he amended his words, "-my Lord. I'll track the murderer down. Let me do this." There was a half plead his voice that would have been swallowed by bitter anger to any who did not know Garsiv as well as Tus did.

It took a beat before Tus could recover from the unnatural timbre of his brother's voice as he called him by title and not name. It was just wrong. Kneeling before Garsiv, Tus nodded, "I would never presume to stop you in a task I myself do not think I would have the strength for. But before you take hoof to the wind, you will have these hands bound with poultice, little brother." Tus tried not to react beyond a catch of his breath as Garsiv visibly flinched at the loaded sentiment. The term of affection that would now only be his, as it had been so long ago, for both knew that Persia now only had two sons, "See the army surgeon if the Alamutian healers bother you, but I will not have you riding with your palms raw lest it leave you unable to grip a sword."

A weak smile from both brothers ghosted for a second at the idea of Garsiv ever failing to wield a blade, but the point was made. His hands had not been too badly damaged, as he had been pulled off their father very quickly by Nizam, but they throbbed still with the constant reminder of what had happened. He nodded, "I will pass there on my way to gather my men. I will leave immediately?"

The question hung, and however much Tus wished to have his brother by his side when he took up the crown that should not yet be his, he could not wish that upon his brother, who would likely go insane lest he take action. "That would be best, I am sure."

Garsiv nodded stoically, trying best to ignore the unfamiliar look in Tus' eyes, "I will not come before you again until I have found the traitor."

Tus blanched at the words, so similar to the vow he had made his father not a day ago, and suddenly Garsiv found his brother's hands tight on both his shoulders, forcing eye contact, "You will not swear that to me, and I do not accept your vow. Do not hold yourself to something I would not have of you. Dastan-" his tongue barely formed over the syllables, "- has already taken a father and a brother from us, I would not have him take another. I do not doubt your skill, brother, but I will not have him stealing your heart with an obsession to fulfil a promise to me."

Garsiv was confused for a moment, not truly understanding his brother's aversion to his vow, but recognising a deeper meaning. He nodded, "Very well. I will not rest in my hunt, but should I fail, I will see you in Avrat for the...funeral." His resolve stumbled at the last word, never having been comfortable with such ceremonies.

Tus averted his eyes as the pair rose to their feet, "I will try to join you, but I must fulfil my oath to our father." A hollow look fleeted across Tus' eyes, and Garsiv immediately knew he never wished to see such a thing on his brother again, "I promised him I would find the weapon forges in this city, and I will do so, even if I have to tear into soil of Alamut with my own hands. If I cannot stand before our father at the funeral, I ask that you do so for all- both brothers." Neither missed the trip, but neither mentioned it.

Garsiv nodded sharply, grasping tightly to his brother's forearm in farewell, who returned the grip with equal fervour.

How was it, to go from victory to defeat in but one moment?

How did the whirl of emotions feel, to whip from laughter to sorrow in but a twist of an action?

How could it be real, to begin as a family but end as shattered pieces of single souls, in the blink of an eye?

One action, one decision, and the proud crown of a dead king sits on a table next to the son who cannot yet bear to wear it. Miles away, the second son is lost in an anger driven hunt against the brother of all but blood, who is further separated still, lost to the desert shadows of a life and family ripped from him.

And the uncle, the loneliest soul of all, must but watch and wait, as the distance grows, and what once was family crumbles to dust, the bonds shattering even as the brothers vainly try to hold them together with bloody fingers, fuelled only by the tiniest sliver of disbelief they all secretly harbour against the truth of the murder that ruined their lives.

FIN

Author Notes: I would really love to hear what you thought of this. The end got rather abstract without me meaning it to, so I hope this fic worked as a study of the aftermath they never showed in the movie. Please review, and thanks for reading!