As always, big thanks to my wonderful editors Drucilla and Blueshifted - who helped with Pete's evil motivations and taught me the word Sultana!
This is a project I've held on dearly for years,so I hope you all enjoy it! Like all my previous works where Mickey has folks, his parents are made up characters, so imagine away! Do you think you know the story of Scheherazade? Not to mention all the other mysteries I'm going to pepper throughout this sandy tale...
For the curious, the Sultan's name means "Heart-broken" and the Kingdom's name is "Mouse" in Arabic! Thank you, google translations!
Once upon a time – that's an odd way to start a story, isn't it? How do you decide where "once" took place? Is it when the action bursts forth? Is it when love enters the scene? That brings forth another question – if you're talking about someone else's story, where in their life do you pick up? Maybe it's just when their normal life was disrupted and the changes began. Yes, perhaps this will do. But who am I to define such qualifications?
Maybe you've heard of me. Maybe you haven't. It doesn't matter. The important thing is this is a story about a boy who took hold of his own destiny. I'd like to think sharing his epic journey will help those seeking their own place in life... or at the very least, bring entertainment to those who desire it. Isn't that the job of all good stories?
But in order to properly tell you this tale, it might be best if I start over. Let's skip that 'once upon a time' nonsense, and I promise to keep all bias out. This story begins one day before the boy's eighteenth birthday. That boy is prince Mickey of the Rao Kingdom.
On that morning, the day before he was to become an "official man", as his father insisted, Mickey was awake before the sun was up. He wasn't feeling particularly lazy, but he was in no hurry to get up either. He stared at his ceiling, which was a large mural depicting several stories that his mother had told. He faintly remembered being a young child and being asked what stories he wanted shown up on the ceiling, and he had shouted "Sinbad, Sinbad, I wanna see Sinbad!"
So there was Sinbad, the famous sailor and hero fighting an array of villains – a monstrous kraken, undead creatures of the night, and rival pirates trying to steal his bounty. Treasure laid at his feet, and he was apparently saving some beautiful women from utmost disaster, his sword thrust out in his hand, a winning grin across his face. Every night before Mickey went to bed, his mother would come and tell him more stories of the sensational Sinbad, and Mickey would stare up at the ceiling, imagining that the painting was coming to life and acting out his mother's words. Tonight she'd do the same thing, and this made Mickey frown.
He was almost an official man, and official men didn't have their mommies telling them bedtime stories. It was time to grow up and leave the world of fairy tales behind. Mickey wasn't exactly sure how one did that, however – how you just snapped your fingers and went from being a child to a man. He didn't feel any different than he did a year ago or the year before that, and he doubted he would feel changed tomorrow. The only idea he could come up with was leaving the childish fantasies back in the past where they belonged. Maybe he could order the councilor, Pete Qut, to paint over it in white – no, black, black was the color of grown-ups! Sure, he would miss the painting, but he'd get over it, surely.
Maybe then Pete would show him actual respect – not the respect to a prince or the son of the world's most famous storyteller, but because he was Mickey. Just Mickey.
Traces of sunlight began to filter into the room, and Mickey slid out of bed. He needed to bathe and change before he could have breakfast with his parents, but first, as with many mornings, he went to the balcony and pushed aside the billowing curtains. From his room, he could see the furthest reaches of Rao, and spotted specks that he knew to be villagers ready to start their day.
He smiled as he watched them, enjoying the scene of a passing stranger assisting an elderly woman with her wagon. Children were running about before their elders would yank them to their classes. Warm greetings floated on the soft wind. Mickey loved the people here, and he loved all of Rao very deeply. It was often why he ran away from home to be among them, as he planned to do after breakfast.
After he bathed and put on his freshest robes, he walked out into the hallway, passing servants who bowed once they saw him.
"Good morning, son of Scheherazade."
"Highest of blessings unto you, son of Scheherazade."
"May tomorrow bring you nothing but joy, son of Scheherazade."
"Good morning," Mickey replied each time, his once strong smile weakening with every greeting. They meant no harm, but gosh that got annoying over seventeen years. Living in a gigantic palace that had almost ten servants to every room meant that every hour on the hour Mickey was constantly reminded of who he was and why he was so important to them – as if he needed to be reminded! There were days he nearly forgot his own name, he heard it so little.
