#sargsan

WORDCOUNT: 3,225

SPOILERS FOR “PRINCE OF PERSIA: THE LOST CROWN”

WARNINGS: Slight descriptions of gore, suicide ideation (only for one paragraph!), mentions of child abuse/neglect, self-hatred, implied sexual content (past!)

“You need to rest.”

Sargon looked over to Ghassan, and his gaze softened. “I will be fine once we get back to the Haven. There’s a Wak Wak there that’ll patch me up.”

Ghassan didn’t like that answer, but every time he voiced his concern, Sargon would just repeat his reply:

“I’m fine, the Wak Wak will heal me.”

“It looks bad, I know, but it’s nothing that damn tree can’t fix.”

“Ghassan, I know you’re worried, but I’ll manage until we get to the Haven.”

“Look, I survived worse.”

Ghassan figured asking a mockingbird to change its tune was pointless so he continued the rest of the journey in silence, taking note how Sargon limped with every step and the slower reaction times to enemies. He dispatched what few hostiles they ran into with no issue of course, but Ghassan knew that Sargon was faster than this. The Rashabar was exhausted.

By the time Sargon announced that they had arrived at the Haven, Ghassan was ready to tie down the warrior himself and force him to take a break, if only for a few minutes. As they passed an open tent with an elderly woman brandishing an impressive-looking stick, a small girl bounded up to Sargon and planted herself in front of him. Ghassan watched as Sargon’s determined expression melted into fondness and he stopped his march.

“Sargon!” the girl exclaimed. “You’re back!” She then took notice of Ghassan standing behind him. “Oh! Is this the prince you were looking for?”

Sargon chuckled. “Yes, he is. Ghassan, this Fariba.” He gestured to the girl. “Fariba, this is Ghassan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Fariba,” Ghassan said, smiling through his concern for Sargon.

“Likewise!” Fariba returned, before squinting at the ex-prince. She then got a devious grin on her face. “You were right Sargon: he is handsome! I can see why you like him so much-!”

“ALRIGHT! We gotta get to the Wak Wak. So, goodbye Fariba!” Sargon blurted out, stopping Fariba from finishing her sentence, but the damage had been done, and Ghassan could see the blush creeping up Sargon’s shoulders and into his cheeks. Ghassan gave a small chuckle, and Sargon whipped around to glare at him, as if to say, “Dammit, don’t encourage her!”

Fariba giggled and bounded away, Ghassan hearing her shrill voice beginning to pester the old woman in the tent. He turned to Sargon and murmured, “You think I’m handsome?”

Sargon groaned. “I should’ve just left you at the Simurgh’s Gate.”

That got a laugh out of Ghassan and they continued deeper into the Haven. There, in the middle of a platform, stood a golden tree. It was modestly sized, and as the leaves swayed in the gentle breeze, the gentle notes of windchimes could be heard. Sargon’s gait picked up noticeably, and he quickly limped his way over. Ghassan stood back, watching as the Rashabar pressed a hand into the glowing bark. Golden ribbons of light danced down from the leaves, caressing Sargon’s body. The warrior sighed and leaned his head against the bark as well, and Ghassan watched with a morbid curiosity as Sargon’s wounds knitted themselves back together. Sargon only flinched once as a deeper wound on his arm stitched itself together, gritting his teeth and forcing a breath out. Finally, the light faded and Sargon stood up a little straighter. The injuries were gone, but not the bone-deep exhaustion, and Ghassan could see it.

“See?” Sargon turned to Ghassan, extending his arms to show that there were no injuries hiding. “I’m fine.”

“Physically, yes,” Ghassan agreed, but his tone turned hard. “But mentally? If your clothing has anything to say, it would seem you have been running yourself ragged.” He waved a hand over Sargon’s state of dress. He was caked in dirt and blood and Simurgh knows what else. The cuts and scrapes had no evidence of existing, but the blood was still there, dried onto Sargon’s skin. “Have you let yourself rest?”

Sargon opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut, thinking twice.

That would be a no then.

“I don’t have time,” Sargon argued, annoyance beginning to seep into his tone. “Every moment I waste is just more time for Vahram to reach the Simurgh’s heart.”

“There won’t be any time if you keep going like this!” Ghassan countered.

