The prince loved the world, and loved living in it. He would walk for hours in the scorched desert, barefoot, with nothing but the strength and the purity of the heat for companionship. Sometimes he'd sit under a palm-tree and watch the trickle of caravans disappearing beyond the horizon and the air over his father's city shimmer in a haze of ancient magic and history. Happiness comes easily to him. There is slow, steady rhythm to life, a pulse external to his own that he shares with the city and its busy streets and its sun-baked houses and everyone he meets. He soaks in the waves of timeless reality and belonging that flow from this place like rich honey. His time is his own and nobody judges his existence. He feels strong and free and capable of anything. He watches from the outside and does not yet know he's on his way to becoming a ghost.

--P