With an inward sigh, he approached the dining hall, knocking on the big blue doors twice before walking inside. "Morning, everyone..." He braced himself, biting his lower lip.
"Good morning, son of Scheherazade!" A choir of no less than twenty servants replied, as well as the councilor. His parents had already started eating, and Pete was between them, going over notes on a flaky scroll. Mickey quickly walked to his chair, and as he passed each servant they continued to tell him the same things he'd heard year after year after year -
"Your new robes shall be finished by tomorrow, son of Scheherazade!"
"Shall we replace your linens? Yes, excellent, wise choice, son of Scheherazade!"
"We've prepared nothing but the best for your meals today, son of Scheherazade!"
Mickey was tempted to stick his fingers in his ears to try and drown it all out. He managed to climb into his chair and bowed his head respectfully to his parents. "So, uh," he began a little nervously, unsure how to approach the subject in his head. "Tomorrow's the big day, is it?"
"Tomorrow?" his father mused, Sultan Muhtim Algalb of Rao – often shortened to just Al – stroking his long black beard. He was a tall man, tall in everything – long arms and legs, a long neck with a long face, and even his beard was long, reaching all the way down to his stomach. Mickey was the exact opposite – short in everything, with short arms and legs, short neck, short face, and any attempts to grow a beard were short-lived. "What's so special about tomorrow?" the Sultan joked, rapping his fingers on the table and turning to his wife. "Most beloved, can you think of anything that occurs tomorrow?"
"Nothing comes to mind, my sweetest," Sultana Scheherazade was beautiful, with dark eyes that drew in all that looked at her, and wavy night-dark hair that rolled past her shoulders. Her every move was elegance, her every word a poem. Mickey remembered his mother once saying she had a face for stories – that her hair was like a curtain, pulling back for a stage, and her lips were the actors. The play today was "Teasing Our Boy". "I wonder whatever he could be talking about, my sun on the brightest day."
Mickey rolled his eyes, hoping this teasing wouldn't go on for too long – or the flirting. "Are you two ever going to stop acting like newlyweds?"
"It's easy to criticize when you don't understand!" Al laughed, reaching over to ruffle his head between Mickey's ears. Mickey was fond of the gesture but put on a pout – official men shouldn't enjoy snuggles from daddy. "One day, you'll find your special someone, and you'll moon over her the same way I moon over your mother!" Mickey doubted this, he hoped he'd sooner step in camel dung. Him giving lovey-dovey petnames to some woman – that'd be the day! But such comments would sound childish and he kept his mouth shut, allowing Al to laugh again and then slap Pete on the back. "Say, Pete! Would perhaps you know what's so special about tomorrow?"
Pete wasn't enjoying this back-and-forth any more than Mickey, although he had his own reasons. 'Councilor' was really only a title – no one needed to advise the wise Sultana, and the Sultan always took his advice from the Sultana, so in reality Pete was more of a bookkeeper and babysitter. He didn't want to be roped into the game, so he grumbled and checked something off his list. "It's the kid's birthday tomorrow, last time I checked. Now, as I was saying about these farmers-"
"I'm not a kid," Mickey interrupted with a glare, but then fumbled. "I mean, I won't be, tomorrow! Tomorrow I'll be eighteen. Why, I'll be an adult!" He put his hands on his hips, hoping to instill some authority between him and Pete, but Pete just snorted.
"Your birthday!" Al threw his hands up with joy, smacking Pete in the face and ignoring the "OW!" that came with it.. "My son, my one and only son, now he's becoming a man!" Without any warning, he shoved his hands under Mickey's arm and lifted him up, and the Sultan danced around the long wooden table. "My son, the man! The Prince of Rao, one day soon to be Sultan of Rao!"
"Pa, put me down!" Adult men who were to one day be Sultans shouldn't be so easy to lift like rag dolls! "Ma, make him stop!"
Scheherazade had taken up a napkin and was dabbing the corners of her eyes. "No, it can't be already! Why, just yesterday you were in your swaddling clothes... and now, eighteen? I refuse to believe it!"
