Second Grain of Sand ◊ Brotherhood
Warnings: Spoilers for Dastan's origins, head canon
Effects: [Optional] Feelings of not belonging
Privacy: Public
Light feet pads into a marble hallway in the highly decorated Palace, their sounds barely audible over the normal bustling of the servants all around the running child. The boy, barely over ten years old, has dark brown unruly hair and piercing blue eyes. Anyone that knows Dastan well can easily recognize the boy as a younger version of the Prince. Quick steps come to a halt as the booming voice of another child fills the hallway and the blue eyed boy leans flat against the wall, just strides before a half open door:
"….Why did you take him in, Father? Are Tus and I not enough for you? Have we done something to disappoint you?"
"Garsiv….My bringing Dastan in from the slums has nothing to do with the love I bare for you and your brother. And, perhaps you and your brother could learn from him, as he will learn from you two."
The child in the room snorts, his voice dripping with disgust: "What can he teach us, Father? He is nothing more than a street rat!"
This time, the King’s voice raises and Dastan can hear the heavier steps of his newly adopted father:
"Nobility! And perhaps a hint of gratitude towards what kind of life the Gods blessed you with, son."
"What does he know about nobility, anyway? His blood is as dirty as the horses’ waters!"
Dastan looks down at this: the Prince, the real one, has a point. He does not belong here and no matter how much the maids scrub him or the Vizier tells him how to act on his first dinner with the King, Dastan knows a street orphan has nothing to do within the complicated life and habits of the Royal Court.
The boy turns sharply around as he struggles to keep the wetness in his eyes within, berating himself for believing in this feeble dream. But instead of taking the steps to evade the Palace, he collides with the bigger body of an older boy, his face calm though a smile seems to want to rise from it.
"Even for a Persian Prince, eavesdropping is not polite, Dastan."
If Dastan is barely reaching his teen years, this one is well within half of them. His hair is wavy and a pale brown as the King’s, but gentle grey eyes look down at Dastan. The boy instantly recognizes the teenager as the Crowned Prince Tus of Persia and he bows lowly, eyes to the floor. The older male reaches for the younger one’s chin, his firm grip pulling him up to look at him:
"Persian Princes don’t bow nor look at the floor, either. Unless our father commands it, little brother."
The hint of a smirk on Tus’ lips indicates that the young man is only trying to help Dastan and the newest Prince is slowly nods, opening his mouth to thank him when he is roughly shoved away from the heir by a another boy, barely a few months older than the newly adopted orphan. This one has black, curly hair tucked into a small braid, dark eyes glaring in anger at Dastan.
"Move out of the way, street rat!"
"Garsiv!"
Both of the King’s blood sons look at one other, measuring each other’s determination. Garsiv is the first one to narrow his eyes before giving a small nod to Dastan.
"I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘Move away, little brother’…"
Even if the middle Prince uses the endearing term the oldest one has used moments ago, he says it with much venom that it doesn’t sound the same to Dastan. The black haired boy turns around, taking stomping strides away from his brothers.
"If you really plan to indulge in Father’s fantasy of turning him into a Prince worthy of that name, Tus, I’d do something about his hair and clothes. Even though they are Uncle Nizam’s, an undershirt and pants five sizes too big is not very regal looking."
With that said, without even looking back, Garsiv disappears around the corner of the hallway and Tus wraps an arm around the smaller shoulders of Dastan, leading him in the opposite direction.
"Do not worry about him, little brother. With time, he will warm up to you. But, for now, he is right. We need to find you better clothes."
The Crowned Prince smirks slightly, raising an eyebrow slowly, his pale eyes twinkling with mirth:
"And I happen to know that the maids are washing some of Garsiv’s favourite shirts. How about we go and see if some fits you and put dye in the washing waters of the others, mh?"
Dastan can only smile and nod with a soft chuckle. Perhaps he can stay a little while longer, today. Perhaps he can wait before running away, wait to see how this can evolve…
[Dastan wakes up, eyes fluttering open slowly. He fixes the ceiling for a moment before putting an arm over his face. No secret is going to stay buried in this world, truly.]
