Archive of Our Own ^beta

The saddest thing was that everybody agreed, but nobody could do anything to change it.

Yes, of course children shouldn’t fight in wars. Of course they should be home, safe and protected from the stench of blood, the horrors of death. The battlefield was no place for someone who could walk underneath their horse without bending down.

Everybody agreed and yet, in the end, when enemy forces came closer and closer, when smokes raised over the horizon and told stories of death and destruction, there were those who looked into the future with the sinking feeling that for them there was no other choice. The Lusitanian occupation came crashing down on them like angry ocean waves, leaving them with no other choice than to gasp for breath and desperately try to stay afloat. Boys and girls who didn’t care about the grand plans of war tacticians had to leave their homes with the simplest goals leading them. Protect the family. Earn money for bread. Surv.

And when Arslan found himself on the bloodsoaked fields of Atropene, all alone but for a sword he had yet to learn to use correctly, he didn’t have a choice either.

He was still a child when he first killed a man. When he heard the cries of soldiers burning to death. When his father disappeared, taken hostage, and the fate of the whole country fell on his small shoulders and settled there. A child, still, when he learned of the lies behind the Parsian royal family, when he saw Lusitanians jump to their deaths in a bout of religious devotion that filled his bones with terror, when he was exiled by the king for what felt like nothing more than just existing.

When he learned that his enemy was not only mortal men, but also gods, and sorcerers, and magic so foul and corrupt it seemed to seep from his worst nightmares.

.

The three marzban of Pars stood outside the tavern, their backs resting on the wall, silently watching people go about their day. The city around them bustled with its usual evening activities, people shouted and laughed and ran around in the kind of coordinated chaos that was typical for big cities like Ecbatana. It was hard to imagine that just a few weeks ago those same streets were patrolled by the enemy soldiers, those same people were huddled at homes, scared and unsure of their future. Cursing their oppressors and praying for freedom. And now their wishes came true, Lusitanian army was gone and done for, and prince Arslan has returned to take the Parsian throne. The bards were already singing praises about their soon-to-be king, their fourteen years old hero.

Some of the people passing the tavern stopped for a bow or a curtsy, their eyes lingering on the three figures in surprise.  It was rare, seeing them like this. Not because they were standing by the tavern in the lower town, though that in itself was unusual as well, but because they were standing there together.

Twelve marzbans of Pars were the highest military officials in the country, the strongest fighters and most skilled leaders. Whether or not they got along with each other was never a concern, as long as they could cooperate on the battlefield. And, indeed, more often than not, begrudging respect for each other’s skills and stiff courtesy was their usual way of interacting outside of war rooms and battlefields.

And now, nine of them were dead, fallen in this war in one way or another, leaving the remaining three to carry on their duties in a completely new country, in a completely new era.

They stood outside the tavern, each deep in thoughts,  drinks they had beforehand warming them from the inside, taking the edge off the day, giving them a moment to gather their thoughts and find some balance after what they’ve seen last night.

They thought the war was over. They won the peace with sweat and blood, they returned to the city, to the country that would bear the scars of war for long years, and rebuilding it was their next mission. It would demand even more sweat, even more blood, and they were prepared to pay it.

But they had peace. They thought they could rest their weapons, at least for a little while.

And then the monster came.

It might have been human once, but definitely wasn’t any longer. It was slithering on the floor of the palace corridor like a snake, laughing at all their attempts to stop him. Kishward, Daryun, Kubard and Saam were all there, fighting with all they had. And they were all laughed off as nothing, weak mortals meddling in matters they did not understand. Saam was killed fast, taken from them in ways that escaped human comprehension. 

And the cold realization sent shivers down their spines, the realization that there were beings to which all of their bravery, all of their carefully crafted skills, meant absolutely nothing. 

On that night, in that corridor, four of the strongest men in the entire country stood against a single enemy and couldn’t land a single hit.

And on that night, in that corridor, there was also prince Arslan, fourteen year old boy, who somehow could.

 “I’ll say this. I knew he was not weak” Kubard broke the stifled silence in a straightforward way he was prone to. Where others preferred to let their thoughts hide in the privacy of their minds, Kubard refused to allow matters to go undiscussed, unresolved. “He’s not the same as he was before Atropene. What he went through… I don’t envy him. A weak man wouldn’t make it.”

And it was fascinating how these days the battle of Atropene became their measurement of time. There was a world Before and After, there were things that once were true but weren’t any longer, there were secrets protected and then discovered, there were people who one might have known, before, people who turned out to be someone completely different after all.

“I wouldn’t serve a weak master, too “ he shot a glance at Daryun, as if the black knight would jump to his master’s defense, indignant at somebody possibly turning down this kind of honor, for suggesting the possibility of prince Arslan being weak. But Daryun, while being loyal to the point of worship, didn’t force others to convert to his religion, and so he simply stood there, listening. “What I’m saying is, I shouldn’t be so surprised. But…”

And the fact that even Kubard lost his words spoke volumes.