"Believe it, lady," Pete growled quietly, rubbing his sore nose. "About these farmers-"
"But it's not just any birthday!" Al went on, putting Mickey down so that his son was standing on the table. "It is the birthday of the son of Scheherazade! This must be celebrated throughout the land! We will have a party that lasts all day and all night!"
"Ma... Please..." Mickey groaned, sitting down on the table, hoping to get some sense into this oddball conversation.
Scheherazade allowed herself a few more sniffles before standing up and lightly touching her husband on the shoulder. "Perhaps we should reel back, dearest. We can't throw an impromptu party whenever we feel like it... Our people need to work, they would all be quite upset if their busy days were suddenly interrupted."
Al clicked his tongue to his cheek before nodding, reaching over to squeeze the hand on his shoulder. "As always, you see through the dark clouds of my foolishness. Whatever would I do without you, my earth and air, my life and wife?"
"You shall never know, my other half and reason to be."
His lovesick parents were just about to kiss and Mickey was just about to gag when Pete thrust his scroll in between the smooch. "DO YOU MIND LISTENIN' FOR A COUPLE OF SECONDS?!" he bellowed, his anger bouncing off the walls. He was one of the very few people who didn't bend over backwards to praise the royal family, mostly because he didn't see anything praiseworthy about them. He yanked the scroll back, pointing hard at his lines. "You gave the farmers twice the land they asked for! That's going to double the amount of money they'll need from our – er, your treasury!"
Scheherazade took the scroll from Pete to read it over before giving it an affirmative nod. "Yes, we did. It was to make up for the terrible loss in crops last year. It's hardly their fault we had such awful growth. Besides, we have more money than we know what to do with. The best way to spend it is on our people."
Pete huffed, crossing his arms. "Aw, who cares about a bunch of peasants? If they were so great, they'd have their own treasury! The more you give them, the more comes out of my salary!"
"Which is still more than what 5 villagers combined make in a year," Mickey quipped, having grabbed his bowl and begun eating his breakfast.
Pete easily turned on Mickey, close to snarling. "And how do you know how much a peasant villager makes?"
"... Uh... " Mickey paused, food in his mouth, eyes going anywhere for a better answer than the truth. "...Lucky guess?"
Al sighed deeply, crossing his arms as he faced his son. "Have you been sneaking out into the kingdom again? How many times have I warned you against that? It's more than I have hairs in my beard! It's too dangerous out there for a prince!"
"It is not!" Mickey insisted, putting the half empty bowl in his lap. "I like being out there! It's fun! You never let me do anything, you always tell me that son of Scheherazade should need for nothing!" His mother looked guilty, her eyes darting away for a moment. "Well, what about what I want? That's different than a need!"
His parents exchanged silent looks, and for a time Mickey was distracted with envy. Though he certainly didn't want a sappy romance, he did wish he could have a relationship with someone where they could understand each other merely through eye contact. If he wanted a lady love – and this was a pretty big if – he wanted someone who knew him better than anyone else did. But that would mean someone would want him for being something else than the son of Scheherazade, and there was nothing else. Mickey had no amazing stories or dashing adventures to speak of. He was a plain, boring prince.
Al exhaled heavily, waving a hand in an attempt to dismiss Pete. The Councilor only went so far as the doorway, wanting to complain some more about the money he felt the villagers didn't deserve. "All right then," the Sultan started up again. "What is it that you want? You name it, and you shall have it! You are our son, you can have anything you desire!"
Mickey hesitated. "How is that different than any other day?" Every day he was given the best clothes, the best food, the best toys, the best books, the best of everything. He didn't even have to ask for it, his parents showered him with gifts all the time. It had instilled guilt within Mickey as he had felt he'd done nothing to earn these treasures. His was a story with no words on the pages. He'd never done anything exciting, anything worthy to be hailed over, and the closest he'd ever come to having anything remarkable in his life was...
… was something he didn't care to think about. He rubbed the scar on his neck, one that was hidden by his fur, a habit whenever he was nervous. "What I want is to be treated like an official man. I want to be a real adult. So the only thing I'm asking for on my birthday is..." He drew a breath, still reluctant about the idea but knowing he had to go through with it, "... is to get rid of the mural on my ceiling."
"Of Sinbad?" His mother balked, a hand to her heart. "Are you serious? You love his stories! You said you wanted to be just like him when you grew up!"
