a romance for the ages
Aug. 8th, 2009 09:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenMore Prince of Persia! A love story, of sorts. Sorry, Elika, but you weren't the first lady in the guy's life...
“So, I've heard the story,” he said, because in some places he was known as the Prince of Many Tales. Or the Prince of Tall Tales. Or the Prince of Flat Out Lies but the first sounded the best so he went with it. “That there was once a famed princess, whose beauty was only matched by her cutting retort.”
The donkey, munching the candies he’d bought in the bazaar, gave a lazy belch.
“I think I’ll call you Farrah,” laughed the Prince. He gave the animal a pat between her raggedy ears and leaned over her striped neck to call, “Hey old man, how much?”
“Too much for you,” spat the merchant, busy strapping the packs onto one of his many camels. It was a basic forty-man caravan, parked by the watering stations on the outer skirts of the elegant city Tadmor. “She’s bound East, with the rest of our company. So unless you’re a Prince of the Orient…”
“On my mother’s side, funny enough!”
The man gave him a beady look and made a meaningful reach to refasten a specifically spear-shaped bundle strapped to the second camel’s side.
“Look,” said the Prince, leaning over the post. His arms were scarred from many fights and it probably didn’t help to make him look any more reputable. The donkey nudged his arm, hoping for more candies. “You’re not going to take a donkey over the Zagros, are you? She wouldn’t make it a day. It would be a damn waste, and you know it. Now, if you just let me take her off your hands. I can give you a whole iron duck’s worth for her.”
“Not enough.”
“Then you’re just gouging.”
“Question my business practices any more and I’ll alert the city guard,” spat the man. The Prince couldn’t help but feel for the guy. It had to be rough, left behind to man the camp while the rest of the crew had gone off to drink honeyed wine and ogle Greek dancing girls. “The ass stays here.”
“You got that right,” muttered the Prince, stalking away. The donkey’s ears swiveled after him. He gave her nose once last pat. He gave her reins one last nick of his knife and left, trailing dust and candies from the suddenly very prominent hole in his bag. If he happened to find the odd girl prodding around his door later that evening, and if that girl happened to be a raggedy old donkey, well, who could cast the blame on him? He was a popular, in some lands. It came from being a Prince of Many Tales.
“So, I've heard the story,” he said, because in some places he was known as the Prince of Many Tales. Or the Prince of Tall Tales. Or the Prince of Flat Out Lies but the first sounded the best so he went with it. “That there was once a famed princess, whose beauty was only matched by her cutting retort.”
The donkey, munching the candies he’d bought in the bazaar, gave a lazy belch.
“I think I’ll call you Farrah,” laughed the Prince. He gave the animal a pat between her raggedy ears and leaned over her striped neck to call, “Hey old man, how much?”
“Too much for you,” spat the merchant, busy strapping the packs onto one of his many camels. It was a basic forty-man caravan, parked by the watering stations on the outer skirts of the elegant city Tadmor. “She’s bound East, with the rest of our company. So unless you’re a Prince of the Orient…”
“On my mother’s side, funny enough!”
The man gave him a beady look and made a meaningful reach to refasten a specifically spear-shaped bundle strapped to the second camel’s side.
“Look,” said the Prince, leaning over the post. His arms were scarred from many fights and it probably didn’t help to make him look any more reputable. The donkey nudged his arm, hoping for more candies. “You’re not going to take a donkey over the Zagros, are you? She wouldn’t make it a day. It would be a damn waste, and you know it. Now, if you just let me take her off your hands. I can give you a whole iron duck’s worth for her.”
“Not enough.”
“Then you’re just gouging.”
“Question my business practices any more and I’ll alert the city guard,” spat the man. The Prince couldn’t help but feel for the guy. It had to be rough, left behind to man the camp while the rest of the crew had gone off to drink honeyed wine and ogle Greek dancing girls. “The ass stays here.”
“You got that right,” muttered the Prince, stalking away. The donkey’s ears swiveled after him. He gave her nose once last pat. He gave her reins one last nick of his knife and left, trailing dust and candies from the suddenly very prominent hole in his bag. If he happened to find the odd girl prodding around his door later that evening, and if that girl happened to be a raggedy old donkey, well, who could cast the blame on him? He was a popular, in some lands. It came from being a Prince of Many Tales.