“Orod and Menolias were counting on me to make this right.”

“Then they would have died for nothing if you perish on your way up the tower!”

Sargon stilled at that, a distant look glazing over his eyes. Sargon didn’t show emotions easily, but Ghassan could see that he had struck a raw nerve. He sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Ghassan murmured, edging closer to Sargon. The Rashabar didn’t move. “That was unfair of me. But Sargon….” Ghassan reached out a hand and gently squeezed Sargon’s bicep. “Please rest; if not for yourself, then for me.”

Sargon had a conflicted look to him, and Ghassan sighed. He took Sargon’s hands and led him to the wall nearest to them. He let go and he sat himself down, leaning against the brick. “Alright, down here.”

Sargon raised an eyebrow before he realized what Ghassan was offering, and he blushed once more. “Nafasam, I can’t-”

“You can and you will.” Ghassan left no room for argument. Then in a softer tone: “Please…”

Sargon looked embarrassed as Ghassan continued to hold out his arms to him. “Come on.”

The Rashabar looked over his shoulder to where Fariba had run off to and then back to Ghassan. Slowly, he lowered himself down and into Ghassan’s lap, resting his head against the other man’s chest. It was awkward, but soon Sargon began to curl around Ghassan’s body, and, blessedly, relax. The prince wrapped his arms around the exhausted warrior, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into Sargon’s skin.

Sargon still had a tenseness to his frame, and Ghassan sighed. “You’re safe,” he whispered, making sure only Sargon could hear him. “You’ve done such a great job; you deserve to rest. I’ll be here when you wake. I promise.” Whatever spell Ghassan had cast, it worked quickly. Sargon’s body slowly relaxed in his hold, and his breathing began to even itself out. Then, suddenly, Sargon was dead weight, and Ghassan had to maneuver both of them in order to sit comfortably against the wall.

Ghassan leaned his head against the wall, but let out a growl when his crown hit the rock, the metal making a clinking noise of displeasure. With a frustrated groan, Ghassan tore off the trapping, and had to stop himself from throwing it across the room, instead, opting to place it gently down at his side. He knew his anger and frustration would do nothing. If anything, it would succeed in making him look like a child throwing a tantrum…

Just… so much had happened. It was a normal night, but then Anahita came and ruined it. Or maybe, it was Thomyris’s fault? Either way, now he was stuck on a cursed mountain with the threat of a new, vengeful god being born. On top of that, his mother is a usurper, and his whole life a lie, and he now had limited allies willing to help him. He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead into Sargon’s.

“Rough day?”

Ghassan’s eyes shot open and swiveled his head to the voice. There stood one of the Immortals – Artaban, Ghassan remembered- with a knowing look in his eye.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Prince Ghassan.”

Ghassan let out a humorlessly laugh. “Please… don’t call me ‘prince’, Master Artaban.” The older man gave him a weird look, so Ghassan continued: “Thomyris usurped the throne. I am not the rightful heir.”

Artaban nodded. “Did Sargon tell you that?”

“Of course,” Ghassan met Artaban with a challenging glare. “Are you implying that Sargon had lied?”

Artaban gave a chuckle and slowly sat down next to Ghassan and a slumbering Sargon. “Oh, of course not,” he reassured, his hands creeping to his mask and beginning to fidget with the golden metal. “The kid can’t lie; he’s horrible at it. The sky would sooner fall than Sargon purposely lying to someone.”

Something gave a metallic click, and Artaban gave a sigh of relief as he gently pulled away the mask covering half of his face. Ghassan tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to notice the ruined flesh and gnarled scars that adorned the left side of Artaban’s face. He quickly turned his gaze away when the Immortal tilted his head to get a better view of Ghassan. He must be blind in that one eye…

            “How did you get him to sleep?” Artaban asked, his rough voice dragging Ghassan out of his thoughts. The ex-prince looked down to Sargon, who hadn’t moved at all.

            “By telling him that if he died of exhaustion before stopped Vahram, that Orod and Menolias would have died for nothing,” Ghassan answered, and then met Artaban’s gaze. “I am so sorry about your loss.”

            Artaban squeezed his eye shut, trying to compose himself. “I am too, Ghassan. They were good men. Loyal to a fault….”

