DUDE. THERE ARE ONLY LIKE 3 STORIES HERE WITH TUS IN THEM! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?

Luls. I love me some Tus. XD So, this story is the missing scene for how Tus reacts to his father's death-for the next...er, 'chapter', you should take a look at Anjaden's story 'Broken Bonds'. :3 It is amazingness on wheels. And also is about Garsiv. Yey Garsiv!

In that vein, I would like to give a huge, gigantic, completely over the top THANK YOU to my lovely editors and best friends, Anjaden and Mya Kirne, who is the best big sis ever (you should read her stories too and comment-she's having a rough week *sadface*). I love them so much, and there is no way this story would've made it here without them. THANK YOU!

Tus stared blankly down at the words he had so carefully written across the parchment, not wanting to believe that it was true, that it was a letter written by his hand that would deliver the news of his father's death to Persia's allies.

His father's death.

Tus pushed himself back from the desk sharply, letting his chair hit the wall, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly. Getting angry would help nothing, getting angry would help nothing. Tus knew that. He walked over to the window and let his head rest against the cool pane, trying to focus. He knew getting angry wasn't the way to fix anything…

But knowing it and applying it were two entirely different things.

Tus was suddenly very glad he had asked to be alone; it wasn't often he lost his temper, and it was rarer still that someone was around to witness it. Because in truth Tus knew that it was immature and stupid to even want to throw a tantrum, but Tus reasoned (in the loosest definition of the word) that every man would come a bit undone if he had just witnessed…

Tus turned sharply away from the window and bumped straight into a small wooden table—the corner hit his knee, and that damn well hurt. Letting out a string of curses at the table, Dastan and everything and nothing, Tus kicked the table's leg, hard, not only knocking it over but sending it careening away from him, sending the table of meaningless trinkets crashing down.

Garsiv was right. They had too much useless finery lying around. Tus got a sick sense of pleasure from hearing them clatter and break upon contact with the cold stone floor. He stared at the mess he'd made for a few moments, then slowly looked back out the window, his hands still clenched at his sides; he looked out into the inky blackness past the city lights; his brother—no, the man he had called his brother was out there somewhere.

But staring out into the Alamutian desert could not distract the young prince from something all the more alarming: his own reflection. He did not look like a man who had just achieved a great victory against a treacherous enemy. He did not look like Prince Tus, the diplomatic level-headed brother—for a moment, Tus fancied he rather looked like Garsiv: angry, chest heaving, nearly foaming at the mouth like a wild dog had bit him. Tus looked…far from sane. Somehow mixed with all of the rage Tus saw in his own eyes, he saw what he knew to be true—he was broken. His careful outer shell, the one that his brothers saw and teased him for, the one he worked so hard on, was cracked in more ways than he could count. He was broken. The only man that had ever been able to fix him couldn't anymore—he had died today at the hands of one he had called family.

Tus clenched his jaw and turned away from the window, his nails leaving small trenches in the palms of his hands. Sometimes he wished he was like Garsiv, who had the benefit of being angry all his life—nobody thought anything of it if he went on a rampage throughout the castle, glaring at and inspiring fear in the poor servants, but if Crowned Prince Tus ever attempted something like that, he'd be sent straight off to the doctor for fear of a head injury.

Tus smashed another table of meaningless decorations, sending the wrought gold against the far wall in a very satisfying way. He absently wondered if this rush was why Garsiv acted the way he did—Tus had never felt so free in his entire life.

And then he remembered that his father—their father—would never get to feel free again. He would never get to tell stories again, or whisper encouragement in Tus' ear, or show him how to be a good King someday…

Tus swallowed thickly and looked back out the window, his fingers digging painfully into his palm, but not in anger like just a moment before—no, it was now because of the nearly unbearable sadness that had been threatening to overtake him all day.

"Why, Dastan?" Tus asked out loud, not breaking his gaze from his reflection. "Why are you so anxious for me to rule?" Tus himself certainly hadn't been in any hurry; he would have been more than pleased to wait another ten, twenty years—hell, half a century before ever taking the throne. If only the gods would have blessed Sharaman and his people in such a way…

But no. Instead, they had chosen to inflict Tus on them.

"Why, Dastan?" Tus repeated much more weakly, much more quietly; his was no longer the voice of a Prince-turned-King, but of a brother who had been…betrayed, stabbed in the back, hurt in the worst way possible. "Why Father?"

Tus let out a shuddering breath and shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head quickly. This would do no good. There were letters to write, allies to reassure, coronations to attend…

Coronations. His coronation.

How could people possibly expect Tus to willingly accept the throne that was practically still warm from where his father had been sitting in it? How could Tus force himself to take the crown that his father had said mere hours earlier that he was not ready for? How could he ignore his father's wishes?

Because he's dead. His mind answered him, making the young man feel physically nauseous an instant later. His father, his father that he loved so much, his father that he idolized, his father that was possibly the best king Persia had ever seen couldn't just die. He couldn't have died knowing his son had murdered him.

But he did. His mind told him again. Tus took a deep breath. Dastan had been his son only in feeling, never by blood. He was not a brother to them anymore, not to Tus nor to Garsiv—he was an outlaw who had fled seizure after murdering the very man who had saved him from gods-knew-what out on the streets. He was a bastard and Tus would see to it that he was executed for his crimes.

Taking another deep breath to steady himself, Tus looked back at his reflection. Yes, he was starting to look more like himself, less like Garsiv (that is, homicidal and generally somewhat crazy). More controlled, less likely to be breaking valuables like a fussy child. More…kingly.

Tus nearly vomited.

Shaking his head, Tus went back over to his desk and carefully picked up a candle that had gotten knocked over at some point—Tus wasn't sure when—onto the woven silk banner that was laid out across the front of his desk. Perhaps Sharaman was still with him—after all, that candle should have burnt the banner and the desk to a crisp.

Yes, Tus decided, sighing heavily as he picked up the parchment again, Sharaman was still with them—his family, his sons.

Speaking of his sons…if Tus was ever going to bring his father's murderer to justice, he would need Garsiv by his side. Rolling the parchment carefully, he tied it and stamped it with his father's seal, then set it on one of the few remaining tables in the room and headed for the door. Garsiv was probably already ready and rearing to go—

Garsiv. That gave Tus a moment's pause—if Tus himself, the one who wasn't famous for his temper, had done this much damage with emotions he knew how to handle…

His brother needed him much more than his country did at the moment.

Okidoke, guys! That's it for Tus for now, and remember-if you want to see how Garsiv reacted to it, check out Anjaden's 'Broken Bonds'~ So, if you have any suggestions for what the next installment in poor Tus' life should be, leave a comment! I read them all and you will not believe how much it encourages me to write (hint: A LOT). If there's something you think that wasn't in character or was in character, leave a comment! In short...please comment? Please?

And that's enough rambling from the author. Hope you enjoyed it!
~Julie