"Well, I'm grown-up now. Or I will be, tomorrow." Putting the bowl aside, Mickey hopped off the table. "And it's time I put these made-up stories away. I can't go on believing in magic and pirates and bad guys that want to take over the world." He looked back and forth between his parents, mustering up a stern look he had practiced in his bedroom mirror. "Starting tomorrow, no more stories, and no more Sinbad. That is all I want for my birthday. Understand?"
He expected his mother to look heartbroken, and perhaps for his father to be angry. It wasn't easy for their parents to have their children thrust the demands of adulthood in their faces. Yet these weren't the faces of disappointment. Al was sucking onside of his check, his fingers knotting together nervously. Scheherazade was chewing on her lower lip, and she had a hand to her chin, as if mentally debating a serious matter. Pensive, that was the word Mickey decided on, even though he couldn't understand why they'd be like that over this simple matter.
Whatever was in their heads wasn't in Pete's, he was bored by the entire talk. He didn't care if Mickey was treated as an adult or a child, because in the end he'd still get the royal treatment. The constant adoration in the family aggravated him to no end. The brat got everything for doing nothing, whereas Pete had to work for every single scrap of food he'd ever eaten. It was Pete's bad fortune to have poor parents. Now here he was, a combination of difficult effort and pity, living the high life in the palace while these lovebirds frittered away their coins on people who clearly never worked as hard as Pete did. Not that Pete ever checked such matters – his worldview consisted of "me, myself, and I." Now that he had his, he didn't care if anyone got theirs.
The Sultana came to a decision, a thumb to her lip, trying to resist the urge to bite her decorated nail. "Tomorrow... yes, lots of things will happen tomorrow. If you still want your wish granted by the end of that day, then it shall be so. If that is what will make you happy... and you know that is what we desire most of all."
At this Mickey finally relaxed, and his little smile returned. He hadn't thought either of them would say no to his wish, and he bowed graciously. "Thank you."
Al cleared his throat then, suddenly uncomfortable. "Tomorrow is tomorrow, today is today, and today you need to go to your lessons. Councilor, escort the prince."
"But what about my money? … Your money?" Pete tried again, but the Sultan held up a flat hand, signaling the end of the discussion. He grumbled in his throat, opening the door for Mickey to confidently walk through. "Yeah, yeah, gods forbid we keep our treasure in the treasury, let's just hand it out to every dirty hand that reaches out..." he continued to mutter even when he left the room.
Once they were alone, Scheherazade picked up Mickey's bowl, silently staring into it. Al approached her, his arms out. "You don't have to tell him tomorrow... why, you never have to tell him at all! No one need ever know the truth about your stories!"
"No," she lightly protested, putting the bowl back down. "It's time he knew... It's time the entire kingdom knew. Even if it means my cherished son thinks differently, he deserves the truth. And tomorrow, he will know everything."
Al's gentle arms came around his wife's waist. "No matter what, he will always be our son. He will always love you, no matter what you tell him."
She smiled and leaned on his chest, closing her eyes to take in his warmth. She didn't want to expose her secrets – until she met the Sultan, she had thought she would carry them to her grave. But like any good story, there had been twists and turns that made her rethink her values. When she married her one true love, she wanted him to have all of her, including the things she'd hidden. When Mickey was born, she felt another sense of love wash over her, and she wanted to tell him when he was old enough to understand. Eighteen... an official man... There would be no better time.
Al rubbed her shoulders, trying to perk the conversation back up. "Come. Let's work on our gifts. There's plenty more to do." He took her by the wrist and pulled her along, trying to delay the uncomfortable business as long as possible. His wife obliged – yes, if there was an option to concentrate on more joyful things, of course she'd jump at it.
The Sultan and his wife loved each other very much, and they loved their son just as deeply, and they loved their idyllic family life – if only things could stay that way forever.
Mickey had no intention of going to his lessons, and Pete knew this. The cat was checking around for windows and doors that Mickey could run through, any curtains that could be used as ropes, any stairs Pete could be made to trip over. He was used to Mickey's tricks, and Mickey could feel Pete's eyes on his back with a hard, intense glare. Mickey wasn't really sure what he'd done to deserve such hate – surely a few sneak away tricks wouldn't cause such deep dislike! But then Pete was always grouchy for one reason or another. He supposed that was why his mother picked Pete as the Councilor, like a pet project, a man she could reform, the same way she had reformed the Sultan.