            “You don’t blame Sargon?”

            “Of course not. Sargon had no choice; he was forced to defend himself.”

            Ghassan nodded. It was a self-defense situation. One that had disastrous consequences.

            “He talks about you a lot.”

            Ghassan looked to Artaban. “He talks about me?”

            The older man chuckled. “Of course. You have been his driving force this entire time. He explained to you what happens in the original timeline?” When Ghassan nodded, Artaban went quiet for a moment. Then: “He was destroyed when you died. He was so upset to have survived the fall into the Depths. From what he had told me and what I had been able to gather from Fariba, he was planning on joining you if there wasn’t a way to reverse fate.”

            Both sat in contemplative silence, the only sounds being the windchimes from the Wak Wak Tree and Sargon’s sleep-heavy breathing. Sargon… Sargon was planning on taking his own life if Ghassan couldn’t be saved? The Rashabar, the Black Wind that destroys all in his path, had given up as soon as Ghassan was gone? Somehow the news of Sargon planning on taking his own life shook him more than learning about his own death.

            “I didn’t know that,” Ghassan murmured dumbly, not really knowing what to say.

            “I didn’t expect you to know that,” Artaban reassured. “Sargon isn’t one to divulge his emotions. But I can read him. Hell, I helped raise him when he became an Immortal, of course I can read him. And I had never seen him more determined before.” The Immortal looked to Ghassan; a cheeky look descending on his face. “I noticed that Sargon had stopped calling you ‘prince’ before we even got to this mountain.”

            “I had asked him not to,” Ghassan replied.

            “Did you tell him to call you nafasam instead?”

            Ghassan sat up straight, embarrassment painting his face red, and he pointedly avoided Artaban’s azure stare. “No, not directly…”

            Artaban chuckled. There was a beat of silence before: “You love him too, don’t you?”

            Whatever walls Ghassan had spent a lifetime erecting around his personal life and feelings came crashing down at the sound of Artaban’s sincere tone. Perhaps it was how Sargon trusted this man; enough so to call him father.

            “Yes,” Ghassan said, no hesitation in his answer. “I do. I love him so much it physically hurts.” He sighed and looked down at Sargon. There were new scars on his face; the Rashabar had explained them away with his fight with Vahram and his fall into the Depths. What worried Ghassan the most was the stab wound in his shoulder. It looked like the Wak Wak tree had stopped the worst of bleeding but the wound was still gaping and raw. Sargon blamed it again on Vahram, and it pained Ghassan to think of it scarring over, a permanent reminder of his leader’s betrayal. He looked back to Artaban. “I love him too much.”

            Artaban nodded, and gave a knowing chuckle. “I knew it. You two have something going for each other.” Ghassan narrowed his eyes in confusion, and the Immortal rolled his eye in mock annoyance. “Don’t think I didn’t see both of you sneak off after the ceremony on the last two nights, and with Sargon coming back drunk off something that was not alcohol. Not to mention the bruising on his neck and abdomen.”

            Ghassan felt a new wave of blush crash over him and he quickly adverted eye contact again as Artaban gave a laugh. It was boisterous but not loud enough to wake Sargon. Not that it would’ve; the poor Rashabar was dead to the world around him.

            “Hey, don’t be embarrassed, son,” Artaban placed a hand on Ghassan’s shoulder. “Next time, just be a little more conspicuous about it, lest the Queen sees.”

            Ghassan scoffed at that. “I couldn’t give a damn as to what she sees.”

            Artaban gave a grunt of agreement. Then: “What comes next?”

            Ghassan sighed. “I… I don’t know. I honestly have only been thinking about surviving this horrible mountain. I haven’t really had time to think of what I will say to my mo- Thomyris when I see her again. If I see her again.”

            “I cannot imagine the choice that lies before you, son,” Artaban said gently, “but I have faith you will do the right thing.”

            “What is the right thing?” Ghassan asked, his voice desperate for any kind of guidance. He was taught Persian trading policies and how to rule a country. He had no idea on how to move on from this.

            Artaban shrugged, not callously. “I don’t know, Ghassan. But I do know Sargon will be behind you, no matter what. As will I and Neith.” He chuckled. “She has also had enough of this bullshit.”

