Cairo, 1125

The blue robed Amir looked down at the figure on the floor.

He was a mess to say the least. Two soliders were binding his wounds while a doctor supervised their work.

"Will he live?" The Amir's question was without emotion.

The doctor glanced up. "Yes, he has a strong will and does not want to pass from this world just yet."

The Amir grunted a response.

The torn figure below began whispering something over and over again. He could just hear the words.

"shukran....shukran...shukran"

Nodding the Amir said quietly to no one; "Aafwaan, my boy. Aafwaan."