Mickey then decided if he was an official man-to-be, it would be best if he took charge. In the middle of their walk, Mickey turned around, hands on his hips, puffing out what little he had of a chest . "You know, Pete," he began, trying to make himself as tall as possible. "You really need to listen to my parents! The treasury is meant to be used however we see fit, and if you've got a problem with our spending, it has to be a bigger problem than us helping people!" Yes, good, that sounded very man-like, full of self-assurance and dignity!
Yet it fell completely flat on Pete, who blinked down at Mickey as if he was nothing more than a bothersome gnat that kept hovering around the same meal. "Maybe it's high-time you learned that helping people helps no one! They'll just depend on you forever for every problem! Do you want to spend the rest of your life helping people?"
"...Yes?" What kind of a silly question was that?
Pete, he of a dark mind and selfish heart, hadn't expected that response. "I don't get you people at all," he huffed, poking his stubby finger into Mickeys big black nose. "You have all the riches in the world, all the power, but you waste it on every crybaby you pass by! It's a dog-eat-dog world out there! If I was the Sultan, you'd never see me throwing good money to anybody who just asked for it!" Pete would spend it wisely - Fancy clothes, fancy food, fancy girls, it'd be nothing but fanciness for the rest of his life, and who cared what happened outside of the palace? If they didn't work hard enough to be that rich, that was their own fault. Nobody helped him, so why should he help anyone else? In the end, everyone only cared about themselves. Anyone who thought otherwise was a pushover that deserved to be pushed. Maybe he could build a big wall to block everyone else out. He'd dreamed about this scenario far too many times.
Mickey roughly shoved Pete's hand away from his face. "Good thing you're not Sultan, in that case!"
Then came a second surprise. Mickey expected Pete to sneer and huff and puff and whine all about how unfair it was that the royal family was so nice, and indeed, Pete was slowly moving his jaw around, looking ready to go into his standard spiel about poor people deserved to be poor and other nonsense. But instead of going into the tirade, Pete began to smile – not a friendly one, not one that understood the all encompassing love that the royals had, but it was still a happy smile. Like he was imagining some far off fantasy and what happened now didn't truly matter. It sent a chill up Mickey's spine.
"No," Pete finally said, nodding once. "No, you're right, I ain't the Sultan. And a'course, you're not the Sultan either. Even if you are the big one-eight tomorrow, you're still just the prince. Why not spend the last day of your youth goin' out into the kingdom and having fun?"
"...Huh?" Mickey wasn't sure he heard right. It almost sounded like Pete was encouraging him to run off.
"Come on, skedaddle, while the sun's still out!" Pete waved his hands, chuckling merrily. "Think of it as an early birthday present, from me to you!"
The prince considered that perhaps this was a joke or a prank, but Pete couldn't master subtlety like that. He scratched his head, still puzzled, yet tempted to take up the offer. "Gee...you really mean it?"
"I absolutely mean it!" He then shrugged with one shoulder. "I'll just tell your tutor you got lost, or were busy doing something else... Don't worry about it! You go enjoy your last day being seventeen. Everyone deserves being happy on that day!" He clapped again and again, stepping forward, as if using his body to encourage Mickey to get going.
Mickey was not one to look gift horses in the mouth, nor really consider the consequences of his actions. Perhaps his mother's work was finally getting through to old Pete. A smile began to form, a laugh followed it, and Mickey turned on his tail. "O-Okay!" he shouted through pleased laughter. "Thanks a million, Pete! You're not such a bad guy after! I'll see you later!" Not wanting to risk his luck a second further, Mickey bolted down the hall to the nearest door, kicking his heels in glee.
Pete kept up his lively applause until he could no longer see the young prince. "Yep, that's right, I'm not the Sultan..." Then came that wicked smile of his once more, the one that knew of things that even the so-called wise Sultana was ignorant about. Let the boy have one more day of fun before his life came crumbling down. "...Not yet."
