"Cast into the soil your feet, for today we will die, and return to the earth as naught but bones and food, but where we die we shall drag a thousand men down to the depths for every one of us that dies, for we are of the Andhvarids, the great rulers of the Khosroshar, the children of Urava, the protector of the Khosro, the Light of civilization that fights those of darkness who oppose it, and we will not go silently into the deep rock." Arsaces flipped over the page of the manuscript, its ancient parchment smelling of grass and vanilla. It seemed that various pages had been lost. A shame. Having scoured through the libraries for weeks, the young prince had been trying to complete his thesis on Tiridates III, and it seemed that many more materials were only half-done or censored by over-enthusiastic priests and bureaucrats.  

Sighing, he closed the book, placing it on his lap as he stretched his legs and arms out. He was an Andhvarid himself, like his entire family was, and he smiled as he imagined himself living up to the hallowed name, leading great armies to conquer new lands and rescue fair maidens.  

Well. That would never happen. Things were different now though. Tiridates' time had been one of civil strife, when the empire had threatened to fragment. But here, the empire had already fragmented. Expelled from their ancient capital, the Andhvarid Shahanshahs had been replaced by a foreign king under the banner of the Yoghurk Olmezids, and the two dynasties had been caught in a deadlock for the past 40 years.  

An hour had passed since he had been called here, and he had been waiting here patiently, but he felt bored now, having completed his research. He looked up towards the door, the two mute slave-guards standing besides it.  

They were dressed in heavily decorated mail, the motifs of elephants garnishing their steel chestplate. Heavy, steel masks of silent eyes and pursed lips had been attached to their ceremonial helms, giving them an unnatural, almost haunting look. Arsaces stood up, bored, and started looking into one of the mask's eyes. Nothing of note. Their wearers didn't twitch. it was now that the prince noticed that, even discounting their elevated sabatons, he was easily taller than them, and larger to boot.  

"Take your mask off." Arsaces commanded, and the mask came off, revealing a young boy no older than 20. His features were serious and dour, devoid of any emotion, almost like their masks. The only thing he was missing was that beard. He didn't have one either, come to think of it. Ghostly slaves, trained since birth to be as still as statues. 

The young prince heard a door open, and a large, bearded man stomped out. He was tall, though still shorter than Arsaces, and much more muscular and bear-like. His face was heavily scarred with one eye missing under a black eyepatch, though a majority of those were covered up by his bushy black beard. His hair, curly and long, was tied up into a bundle at the bottom, and he wore a cap, signifying that he was the Shahzade, the crown prince and designated heir to the Andhvarid Empire.  

Arsaces recognized him as his father, and stepped back a step to avoid being in his way. He stomped off into the distance, muttering to himself about something, frustrated and angry.  

His son quickly skirted out of the way to his side, too afraid to ask what had happened. Ever since his mother had died, the relationship between father and son had crumbled, and neither had tried to bridge it. Arsaces mostly out of fear for his rough and capricious father, and Darius for reasons unknown to anyone but himself. 

"Ashk. Come in." A dignified, royal and tired voice called out. Arsaces turned towards the voice, recognizing it as his grandmother, Myron Karenid. She was a small, motherly woman, the wife of Shahanshah Khosrow Andhvarid, her husband and his grandfather.  

Prone to ancient legends, she had been his caretaker in youth, when he lived in the silver dome which housed Myron her staff, as his mother had been too ill and busy to do it. She was a strict old woman, and was as prone to using bamboo canes as she was to cooking exorbitant amounts of food. Arsaces bowed slightly.  

"Yes, your grand kindness.", he uttered with trained discipline. Protocol was important, even within family, and he followed his grandmother into the bedroom of his old and infirm grandfather, and the old Myron motioned Arsaces forward, before closing the door behind him. "What happened between father and grandfather? Father looked unhappy."  

"Its his excellency and his majesty, Ashk. Remember that." Myron reminded him with some frustration, and Arsaces suppressed a sigh. Protocol was important, but that didn't mean he was good at it. All attempts at trying to make him remember the idiotic court rituals had failed, and at most he could only playact them like a chimpanzee as a human. It was tiring, burdensome, and most of all, irrational, or so the young princeling felt. The old lady spoke on, looking towards the door, obviously thinking about her only surviving child.  

"It's nothing, really. Just a little argument. His majesty is in that room, Ashk. Please do be careful, he is very ill." With that, the old matriarch left the room, off to chase her son, leaving Arsaces to himself. Myron had always been an overbearing woman under all that maternal instinct. Maybe that was why the emperor disliked her so. They did not have the most welcoming of relationships.  

Many times, Arsaces had found himself interrupted by his grandparents arguing or facing off, and he couldn't help but wonder why they stayed together. It made no sense to him. Was it politics, or was it simply because they had no one else anymore? 