            Ghassan huffed out a breath in amusement, before his face fell back into a frown. “We could keep this a secret; that Thomyris usurped the throne, but the people deserve better. It’s been thirty years of plague with her as queen. I think the gods were punishing us…”

            “Punishing her.” Artaban corrected. “Ghassan, this isn’t your fault. You were born into this misery; you had no choice. And, with how Thomyris rules with an iron fist, I doubt there would’ve been much that you could’ve done to help undo the damage she had caused.” Artaban lowered his voice. “Son, I’ve heard the rumors about her striking you. About her neglecting you.”

            Ghassan swallowed thickly, a weird sense of fear washing over him. No, you can relax, his inner voice soothed. He’s safe. Sargon trusts him. So can you.

            “They aren’t rumors, sir,” Ghassan murmured, not making eye contact with the other man.

            Artaban let out a sad sigh. “I feared as much.”

            “I don’t want to go back to that. To her, sir.”

            “I understand, son. But,” Artaban made sure Ghassan was looking at him, “you need to go back, to see this through, if only for a little while. Sargon will be with you, and, if you’ve learned anything about him, he will tear Thomyris apart if she tried to lay another hand on you.”

            It was comforting to know Sargon would stand in opposition to the queen he had fought wars for. Just for the anxious mess that was the crown prince- now proven a fraud. But, even if Ghassan couldn’t see anything worth protecting about himself, Sargon did. So much so he brokered a deal with the god of chaos to save him. To the point where he was forced to fight his brothers in arms, and where he had had to watch as they took their final breaths, their demises at his hand. To where he was willing to stand against the White Lion of Persia, the man who taught him everything about Immortal life and who had mentored him. Sargon loved him. Sargon loves him. Sargon, one of Persia’s most feared warriors, the Black Wind that destroys everything in his path, loved him. A fraud. Even now with the truth revealed, Sargon still had this undying devotion to him. A devotion that wouldn’t be smothered, no matter the circumstance.

Ghassan was overcome with emotion, and he had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, lest he start crying in front of an Immortal. Artaban had a sympathetic, understanding look.

            “Sargon is a good man,” he whispered on a shaky breath.

            Artaban nodded. “Aye… he is. I would take credit for his selflessness, but the Simurgh knows I could’ve never raised a man like that.” He smiled fondly down to Sargon, who was still asleep. “I don’t expect you to make a decision right this instant; think on it and really contemplate, but I hope that knowing that Sargon will stand by your choice makes it easier.” He put a hand on Ghassan’s shoulder. “I believe in you, Ghassan.”

            Artaban and Ghassan would sit in comfortable silence for a moment, before the Immortal clicked his mask back on and pushed himself from the wall he was sitting against. He gave Ghassan one last smile before making his way back to the little area he had taken up residence in.

            Sargon would sleep for another hour or so, and probably longer if the Rashabar hadn’t gone under with the sense of divine urgency gnawing at his nerves. And Ghassan was there, as he had promised, and ex-prince could see the relief on Sargon’s features as he awoke in the arms of someone he loved.

            Of course, it wasn’t as much sleep as Ghassan would’ve liked for Sargon to get, but he knew what was at risk and didn’t push the issue further. At least he had gotten him to rest a least a little.

            “We will meet you at the gates of the Hall of Divination,” Ghassan said, handing Qays back to Sargon as the Rashabar maneuvered Layla so he could slide it back into its sheath.  

            “I will meet you there,” Sargon promised as he took Qays and sheathed it next to Layla. “Please wait for me.”  

            “Of course…” Ghassan murmured, then, as Sargon began to turn, he shouted, “Sargon, wait!”

            The Rashabar stopped and faced Ghassan again. Ghassan launched himself into Sargon’s arms, mindful of the stab wound he had suffered in his shoulder. Sargon, surprised, stepped back at Ghassan’s weight, but quickly recovered and wrapped his arms around the ex-prince, holding him tight and close.

            Ghassan pulled away and pressed his lips to Sargon’s. The Immortal immediately returned the affection; it was nothing passionate, but it meant more than any intimate kissing.

            “I love you, nafasam,” Sargon whispered into Ghassan’s mouth.