Mickey rarely had a plan in mind whenever he flew away to the kingdom outside, save for one place and one person he made sure to visit every single time. He decided to start his day there, and with that he made a beeline for the butcher. He could already hear trouble brewing – a dog was barking, a man was yelling, there was clanking and clamoring. Mickey grinned – his only friend in the world was in trouble again.
He slowed down as he approached the shop, almost missing the blur that dashed out and sped into the nearest alleyway. The butcher came out next, smashing his teeth and waving his knife in the air. "That lousy pain in the butt!" he howled, unaware of who was watching him. "When I catch him, I'll make him into mincemeat! That mangy no good rotten-" His cavalcade of insults stopped abruptly when his eyes fell upon the prince. The butcher faltered, and then bowed deeply, one arm under his chest. "Oh sacred son of Scheherazade! You honor me with your presence!"
Unfortunately that annoying nickname followed Mickey wherever he went. He put his arms behind his back, the picture of innocence. "Is somethin' the matter, old pal?"
That lit the butcher's anger again, and he raised his fists in the air. "It's that thief again! I'll tan his hide and make six sandwiches out of his fat belly!" He exhaled hard, and then eyed his visitor. "Have you seen him?"
Mickey knew exactly where the culprit was. "Nope, can't say that I have." He lied easily – small fibs were simple if you thought of them as stories. "But if I do, I know right where to send him!" Nowhere near the butcher, that was for sure.
"Of course, of course, you're a very good boy." The butcher sighed, acknowledging his defeat. "But... it's not a total loss. I have the son of Scheherazade at my doorstep, this must be a sign of luck from the gods."
"Let's not go nuts here," Mickey muttered under his breath.
"Here, I'll give you my finest work today!" Not having heard Mickey's remark, the butcher speedily returned to his shop to pull out a gigantic steak. Once it was securely wrapped up, he proudly strode up to Mickey and placed it in his hands. "Please enjoy! Nothing would make me happier than to have my meat be the reason you grow up healthy and strong!"
Mickey began to smile, and sincerely hoped the butcher would leave it at that. "Thanks a lot! Your place is always the best!"
But the butcher didn't leave it at that, no one ever did. "Please give your divine mother my blessings! And I would be overjoyed to see you here again, son of Scheherazade! Your presence always brings cheer to all!"
Mickey's lips still held an upward curve but there was coldness underneath. Any kindness bestowed upon Mickey, be it gifts or idle flattery, was always because of his mother. Mickey didn't bring cheer to anyone. His mother did, and he was nothing more than a reflection of her, a reminder of the amazing things she'd done. That wouldn't end no matter how old he turned. "Yeah... thanks." His enthusiasm died out, and he made sure to turn away before his face fell. "I'll tell her."
He heard the butcher wish him well and fondest goodbyes, and once he heard him go back into his shop, Mickey ran to the alleyway, hearing a familiar voice pant heavily. Now Mickey could smile a genuine smile, for this was someone who was always genuine with him. "I told you to stop stealing, you nutjob! I always get something nice for you. You gotta learn some patience, that's what you gotta do!"
His companion walked on all fours out of the shadows, unable to respond – not that any dog could, although Mickey liked to imagine those fervent pants sounded like "Yeah, yeah, yeah!", always agreeing with what Mickey said. This was a mutt true and true, no purity to its blood, its mangy fur perhaps once proudly gold but now a dusty yellow. His thin black tail wagged with excitement to see his friend, and ignoring the stolen sausage he'd nabbed minutes ago, he jumped onto Mickey and covered him with slobbery kisses.
Mickey collapsed with laughter, hugging the dog tightly. "I missed you too, Pluto!" The first time Mickey had run away, he'd found a little puppy shivering all by its lonesome, hidden under rags that grannies had thrown away. It didn't belong to anyone, or to put it more accurately, no one wanted it. Mickey had instantly taken pity on this creature so much smaller than himself, and after politely asking around in the marketplace for leftover scraps – and instead was given giant baskets of food, being a certain son and all – he had let the pup eat until it could eat no more. The puppy instantly rewarded Mickey with wet licks to his cheek, and in that moment Mickey understood that here was someone who liked him without knowing or understanding where he came from.