“Let’s face it” Kishward picked up the thought. “Were the prince not present, all of us would be sharing drinks with Saam in the afterlife right now”

They all nodded, not too proud to admit that.

The scene would be almost comical, if it weren’t so viscerally terrifying.

A boy, small and pale, without so much as an armor to protect him from the beast three times his size. Charging right at its open maw with a small dagger as his only weapon.

“He didn’t even hesitate” there was awe in Kubard’s voice, yes, but there was also uncertainty. “He just. He saw the beast and just… rushed at it.”

The three of them were soldiers, experienced enough to know that true bravery looked nothing like the feats described by the bards in their songs. You could be hailed the greatest hero there ever was, and it didn’t matter, because on the battlefield where lives were at stake and destinies were severed in the most unfair ways, there were things that you saw that could make even the bravest of men stop right in their tracks. It was not shameful. It was not weak.

It was what made the decision to keep going truly heroic.

On that night the deep darkness was swirling in the corridor, clinging to their skin and choking their throats, and a creature with the face of a man but the eyes of a snake bared its teeth and laughed. It was a laugh that could chill the blood, that could rattle bones. No soldier was trained to face something like this. No one could be blamed for backing down. No one.

But it was as if Arslan didn’t even think of backing down.  He saw an enemy and acted, just like he learned to act during battles, during Sindra’s negotiations, during exile. He learned the hard way that being overwhelmed didn’t mean the time would stop and let him think, let him rest, let him deal at his own pace. No, he had to act, and act quick, act decisive, because the fate of the whole country could depend on his split second decision. And it didn’t matter if the enemy in front of him was an opposing army or a nightmarish abomination reeking of death and black magic.

Even Daryun, who was at Arslan’s side since the very beginning, was taken aback by what he saw in his master's eyes when he charged.

“Kishward is right” Daryun finally spoke “If it weren’t for our prince, we would all die”

And his voice was unsure. 

Because Arslan was kind. Some would even say soft, and in the world Before Atropene, when their country was led by Andragoras and the strength meant everything, the word took on the distinct meaning making people’s lips curl in not quite a sneer, but almost. Because soft was weak, soft was useless. And After Atropene many things about Arslan had changed, but not this. Arslan talked softly and smiled a lot, he forgave when he could and tried to be merciful when he couldn’t.

But he also survived Atropene when thousands of others didn’t, he survived Sindra and exile. And Kubard was right, weak people didn’t survive wars, not when they had golden helmets to show enemies just where to aim, not when they had a hateful father and bloodthirsty cousin, just waiting for any chance to get them out of the way.

And so Arslan was kind and soft and merciful, and he killed just enough enemies to make sure they wouldn’t attack again. And when he saw a monster in the corridor of his palace, he slayed it without a second thought.

Daryun furrowed his brows and he continued, voice getting strong, serious.

“He saved us last night. And that is an unforgivable misstep on our part. From now on, we will put even more effort into our training, be even more vigilant. We will find ways to battle the sorcerers, teach those ways to our men. We have to use every possible measure so that we will not put His Highness in unnecessary danger ever again”

Kishward raised his eyebrows and Kubard barked out a short laugh. “Trust you to get this kind of conclusion” he shook his head, bemused quirk still on his lips.

“Still… I agree with him” Kishward was smiling as well. It was small and weary, but a smile nonetheless. The events from last night shook them, but now it was time to find their footing again, and Daryun’s words managed to put things into perspective, remind them of their priorities. “Our liege shows unparalleled bravery in the face of the unknown. I’d say it’s the dream of every knight, to have a leader like that. Though it does put pressure on us, to match him and be worthy of serving him.”

Kubard laughed even louder at that, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Sure, why not. It’s been a while since I had a proper challenge”

And just like that, their crisis was over.

People kept passing them, busy with their everyday duties, blissfully unaware of monsters in the shadows, of sorcerers walking amongst them. The shopkeepers called on people to buy their products, travelers stopped by wells to share gossip, children ran around, loud and carefree. Some of the children were younger, some of them were older, some of them, perhaps, even fourteen years old. Three marzban looked at them, their silence thoughtful, their resolve strengthening.

The children should not fight in wars. They also should not be burdened with power and responsibility for the whole nation, they should be allowed time to be young and untroubled.

Everybody agreed. And nobody could do anything to change it.

What they could do, however, was stand by their master’s side, to guide and protect him, to aid in whatever way he would need them to, be it in rescuing their country, or freeing slaves, or fighting against the army of darkness itself.

And if there was one thing they’ve learned last night it was that no matter what the fate had prepared for them, their young king was going to look his enemies right in the eyes, not flinching and not backing down an inch as he took them all down.