The smell of jasmine is overpowering. White flowers hang from every balcony, fill every vase, and invade every corner of the palace, smothering every breath with their suffocating sweetness. Even here, in her chamber, she is not free from them. In the mirror, they stare back at her, twin jasmine blossoms entwined in her glossy black hair. She wants to pull them out and trample on them, bitter mockeries of the innocence and joy that this day should have brought her, but instead she swallows back the scream that fills her mouth and nods serenely to her maids.
As she walks down the hall, all fall to their knees and cover their faces in respect. She could be wearing a peasant's rags instead of this gown of white and no one would even see it. Except for him. It's all for him, and she no longer cares to lie to herself about it. Defiantly, she lifts her chin just a little higher, and catches his expression. His possessive smirk sends a flicker of anger through her veins, but it is his eyes that capture her attention. They glitter with dark satisfaction, and something twists in the pit of her stomach. She thought she had a handle on everything, that even after so much had fallen apart, she could still control this. It was still her choice, no matter how coerced it was. She could still say no.
Now she looks into those eyes, dark with power, with greed, with lust, and she feels everything slipping through her fingers. A shudder runs through her legs and she bites her lip. She will not falter. Steady now, her steps take her closer and closer. Through half-lidded eyes, she tries desperately to recall her purpose. Aladdin, her father, Rajah. The images rise in her mind, but flit away, leaving only those dark smoldering eyes.
She is beside him now, taking his dark hand in hers, and she is shocked at how soft it is. His skin is smooth, not rough and callused like Aladdin's. The comparison should revolt her, but she can't help but imagine that soft hand stroking her cheek. She shudders. It is just a small shudder, but he notices and squeezes her hand, his smirk widening. His eyes flash, and that smoldering darkness is all she sees as his mouth descends on hers.
She has known the taste of his kisses before. Since that first time, her failed ploy to distract him…oh, if only Aladdin hadn't frozen…she has felt his mouth on her hers many times. But this time is different. This time he is triumphant, claiming her lips as surely as he has claimed everything else that she once had, and boldly possessive as his tongue snakes into the recesses of her mouth. She can taste the undertone of raw hunger as his kiss grows rougher, but he restrains himself and releases her…for now.
For now, he places his golden crown on her head and calls her his queen. For now, he turns and presents her to the crowd to thunderous applause from terrified subjects. For now, he savors their fear and reverence as they fall to their faces. Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he will savor her. He will do it slowly, agonizingly slowly, hands touching, lips tasting every inch of her skin before he finally claims her. And as her breathless screams echo in his chamber, his domination is complete.
She is queen now, in crimson robes that swirl about her and a golden crown that glints in the desert sun. Once, she was his toy, his princess-slave who never left the palace and only rarely his chambers. Now she is his sultana, his queen-consort who sits on his throne and rules in his stead when he is gone. The people of Agrabah bring her their troubles and she judges between them, and slowly, she realizes that it makes little difference to them whether Jafar is the rightful ruler or whether he took the throne by force. His decisions are no less wise because he usurped his throne, and if the people fear him more, then it serves him well. Deep down, she knows that that though the people loved her father, they did not respect him. Now the taxes are higher, but crime has dwindled to almost nothing, and Agrabah is the Jewel of Arabia, receiving tribute from countless cities desperate to retain Jafar's favor.
The realization was slow and hard, but deep down, she knows now that Jafar is a better sultan than her father ever was….and, even harder, that he is a much better sultan than Aladdin ever would have been. What could a streetrat know about ruling a city, about enforcing justice, regulating trade, maintaining foreign relations? Her father had cared about the city, but he had neither the interest nor the aptitude to rule it well. He had raised her to be the same—a sheltered, spoiled princess who knew next to nothing about the city she was to rule, and with no idea of how to rule it. So she would have stayed if she had married Aladdin, she realizes now. The two of them would have loved Agrabah and all its denizens, but that love would not have filled a single hungry belly, stopped a single theft, or protected a single child from enemy raids. She doesn't know if Jafar loves Agrabah at all, but it is his and Jafar looks after what is his.
She is his too, as he reminds her at moments like this, when his arm wraps around her possessively. She closes her eyes, but she can feel the heat of his body through his robes and the roughness of his long fingers as they wander over her hip and lift her chin. She can smell the spicy sandalwood of his skin as he leans toward her, and she can taste the wine and desire on his lips as he claims her mouth.
His breath is slightly ragged as he breaks the kiss, but his smile is cool as he turns to the diplomats from Nur who stand awkwardly waiting for their interview. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but our discussion will have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I have some pressing matters to deal with."
It is a five day journey from Nur to Agrabah and the diplomats have waited two days already, but they merely bow respectfully and murmur submissive courtesies as they back out of the room. Jafar is the most powerful sorcerer in the world, after all, and he can do whatever he wants.
And right now, what he wants to do is her. The diplomats are barely out of the throne room before his lips are on her again and his hands are tugging at her robes. He pushes her down on the throne that once was her father's as he strips away everything but her crown.
The smell of jasmine drifts through the latticed windows as she looks out on the gardens. She is weary, the years hanging heavy on her now, her jet-black hair streaked with grey. She has seen too many awful things, endured too many awful things…done too many awful things. She swallows hard. History will not be kind to her, the Sorcerer's Queen. They will remember how she gave him her hand and lent legitimacy to his tyranny. They will remember how she stood by and supported her husband's cruel regime. They will remember how she sat beside him as those who dared to rebel were brutally executed, their bodies ripped to shreds as a warning for those who would follow in their footsteps.
They will never know the myriad tiny mercies that she has brought: soft words that spared a clumsy servant girl, a starving urchin, a rebel's pregnant wife, and countless other throughout the years. They will never know what horrors could have been wrought if she had not been there, standing by her husband side, restraining the worst of the evil.
But though history may condemn her, they will still know the gift she gives to her city, her world. She smiles now as she watches him play with his younger sisters, chasing Rajah's grand-cubs around the garden. He is tall, dark, and serious-eyed like his father, skilled in all the magical arts. When his father dies—it will not be long now—he will hold all of Jafar's power. But Jafar's lessons are not the only ones he has learned, and his heart, his loving, kind, merciful heart, belongs to her. He will rule with all the generosity and grace of his grandfather before him, but tempered with the wisdom and justice that had fallen from the kingdom in the last years. He will be a good sultan and restore her beloved Agrabah to the peace and joy that it had once known.
He is her gift. He is her legacy. He is the ultimate reward of the sacrifices she has paid. He is enough.
His father calls him Omar. But he has another name too, one she whispered in her heart when he came forth into the world, one she sang over his cradle in the silent watches of the night, one she taught him behind locked doors as they bent over their secret lessons. One day, he will claim it before all the world.
For now, he is Prince Omar, son of the Sorcerer. But in her heart of hearts, in that deep, deep place still unbroken, he is always Aladdin.