Small dreams about street gangs and reading my Farsi diary to strangers brought my head to the edge of a grey, cobbled street. One side of the street held a grand, sturdy wall, made of grey bricks and running the length of the road for a hundred feet or so. The other side of the street showed a wild, deep green forest, and the start of the road came from there as well. Along the wall, a few heavy doors and archers windows could be seen, although the place was entirely silent and still but for two people.
I watched as a handsome man was led by the hand by his sister. He was sitting awkwardly on a fat, black pony and looked extremely uncomfortable. They arrived at the start of the road and walked silently along the grey wall, him wincing and confused, her very clearly trying to look unconcerned and cool. The two passed by a large triptych of fountains, ornate and hinged together on their edges. Inside, delicate gold and lilac fish swam around lazily. There was a small hole in the bottom of each fountain (that may have brought in fresh water from below).
As the couple walked past the fountains, the man lifted the first fountain, which hinged to the one on its left, and he emptied its contents into the next. When he set it back down, the water was gone, and one small, orange fish was caught in the hole at the bottom, her silky flesh ballooning strangely. "For all of our uses, we're too easy to forget," he said sadly, half laughing, watching the fish growing dry. His sister smiled knowingly, (somehow) lifted the central fountain, and poured its extra water back into the empty fountain. The stuck fish swam back into the water, unharmed. She nodded at him, mumbling, "There's always room for you."
They continued to walk, and soon made their way to a moderate courtyard branching off the road. This, too, was cobbled, and they stepped gingerly through the space towards a man at the far end. A chubby man with a purple cloak and a stupid-looking face stood next to a large, languid basset hound. "Kneel for the King," he shouted loudly, not looking at them. The brother turned around and saw a teenage boy seated beneath a stone arch, his eyes watching them narrowly.
He made his way toward the young king, and when he was in front of him, attempted to dismount his horse. His face magnified oddly, and I could see the horrible burn marks across his face, still fresh. He looked up at the king apologetically, and attempted to drop to his knees in respect. As he moved, I saw that his body was made of long, white blades of ice (one for the torso, two for each arm, and two for each leg). The pieces jumbled comically as he made to kneel, swinging about madly, uncontrollably. The court rang with laughter, but his sister's mouth tightened and she started to cry. He collapsed on himself in the effort and sat in a pile of his new body parts, his face ashamed and full of sorrow. He had been disfigured terribly somehow in the war, and had returned to his new king as little more than a jester.