He had taken the puppy into his arms and ran straight home, begging his parents to let him keep it – look, he already named it, after one of those lessons from his tutor, please please pretty please- but they had declined. It could be carrying vermin and disease, and they simply couldn't take risks anymore, not after the day he'd gotten that scar. Mickey had no choice but to let the dog return to the village – but he would visit again, and again, and again, and here they were now, rolling around in the dirt with so much cheer they felt their chests would burst.
Mickey finally managed to push Pluto off, scratching his ears affectionately. "When I become Sultan, you're going to live in the palace! I'll get you a nice collar and your own pillows and everything!" Pluto yapped, nodding its head. "A-huh, and we're gunna play fetch every day! You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Mickey kissed Pluto on the head, giving him a few more adoring scratches before getting to his feet. "Well," he clicked his tongue, pretending to be haughty, "since you've already gotten yourself a pretty big treat, I'm giving this steak to someone else! Someone who really needs it! Maybe next time you'll wait for me, and then you'll get your big, fat, juicy steak, huh?"
Pluto smiled sheepishly, picking up the links of sausage and dutifully nibbling. Mickey didn't know much about dogs, but he liked to think Pluto was smarter than most. He whistled, and Pluto obediently stepped up to Mickey's side. They walked out into the sunlight, Pluto still chewing on his victory and Mickey whistling a merry tune. Just like inside the palace, anyone who saw Mickey greeted him with that atrocious name, but at least out here they didn't ramble on about it constantly, as they had lives that didn't revolve around him. Mickey would often stop by a shop or a school to peek inside and make sure all was well. If all wasn't well – if a rowdy ne'er-do-well was harassing a shopkeeper or a crying toddler couldn't find their mommy – then he would make it well. But he didn't see anything grand or spectacular about this. It was just what a good person did, and the world was filled with good, boring, ordinary people.
It was well past noon when he found a sizable stick and gave it a toss for Pluto to chase. He wondered if he'd have the time for these walks when he was the Sultan. His parents never did, yet they ran the kingdom perfectly, so maybe they never needed to. Then again they weren't searching for someone like Mickey was. They weren't looking for someone to acknowledge who he was, even if there was nothing to acknowledge. After the third toss, Mickey yelped as Pluto nearly ran down a small child, a boy with messy hair. "Easy there!" Mickey shouted as he ran over, but the boy seemed to be more confused than injured. "Aw gee, I'm sorry about that! Pluto can be a bit too eager sometimes, can't you, Pluto? You apologize now."
Pluto whined and lowered his head. The child smiled, reaching over to pet the dog with both hands. "Is this your dog, mister?"
"Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. Ish." Mickey debated on the right word to use – until it hit him what this child had said. "...What did you call me?"
The child blinked up at him with glassy eyes. "Mister?" There was no recognition here.
Mickey froze. True, it was impossible for him to have met every single person in this vast kingdom, and it was possible that many of the younger generation weren't familiar with him just yet. Here was an opportunity Mickey had wanted and failed to prepare for. He stuttered, fumbling and almost dropping the steak under his arm. "N-No, that's fine! It's more than fine! It's..." He shoved the steak into the child's hands, cleared his throat, and then put a hand to his heart. If he was going to do this, he was going to do this right. Who knew when the next chance would come, if ever? "My name... My name is-"
"The son of Scheherazade!" came an elderly voice from behind.
Mickey had to bite down on his lower lip in order not to let several colorful expletives fly, as unknowingly learned from his father. His neck craned to see who had blurted it out. It was a very old woman, and she hobbled over on her walking stick. The child hugged her good leg. "Granny!"
"I was looking for you everywhere, silly boy," The grandmother cooed, tenderly stroking the boy's hair. "Don't ever scare me like that again!" She faced Mickey, he of many face twitches and suppressed tempers. "How can I ever thank you for finding my grandchild, oh wondrous son of Scheherazade?"
"It... it was just a coincidence," Mickey mumbled, and Pluto pushed his head into Mickey's open palm in an effort to support him.
The child tilted his head. "Sch... Scheh... who is that?"