Effects: [Optional] Feelings of not belonging
Privacy: Public
Light feet pads into a marble hallway in the highly decorated Palace, their sounds barely audible over the normal bustling of the servants all around the running child. The boy, barely over ten years old, has dark brown unruly hair and piercing blue eyes. Anyone that knows Dastan well can easily recognize the boy as a younger version of the Prince. Quick steps come to a halt as the booming voice of another child fills the hallway and the blue eyed boy leans flat against the wall, just strides before a half open door:
"….Why did you take him in, Father? Are Tus and I not enough for you? Have we done something to disappoint you?"
"Garsiv….My bringing Dastan in from the slums has nothing to do with the love I bare for you and your brother. And, perhaps you and your brother could learn from him, as he will learn from you two."
The child in the room snorts, his voice dripping with disgust: "What can he teach us, Father? He is nothing more than a street rat!"
This time, the King’s voice raises and Dastan can hear the heavier steps of his newly adopted father:
"Nobility! And perhaps a hint of gratitude towards what kind of life the Gods blessed you with, son."
"What does he know about nobility, anyway? His blood is as dirty as the horses’ waters!"
Dastan looks down at this: the Prince, the real one, has a point. He does not belong here and no matter how much the maids scrub him or the Vizier tells him how to act on his first dinner with the King, Dastan knows a street orphan has nothing to do within the complicated life and habits of the Royal Court.
The boy turns sharply around as he struggles to keep the wetness in his eyes within, berating himself for believing in this feeble dream. But instead of taking the steps to evade the Palace, he collides with the bigger body of an older boy, his face calm though a smile seems to want to rise from it.
"Even for a Persian Prince, eavesdropping is not polite, Dastan."
If Dastan is barely reaching his teen years, this one is well within half of them. His hair is wavy and a pale brown as the King’s, but gentle grey eyes look down at Dastan. The boy instantly recognizes the teenager as the Crowned Prince Tus of Persia and he bows lowly, eyes to the floor. The older male reaches for the younger one’s chin, his firm grip pulling him up to look at him:
"Persian Princes don’t bow nor look at the floor, either. Unless our father commands it, little brother."
The hint of a smirk on Tus’ lips indicates that the young man is only trying to help Dastan and the newest Prince is slowly nods, opening his mouth to thank him when he is roughly shoved away from the heir by a another boy, barely a few months older than the newly adopted orphan. This one has black, curly hair tucked into a small braid, dark eyes glaring in anger at Dastan.
"Move out of the way, street rat!"
"Garsiv!"
Both of the King’s blood sons look at one other, measuring each other’s determination. Garsiv is the first one to narrow his eyes before giving a small nod to Dastan.
"I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘Move away, little brother’…"
Even if the middle Prince uses the endearing term the oldest one has used moments ago, he says it with much venom that it doesn’t sound the same to Dastan. The black haired boy turns around, taking stomping strides away from his brothers.
"If you really plan to indulge in Father’s fantasy of turning him into a Prince worthy of that name, Tus, I’d do something about his hair and clothes. Even though they are Uncle Nizam’s, an undershirt and pants five sizes too big is not very regal looking."
With that said, without even looking back, Garsiv disappears around the corner of the hallway and Tus wraps an arm around the smaller shoulders of Dastan, leading him in the opposite direction.
"Do not worry about him, little brother. With time, he will warm up to you. But, for now, he is right. We need to find you better clothes."
The Crowned Prince smirks slightly, raising an eyebrow slowly, his pale eyes twinkling with mirth:
"And I happen to know that the maids are washing some of Garsiv’s favourite shirts. How about we go and see if some fits you and put dye in the washing waters of the others, mh?"
Dastan can only smile and nod with a soft chuckle. Perhaps he can stay a little while longer, today. Perhaps he can wait before running away, wait to see how this can evolve…
[Dastan wakes up, eyes fluttering open slowly. He fixes the ceiling for a moment before putting an arm over his face. No secret is going to stay buried in this world, truly.]