The Shahanshah's bedroom was small, but grandly decorated.  A large balconey was the centerpiece allowing Arsaces to see out over the city of Xanthii, and a large painting of his divine greatness, Lord Urava, hanged from a wall. The chairs and tables had been forged from highly valued materials, and dozens, if not hundreds, of books lay perfectly arranged in theiressy, stacked formations, indecipherable to none but the King of Kings himself. Khosrow, sixth of his name, and the Shahanshah of the Khosroshar, Dominus of the Realm of the Andhvarids, turned to face his young grandson. 

 The two couldn't be more different in appearance. Whereas Arsaces was tall and wide, his grandfather was hunchbacked and frail. Whereas the grandson had the eyes of a lion, filled with boundless energy and focused ambition, Khosrow's was full to the brim of past regrets and sorrows.  

He smiled politely at his only grandson, and in a weak voice, called him forward. To add to his withered looks, the elderly Khosrow, who stood at a venerable 76 years old, had a pale, ill-looking yellowish skin, and was rapidly coughing into a bowl, as the court physician, a Nikelo slave by the name of Oribasius, stood by mixing some herbs and medicines together. The old king had consumption, the illness of the lungs. Oribasius had predicted that the old man would die by the end of the year, if lucky. Seeing him now, Arsaces found that hard to believe.  

He looked so ill, so frail. Arsaces felt something well up inside himself, and suppressed it. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't want to find out.  

"Come here, Arsaces. Sit by me, here. I want to talk to you." Arsaces nodded, but first, moved to a nearby table, taking the bejeweled jug of water and filling a similarly bejeweled cup. He wondered how many rubies and sapphires were adorned on them by poor miners as he cured his parched throat.  

"Do you desire wine or water, grandfather?" Grandfather. Yes. Khosrow had asked his young grandson to be informal around him. He was an old man, tired of protocol, and was eager for the only family member who which he was on friendly terms with to be honest with him.  

The words seemed unfamiliar to the young prince. Grandfather. 

"Ah. Water. And make sure to use a different cup Arsaces. I don't want your taint on it." The old man cracked a laugh at his own joke, and Arsaces responded with a laughter of his own.  

The Shahanshah was infamous for his bad jokes and worse timing, something which Arsaces himself had, unfortunately, inherited. People still laughed at the jokes though, but even the obtuse two men knew they were faking it. Sycophants and yesmen plagued the courts no matter where they went. Refraining from cracking these jokes seemed like an impossibility though, for both the older and younger man, and in recent times, following Khosrow's deteriorating condition from illness and old age, he had grown more and more eccentric, his bad jokes becoming even more tasteless then they once had been. This was a new low for him. "Taint". He had said. He was lucky the young and immature Arsaces found it genuinely funny. The two men shared many things in common, including their horrid sense of humour. This had led to them becoming close friends. 

The young prince picked up a different cup and poured out a cup for his grandfather, then moved to sit by his side, passing the bejeweled cup to the old man. As he did so, the old king examined the cup carefully, turning it from side to side, checking the bottom, then the top. "I wonder how old this is." He sighed out, and placed it to his side. "Well. Arsaces. How have you been recently? Is the schooling well? How's the reformed education system I've implanted? Is it good? What are your friends saying?" 

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"The schooling has been well, grandfather, though many of the nobles oppose it. It seems that it's too close to the system that has been in place in the Tianxia Empire. They think you're copying them too much, and that you're losing touch with your roots, though even they have to admit that it has its benefits, they don't think its befitting a noble. Not like I care. The larger emphasis on scholarly works is great." Arsaces replied, and breaking with his formality, stood up, struck a pose, one hand to his chest and the other raised in the sky, fingers reaching towards the stars. "By the shroud of death am I taken, and by the shroud of history am I forgotten." 

"Kavadh Yummarid? That posturing sophist? Hahahahah! Oh, you're in for a ride, my boy. I met him once, back when I was in the society of bronze. He didn't impress me then, and he still doesn't impress me, that damn bootlicker." Khosrow laughed out, his every word stinging of spite. Both Khosrow and Arsaces were scholars, and the old king had been his tutor throughout his youth, taking personal guardianship of the young boy and introducing him to the world of books. The young Arsaces, who had since a young age been captured by history and legacy, took to it like a fish took to water, and had developed into a skilled scholar, on the way to being one of the best out there. 

"And yet, he is a skilled orator, is he not grandfather? He is one of the world's foremost legal experts, and his orating will be remembered in the books for years to come. The lecturer talked about your competition with him once, when you two fought for 3 years over vultures, on whether they were born from eggs or made of the essence of the wind. His logic was impenetrable, though you did an extremely good job yourself." Arsaces countered. 