"That is our Sultana." The grandmother pointed towards the shining palace with a long, bony finger. "Have I not told you this tale?" The boy shook his head, and Mickey sighed sadly. "Long, long ago, a very evil woman broke the Sultan's heart. And her evilness spread to his soul...he wanted to make the whole world feel as awful as he did. So he commanded a bride be brought before him – so he could kill her that night, as revenge! But the brave and amazing Scheherazade volunteered to be his wife. He planned to murder her that night, but before he could try, she wove a story so deep, so complex, so thrilling... yet she didn't finish it. She said she would continue the story the next night. The Sultan was so enthralled by the story, he decided he'd delay her death until the next night. But the next night she wove an even more amazing story... and the night after, and the night after, for one thousand and one nights, until the Sultan's heart was cured of its evil by Scheherazade's stories and her love."
The child looked over to see who the son was of such an astounding hero, but Mickey was already walking away, his head hung. "And that's her son?
"Oh yes, that is the son of Scheherazade. Is he not a most fortunate boy?"
Of course Mickey knew the story – and Mickey knew that also wasn't the full story. It was the child friendly version. The child wasn't ready to hear of the real story, of betrayal and blood and agony. A fortunate boy? Him? He touched the scar on his neck, and for a few seconds, he was in the past.
IT'S NOT FAIR! HOW DARE YOU LIVE?! WHY DO YOU DESERVE TO LIVE?!
"I still don't know," he whispered to a memory that had stayed with him for years and would never leave. Why did he deserve to live? What was the purpose of his life, the point of it? He felt tears come and pressed his arm to his eyes, trying to make it stop.
Wasn't there someone, anyone, out in this great big world who would love him for Mickey? Could such a person exist, and give meaning to his existence? Here in this great and glorious kingdom that numbered thousands, he felt all alone. What he wouldn't give for someone to take him into their arms and tell him they loved him as Mickey, and not as the son of Scheherazade?
No... surely that person was as imaginary as his mother's stories.
Mickey made the decision to go home, with Pluto following his every step. At the palace gates, he turned and knelt down. "Time to say goodbye, Pluto," he said gently, slowly petting his pet. "One day you'll come in these gates with me." But he knew if he tried today, the burly guards that stood left and right of him would kick the mutt back out. "Just gotta be patient... you can be patient, right?" It broke Mickey's heart to pull away, and Pluto left one last lick on Mickey's cheek. Mickey managed to tear himself away from his friend and walked back into the palace.
As soon as Mickey couldn't see or hear the pup anymore, the dog was abruptly snatched by the guards – but not to kick him out. No, there were other plans for this confused dog.
Night came and Mickey laid in his bed, staring up at the mural of Sinbad the sailor. It would be the last night he stared up at this picture, so he tried to memorize every last detail. When he heard the door creak open, he knew who it was without even looking. "Hello, Ma."
Scheherazade walked in slowly, careful to hold her burning lamp with both hands. Mickey never took good care of his own lamp, and it was often dusty and dirty and wouldn't light. So his mother would bring in her own, often using its illumination to dramatize her tales. She knelt by his bed. "Hello, my sweet son. I know tomorrow, you want that mural painted over... which means you no longer want my stories either."
Mickey sat up in bed, hugging his knees. "I gotta stop being a child, Ma, even if you still see me as one. Magic's not real, Sinbad's not real, I can't go on listening to stories. Real men doesn't listen to stories."
She quirked an eyebrow. "Your father likes my stories."
"Pa drools every time you open your mouth." He got his ear pinched for that. "Okay, okay! But I meant it, it's time I started living like a man!"
The Queen placed the flickering lamp on a nearby table, her hands in her lap. "Tomorrow will bring a great change in all of us...but that is tomorrow. This is tonight. Tonight, you are not a man." She smiled, and glanced up at the mural. "So that means I still get to tell you one more story."
Mickey wound up smiling, and he laid back down, his hands on his chest. "Fine, fine, fine. Just one more story... but it's gotta be about Sinbad."
Scheherazade laughed. "Yes, of course! Sinbad and his magical flying ship! And his rowdy team – the killer couple, the harm with charm, the gunslinger singer...where should we go today? Shall Sinbad meet his bride on the moon? What about taking on the living dead from the depths? Or a swim through the pool of eternity, only to dry off on a flying carpet?"
As Scheherazade listed her options, readying herself for her greatest story ever, Mickey took one last look at the mural. He'd enjoy this story, and then never hear one again. Tonight would be the last night - he was done with make-believe magic.
Little did he know magic wasn't done with him.