In this place, lies do not exist.
And Ja'far opens his eyes to an endlessly starry sky.
xx
He's lost track of how many days he's been trapped among these ruins. Above him there are never clouds, nor does the sun ever rise; instead, the stars circle above him, tiny grains of sand in a vast cosmic ocean. Beneath his feet there is grass, but not like any grass he's ever encountered. It reminds him of the plains of long-ago visited grasslands, undulating far beyond his eyesight in an unfelt breeze, but this grass is not the warm brown of harvest fields or the bright green of newly-growing things. This grass is silver, silver like the reflection of moonlight in a mirror, and from where he stands barefoot they shimmer as though lit from below by the tiniest of fireflies.
xx
Above him the sky, around him the earth. He is dressed raggedly but plainly, in his under-tunic and serviceable skirt.
His wires are gone. They are gone, but the scars remain, twisting around his arms.
The only adornment he has is the tiny teardrop ruby around its thin chain, a comforting weight against his brow. It is never a cold weight, but presses against his skin softly, like the distant memory of gentle lips.
His arms ache from the missing weight of his blades.
xx
This place is a circle with a center of everywhere and a circumference of nowhere. The only addition to mar the repetition of the background are the broken pillars a few feet behind him. They are cracked and worn with age, a frozen monument to glorious times. Marble that pale should be icy, Ja'far thinks, but he has never found that to be the case when he rested against them.
He cannot walk away from them. He can try, walking as minutes blend into days and until every limb trembles, but as soon as he looks back they are there, shining dully in the pale light.
Everything is constant in this world, and it is driving him mad.
xx
Ja'far likes to think that somewhere there is a rip in this continuity, some tear in the fabric of this perfect world that he could slip though.
The stars circle overhead, but they offer no advice.
xx
A perfect unchanging world like this was the worst punishment that could have been meted to him.
xx
He dreams, sometimes.
The nightmares, at least, are far and few. Instead, his dreams are bittersweet, tinged with what should be. He dreams of his fellow generals and friends, of their faces in the firelight. He sees the children, Alibaba and Aladdin and Morgiana and many others, laughing and learning and stepping up to create a new world. The landscape unfolds around him, imperfect and ever-changing and beautiful. He feels the rasp of parchment under his fingers, the endless wash of ocean waves in his ears. The taste of sweet wine touches his lips and he wakes up with damp cheeks and a chest constricted with unattainable longing.
That which always wakes him up is the memory of gold eyes, and he drifts off again under that endless sky, listening for that beloved voice to call him home.
He can wait forever.