Noblesse oblige
Dastan does not remember ever sitting down to eat a meal. He has always had to eat out in the open, on the go, or find a minute in hiding to swallow what he's stolen so it isn't discovered on his person. So when King Sharaman sits at the head of a long table, Dastan looks to Nizam who motions for him to join them.
Dastan does, sitting on the floor between them. He has never had to sit in a chair before, and doesn't think it's what they want him to do - perhaps chairs are for adults, but they want him to sit with them and this way Dastan feels more comfortable in these fine surroundings.
Nizam and Sharaman exchange looks over his head.
"Dastan, what are you doing, sitting on the floor?" Nizam asks softly, looking to the table and the five plates set there. There had been one set for Dastan beside Nizam and Tus.
"I don't like chairs." Dastan declares, and it is clear he is stubborn enough not to budge again if asked. Nizam shrugs with a smile, and this once Sharaman decides to indulge his brother and the boy he has brought into his home and let the boy sit on the floor with its shining and polished stones. It is probably the finest floor that Dastan has sat on.
Nizam glances to the staring servant and speaks.
"Send for his Highness's sons, and get a cushion seat for the prince." With a nod, the servant goes to obey.
Nizam motions to the dishes and eating tools in front of him. Dastan looks at each of them carefully, he has been careful not to touch anything since stepping foot into the place, as if afraid this is a ruse to get him to steal and send him away with a missing hand.
"I'm not noble, I'm nobody." Dastan mumbles, but both royal born brothers hear him.
"You are the king's son - my nephew, and that makes you a prince of Persia. You will behave like one." Nizam explains, though among the royal family, things will not be so strict. It is not unheard of for the royal family to have its secrets, not every child and wife of the king is recorded or announced; such matters are kept private, in the personal rooms of the palace which no servant should ever enter for they are kept by the guard.
It is not unusual for a king to keep his family spread over Persia, so why his two elder sons had accepted the boy as a brother, even if they have never heard of him; neither Nizam nor Sharaman have explained more then that this boy is their brother, the king's son, although Nizam knows it will not be long until they know the truth of it all. Dastan does not seem inclined to keep secrets.
"Or what?" It is not a threat; the boy truly wants to know what the limit is.
"You will be punished." Dastan grows pale, at such a vague answer and Nizam looks to Sharaman, startled upon the reaction.
"Father, I..." Tus comes through the door to the side, and it opens in perfect view of the king and his uncle sitting side by side, with the boy who was introduced as his brother sitting between them - at their feet.
"What is he doing there?" Tus is so startled at the sight, he says it out loud. The servant behind him approaches Dastan with a seat cushion, setting it beside him, and the adopted prince does not get up, but scoots onto it.
"He is to live here now." Sharaman states, with a small smile.
"Father, what is he doing on the floor?" Tus asks, flushed at being so caught off guard in front of his new brother, who stares at him with wide blue eyes.
“I don’t like chairs.” Dastan says boldly, the first words Tus has ever heard him speak.
“Is that so...” Tus muses softly, but Dastan only smiles. Tus takes a seat beside his uncle, and only a while later does it take Garsiv to join them. The second prince is the closest in age to Dastan, and he eyes the other boy, his brother, sitting on the floor, but says nothing. There is an empty seat at the table and it clear but unspoken to Dastan that it was meant to be his. He feels guilty and stands from his seat cushion, going to sit between his brothers.
“Nice of you to join us, little brother….” Garsiv says, and while Tus knows him to be teasing, his younger brother has a sharp tongue. Dastan doesn’t flinch, but he squirms in his seat.
Servants trail in, one by one, with dishes that Dastan has never seen; they are put on the plate platters, and it is clear enough that this is what he is to eat. Dastan has never seen so much food in front of him at once, and all of it for him to eat. He is hungry, and where his stomach is supposed to be is instead a sudden gaping pit.
He takes up a bowl of soup in his hands and tilts it to his lips, slurping. Sharaman clears his throat.
There is silence when he puts the down to bowl. It is strained, surprised, and stunned.
“You will use a spoon next time.” Nizam states, eyes fixed on Dastan, who nods agreement; cheeks flushed red as if he’s been burnt.
“Where were you brought up?” Tus asks Dastan softly, for he can not imagine his father allowing one of his sons to be raised this way. Perhaps it is why Sharaman brought Dastan to his palace in Nasaf, his safekeeping having resulted in being raised in ignorance to his nobility.
“Not far from here.” Dastan says, simply, and not meeting Tus’s eyes. Tus puts fork into his cooked meat, and cuts it into small neat pieces. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, that much is obvious - but he won’t push Dastan, yet.
“You eat as if you were starved.” Garsiv murmurs, eyeing his young brother from head to foot; he is small looking, slender as a bird. Garsiv has trained to lead the Army since his birth, he has seen starved soldiers. Dastan shrugs, his answer matter of fact.
“I was.” Everyone does, Dastan does not finish saying, for the hot fury that burns in the eyes that meet his own.
Tus puts down the diced meat on his fork. Dastan eyes the bread before him, and wonders if he will get the chance to eat it - and how to go about doing so.
“What does he mean by that, father?” Tus hisses, looking to King Sharaman.
“Exactly as he says, he has had a hard life for one so young. His birth was not a noble one, but his sprit is one I recognize as a noble king.” There is such budding fondness for Dastan in Sharaman’s voice that Tus is reassured by it.
“Where does this noble spirit come from, if not of our blood?” Garsiv tilts his head, regarding Dastan still. Dastan tries not to be bothered by that stare. It is strange, he feels pinned in by it, trapped. He has never had so much attention focused on him for so long.
“I don’t know.” Dastan tells the silverware. His chest is tight, and his words come from somewhere warm and hurting though he feels he should choke.
“I haven’t any parents to tell me. I will go now, sir. Back to the streets, it is clear I don’t belong here. Whatever lesson this was intended to be, I don’t think I have the wit to learn it.” Dastan stands hastily while they are speechless; taking up the bread from the table with his bare hands and tucking it into the pockets of the fine clothes he had been given to go along with a warm soak in the first bath he’s ever seen. He doesn’t wait to be dismissed before he runs.
He hears shouts, his name, and the clattering of a chair hitting the floor.
Then a yell that may very well doom him to death; “Guards, catch him! Don’t let him get away!”
Dastan has always had the slums around him, buildings, alleyways and allies, and places he knows he can hide. Here, in the heart of the palace, there is nothing familiar to him. It only underlines how strange his being here is. In the end, Dastan does not have a chance to get away to familiar things. He’s caught when a passageway ends in double halls which both have guards waiting for him; one of them reaches for him. Dastan thinks only of that man who wanted to cut off his hand and he screams as loud as he can.
He does not notice that guard’s eyes widen, that he hastily flinches away from Dastan. Twisting and jerking off his feet, in a effort only to get away - he hits the floor and crawls away into warm robes and a soothing voice.
“It’s all right my boy, your safe, I’m here, I won’t hurt you - I won’t ever let them harm you - Dastan, do you hear me?” Sharaman croons; he holds the too small and slender body, feeling his pulse hammering like a hunted thing. Dastan drags in a broken breath, blinking past teary eyes up at the King who claims him as his own son.
“Why won’t you let me go?” Dastan asks, weakly. He is only a boy with a noble spirit, whose body is weak, who is afraid and has had good reason to be all his lonely life.
“You are my son.” Sharaman answers in the only way he can. Everything about the meal he wanted to have with his family, when it finally felt whole, went wrong - but what he says is a wrongness that is right.