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Arslân grows up in the beloved lands of Maryam. Itâs an oasis compared to the arid lands of Pars for the sun is fierce but gentle, the wind blows yet sand does not follow and his people walk barefoot in the desert, treating it as nothing but a warm caress against their feet.
Arslân loves the seashore, the gentle, salted breeze, the soft melody of soaring birds in the infinite sky. He sits on the pontoon like a common man and soaks his feet in the cold water, feels the wind chilling his cheeks and tangling all of his hair, something he knows his dear cousin will complain about as soon as he returns. Â
Gieve sits beside him, quietly. Arslân did not see him coming, but truthfully he never does. He looks at him from the corner of his eyes, smiles at the grief barely concealed under his face. His cousin has never been one to let despair court his joy away, prefering to shrug his duties away with a flirt of his lips or the hundred songs of his Dozaleh. There are not many reasons that would allow such gloom to overcome him. Arslân has a feeling he aleady knows which.
âWhatâs wrong?â He still asks, if only to fend off the ineluctable for a few blessed moments.
âThe prince of Pars died in the night.â Gieve answers him, his voice already mourning him.
And then, then Arslân sighs. He looks up to the horizon, the deep blue sky of Maryam. Balances his feet in the water, can feel it gently dripping from his ankles.Â
Gieve clenches his hands around the soft fabric of his clothes. His rage is held solely by the respect he has for his cousin, and the selfish wish not to make it more painful than it oughts to be. Than it alrady is, with a cut far too deep. âAn emissary will come in the following weeks.â
âAlright.â Arslân nods, and the strings which puppetted Gieveâs fury away break.Â
âHow can you be so calm?! â He yells and cries out, seizing him with both of his arms. âTheyâre stealing you from our home!â
âItâs my duty.â He simply says. Not because he wishes to believe it, but because he must. âOur kingdom promised if the prince were to die, we would send an heir to replace him.â
âItâs either that or they march in armor on our lands and burn our people to the ground.â Arslân snaps. âParsâ hunger for power has no limits, they already hold my mother as a prize for conquering our country. Do you want me to let them take everything else?â
Grieveâs answer is but a long sigh. The silence falls along it, as if it had been the far sound of a horn.
âI donât want you to go. Theyâre barbaric. Who knows what might happen to you.â
Arslân shrugs. It does not mean he dismisses the gentle care he hears in his retainerâs words, âIâll be fine as long as the king treats me as his heir, and itâll be easier since mother is the queen. I guess they will pretend I had a weak constitution and was only brought home after the tragedy. Really, itâs as simple as this.â
His voice goes down in a whisper, escaping through smirking lips.Â
âWho would feel threatened by a kingdom in ruins, anyway?âÂ
Gieveâs mouth opens agape in awe. âYou cannot be serious.â
âWhat if I am?â Arslân stands, fists clenched. âThey expect a bird trapped in a golden cage, a fragile and scaredy prince from a nation long subdued. I will show them of which metal the people of Maryam are forged.âÂ
Arslân extends a hand toward his friend, his cousin, his retainer - his accolyte, even, a soft smile barely covering the anger, the determination under. âWill you help me?âÂ
Gieve is surprised, for a moment. But if his prince, if Arslân asks for his help to restore Maryamâs glory and sow sorrow on the ones who wronged their people, how can he refuse it to him?