"True. As a legal expert and orator, hes amongst the legendary greats such as Cyrus Spitama and Yusuf. But as a truth-seeker? Hah. Lies upon lies. He depends entirely on intellectual tradition and emotional biases to carry him to victory. He has no critical thinking. Just because no one has seen a vulture give birth doesn't mean they're born of essence of the wind. Just because Cyrus Spitama said it a thousand years ago doesn't mean it’s true." Khosrow paused for a moment, and then looked about him, slightly blurred. "Uh. What was I talking about? Ah. It doesn't matter. What are you doing now then? I heard you were working on a thesis on Tiridates III. You were born on the same day he was, if I remember?" 

"Yes, grandfather. He amazes me, to be honest. I believe that he is the pinnacle that all men should reach for... well. Excluding his hatred of the Literati, that is. Investigation of the natural world is essential to us." Arsaces grabbed his cup of wine, finishing it in one swell sweep. 

"Recently, I've been attempting to complete a thesis on Tiridates III. The research materials that you have offered me have been of much help, and my progress has increased by leaps and bounds. It’s a shame that many of the materials are only half completed or half-destroyed... If only I could be in Sociokak. 3000 years of history. God. It would be a wonder to be there, wouldn't it." Arsaces spoke out, his childish glee showing.  

"I've been there once. It was a difficult journey, and I almost lost a hand when I tried to steal some of the books. Hahaha. It was hard to get in though. The Herbads and Mobads were on their toes and they had presumed that I was an agent sent by my brothers to spy on them. Well, I suppose when your father retakes the world, you will be free to visit there and take as many books as you desire. Discounting that, there is still a wealth of books in Pars." Khosrow reminisced, seemingly talking at Arsaces, not to him. 

"Have you forgotten, grandfather? The library in Pars was burnt down years ago back during the siege. What we have now are it's remnants." Arsaces replied, a hint of confusion in his voice. Grandfather's memory tended to be sharp, his wit even sharper. To see him forget something so important... well, Arsaces believed that he was truly at deaths door now. It was now that the young man took his time to examine his grandfather.  

His skin was greying, his eyes shallow, and he seemed smaller than ever. Was his spirit leaving his body already? Arsaces wondered. The old man had lived a long life, but to say it was fulfilled... well. That was to be an overstatement. Khosrow had tasted defeat and failure for his entire life, and what small successes he had were rewarded with even larger failures.  

Despite it all, he had endured.  

And here he was, dying.  

"Ah. Yes. Burnt down... Well, Arsaces. May I ask you of something?"  

Arsaces tilted his head in surprise. Khosrow didn't tend to ask for things. "What is it, grandfather." 

"Well. You know, me and your father have not had the best of relations. I'm close to death now, and I want to make sure that I can leave this earth happily, so just sit here and listen to this old man's ramblings." He seemed as if he was reflecting on something, something which he had lost a long time ago, that was in the realm between material and immaterial, untouchable by all except he who held onto it.  

"You've seen the damage we've done. I wished to make amends, but it seems that the gap is too deep. I will die soon and I wish to go on into the great rock without this one major regret, but if that is not possible, then my wish turns towards you." Khosrow had relented, and was now looking into his golden cup. 

He looked towards his grandson, the usual sadness in his eyes replaced by something different, a bitter regret. 

"A few moments ago, me and your father had an argument over the usual. Military. You know how your father is. He wants to reconquer our lost lands, and I don’t. I know you have those ambitions too." Arsaces nodded 

Yes. It was true that he desired to retake the lands, but he had never been such an active participant in the court politics of pushing and shoving their own ideas for the betterment of the state. 

"If I die. When I die. Your father will march on the Khosroshar and intend to reclaim the empire. I mean. Everyone knows that" He completed, giving a bitter laugh. 

Continuing on, he muttered out bitterly. "He will marshal all our forces, but I fear that it won't be enough. Alp Arslan, that damned monster, will destroy him, and you too. I don't know if this will come through, but I have called a close ally here. This has been planned for a few months, and my friend will arrive soon. I'm sure you've heard of him, the Taishang Huangdi Xi Yinghou."  

Arsaces nodded, slightly shocked. Yinghou was, had been, the emperor of the Jinguo, a large and fearsome continent spanning empire that had united 150 years ago, after centuries of civil war, if civil war could go on for hundreds of years. They were a fearsome people, and Arsaces had heard many tales of the Celestial Emperor. He had destroyed 50 tribes and killed all their children. He had exterminated the nobles when they rebelled in a great rebellion, years ago, and he and Khosrow had worked together to subjugate and build a new road connecting their two empires, a symbol of their friendship that they had brought about from mutual gifts.  

Yinghou was apparently now a retired man, and little information was known about him, much of the court records having been burnt under his order. He was enigmatic, and possibly the most feared man on the other side of the Hamadan mountain range. Khosrow and Yinghou had apparently not been in contact for years, longer than Arsaces himself had been alive, but if it was true that Yinghou was coming then that would be a great help for Darius' military campaign.  

