Aravis names him Rahmat, and he grows up to be the splitting image of her brother in all but expression. In no time at all, even the fiercest of Aravis’ slanderers fall silent, for there is no questioning the piercing dark eyes that instantly recall Rabadash Tisroc’s lineage — nor the way his brows draw together when he is angry, or the brightness in his delighted smile (so rare and twisted in Rabadash, but so purely joyful in Rahmat).
Rahmat grows up, and for a long time does not question the miracle of his birth, nor the tale of Aravis Tisroc, builder of bridges, bearer of the child of two Tisrocs, who rode pregnant into battle. Yet he notices the silence from his mother when his father is mentioned, the stormy glare in his Uncle Khalid’s eyes, the way his Uncle Ishamiel steers the conversation away.
A Prince in his position cannot be raised to be naive, and so he learns of the cruelty of child marriages, of the depravity-clothed-in-luxury that once ran rampant in his palace, of the inhuman practices still practiced outside of Tashbaan. Aravis Tisroc allows him to hear every testimony, even from a young age, that he may learn of the plight of his subjects and take part in its resolution. He hears every account, that is, but his mother’s own.
Still, it is not until he is nearly a man, in conversation with his cousins, that he comprehends the terrible truth of his parentage—of his mother’s age upon marriage, and the conditions in which he must have been conceived.
For many months, riding through deserts and gorges among people who do not know him on mission after mission in the Tisroc’s name, Prince Rahmat wonders how many times he has been his mother’s tormentor—his every childish glare and thoughtless comment a reflection of his father’s violence, his very existence the unwanted souvenir of the darkest years of his mother’s life. He wonders at the pain he has caused, and at how he may take it away, and it is so burdened that he returns to Tashbaan—victorious in name but ashamed at heart.
But now, wandering the palace with an adult’s eyes, he accidentally catches a glimpse of his mother’s private quarters—of the long fingers threading through her hair and cradling her cheek, of the low murmur of a Tarkaan’s voice, of how a kiss the Tarkaan presses to the corner of her mouth prompts laughter so carefree that it may have belonged to a girl. It is a glimpse of love, born in the greatest adversity and sustained in secret over nearly two decades—a love that raised Rahmat, too.
It is only then that he sees in himself what his mother has always seen: that the dark fire in his eyes is not cruel, but impassioned; that his brows do not hold a shadow of violence, but stubborn intelligence; and that his smile is not the descendent of a depraved Tisroc’s delight—but the offshoot of a rare blossom none but Khalid Tarkaan’s closest are permitted to see.
AU-of-an-AU - Rahmat instead of Ram
Rahmat grows up, and for a long time does not question the miracle of his birth, nor the tale of Aravis Tisroc, builder of bridges, bearer of the child of two Tisrocs, who rode pregnant into battle. Yet he notices the silence from his mother when his father is mentioned, the stormy glare in his Uncle Khalid’s eyes, the way his Uncle Ishamiel steers the conversation away.
A Prince in his position cannot be raised to be naive, and so he learns of the cruelty of child marriages, of the depravity-clothed-in-luxury that once ran rampant in his palace, of the inhuman practices still practiced outside of Tashbaan. Aravis Tisroc allows him to hear every testimony, even from a young age, that he may learn of the plight of his subjects and take part in its resolution. He hears every account, that is, but his mother’s own.
Still, it is not until he is nearly a man, in conversation with his cousins, that he comprehends the terrible truth of his parentage—of his mother’s age upon marriage, and the conditions in which he must have been conceived.
For many months, riding through deserts and gorges among people who do not know him on mission after mission in the Tisroc’s name, Prince Rahmat wonders how many times he has been his mother’s tormentor—his every childish glare and thoughtless comment a reflection of his father’s violence, his very existence the unwanted souvenir of the darkest years of his mother’s life. He wonders at the pain he has caused, and at how he may take it away, and it is so burdened that he returns to Tashbaan—victorious in name but ashamed at heart.
But now, wandering the palace with an adult’s eyes, he accidentally catches a glimpse of his mother’s private quarters—of the long fingers threading through her hair and cradling her cheek, of the low murmur of a Tarkaan’s voice, of how a kiss the Tarkaan presses to the corner of her mouth prompts laughter so carefree that it may have belonged to a girl. It is a glimpse of love, born in the greatest adversity and sustained in secret over nearly two decades—a love that raised Rahmat, too.
It is only then that he sees in himself what his mother has always seen: that the dark fire in his eyes is not cruel, but impassioned; that his brows do not hold a shadow of violence, but stubborn intelligence; and that his smile is not the descendent of a depraved Tisroc’s delight—but the offshoot of a rare blossom none but Khalid Tarkaan’s closest are permitted to see.