"That’s great but shouldn't there be a price or something?" Arsaces asked, both happy to have such a formidable ally, yet cautious, having sensed that Khosrow wasn't finished. 

"Well. Yeah. Hes said that the price will be a marriage for his ward, Xi Jiangshi." Khosrow completed, scratching the back of his head. 

"Ohh. That’s quite bad, isnt it?" Arsaces said, turning away, his fingers under his chin. He had a sister, Azarmidokht, and selling her off would be a safe bet to ensure an alliance but nonetheless, he was still selling off his own granddaughter. That was normal sure but it wasn't like anyone really liked it. It was just necessary. They were all tools after all. 

"Well. Heres the thing. Jiangshi is a girl and..."  

"Then father then?" Arsaces asked, his interest further piqued. "But. Hes still mourning mother. Its only been 2 years since... oh." 

Arsaces eyes widened, and he gave a desperate, haunted smile. He pointed his finger towards himself, his hands trembling.  

"You should see your own face, Arsaces" The old man gave a hoarse laugh, but quickly turned back into his prior state.  

"Yes. It is true. You will be the one getting married. I told your father about that earlier and it seems that I've only made him angrier. He says that I'm sacrificing family members to foreigners who he doesn't even want. He wants to reconquer the Khosroshar with only the forces we have at hand and his own charisma. But he just doesn't understand that damned empire like I do." Khosrow lamented, his voice becoming more frustrated as he carried on, the voice of a man who was bitter and angry at life coming through his weak and frail veneer. He begun to cough once again. 

Arsaces rushed towards him, patting his back as he coughed violently into his cup of water, a mixture of unhealthy-looking blood and phlegm coming out of his coughing mouth. When it was over, he looked at the cup, and placed it next to his chair. "Get me a new cup will you. I need some water.."  

As Arsaces ran off to do his task, his old grandfather continued now, obviously intent on completing his lamentations before he could cough again. " 

Your father is a damned fool. Sometimes I wonder if he's even my son. He's more like Yazdegerd then anything, that damned hero. Looks like him too. Have I ever told you about Yazdegerd? That idiot ran around, using his wits and his charm to gain the power of the people and look what happened. He died. Your father obviously hasn't learnt anything at all. History repeats itself over and over and over again. You, me, Darius..." 

He stopped to take a deep drink of water from the cup that Arsaces passed over, looking at his grandson as the young prince took a seat. "I must ask for your forgiveness, Arsaces. I'm sorry that I must steal your freedom simply to placate that damned fool of a son of mine, and this accursed empire. I never wanted to place this fate on you two, but I can't just abandon everything. I'm sorry." 

"I understand grandfather. In the end, everyone has his own fate, and I suppose that this was mine. I trust your friends judgement that his ward isn't an absolute monster." Arsaces finally said, giving a winning laugh yet at the same time still slightly shocked at this revelation. 

"I wish I trusted him as much as you did." Khosrow said enigmatically, his eyes watching the city skyline. 

"Hey... Arsaces. Go get that. A messenger falcon is here." He muttered out, and soon enough, one lands on the balcony, an unusual one.  

It wore a silver headpiece, and it's claws and beak seemed to be plated with steel, or something similar to it. It wasn't anything the young prince recognized. As Khosrow attempted to crawl out of his bed to pick it, Arsaces placed his hand on his grandfather's shoulder, shaking his head. Instead, he moved over and let the bird saunter arrogantly over onto to his thick glove. 

 Picking it up, he carefully unwrapped the message tied to it's leg. As he moved over to a falcon perch to allow the falcon a resting place, he realized that it had been blinded. Where its eyes would be, there were only two chiseled rubies.  

He noticed other differences as well. It had been decorated in the exorbitant styles of the Jinguo, the silver people from the north. As he unfolded the letter, he passed it to his grandfather, who read it silently for a moment, then, in a sudden rush of excitement and, or, fury, jumped into a flurry of action. 

 "Get me a horse. Call the men, and get everything ready. That bastard's come early again. If he thinks this is fucking funny then I'll show him funny. Call your father, grandmother, and sister too. I need everyone to get ready for that damned bastard by the end of the week. No. 5 days." Arsaces moved back in shock, unsure of what to do, then rushed over to help his grandfather up as he tried to crawl out of his bed. Who was this 'bastard' anyways.   

Was it Yinghou? But if so why call him a bastard?  

Arsaces pondered asking his grandfather what the hurry was, but upon seeing his furious face, he decided not to. The old Shahanshah was even fiercer than grandmother could be. He didn't want to be the one to fire the powder keg as he had done so many times. Though, the young man couldn't help but wonder. Who could drive the ill and frail Khosrow, who was so reluctant to even get a cup of water for himself, into such a frenzy? 

-=0=-