A drabble written after chapter 99 of Sinbad no Bouken
Ja'far didn't show his emotions in public. As the light engulfed Sinbad in battle, as his equip switched from Focalor's to Zepar's, he only acted shocked. There was no sadness, no fear. He had learned to get rid of those emotions, he had done so many times before. No, Ja'far just closed his ears to block out the screech that was to come. Those who didn't would fall down. One by one. Helpless, forced to obey Zepar's will. Like he had been forced to do as well.
When the night set in, Ja'far couldn't stop himself from passing by the room of Kou's princess. She was awake, but how much of that was an illusion? He shook his head, no matter what, he could no longer trust Zepar after that one day. Even if he tried, there was still a feeling of disgust left within him. And he knew there were many others who felt the same way. Sinbad, perhaps. Drakon and Hinahoho for sure. And Masrur… he could only think about the way he felt towards Zepar.
Ja'far shook his head, his fingers traced the daggers he hid within his sleeves. Sinbad would always be a devious man. Not afraid to use whatever power he had to gain a solid ground in war. To use an innocent princess was nothing new to him. With lingering steps Ja'far moved through the abandoned hallways. The laughter of the teens in the room sounded behind him. He no longer put his attention to it. The night was beautiful, Ja'far thought as he watched the moon illuminating the path in front of him. His thoughts were taking over, the figure of Masrur watching over him from the dark went unnoticed.
The fanalis knew exactly what was on Ja'far's mind. He didn't need to ask. Ja'far was one to act the same every time their king used that one Djinn. The one that had scarred the two children back then, but had also been the one to give Masrur the respect he held for the former assassin.
Zepar's actions had been excused fairly quick, but not forgotten. How could any of them forget? The image of a pale and limp body, lying in a puddle of his own blood returned to them every time the king summoned the Djinn. It was nothing more than a hazy memory to Masrur. He knew he had been partially responsible for it all. He had tried to strike the demon down, which ended up in the fight he and his friend had never wished for. The dagger that had impaled Ja'far could never be cleaned enough times. There would always be a small trace of blood left on it. It no longer seemed to bother Ja'far, he couldn't see it. But Masrur never stopped smelling it. Mixed with the scent of the thousands who had found their death by the daggers, only to be carried around by a failed attempt.
It wasn't like Marur had never respected Ja'far before the incident. He was the only who had been able to hit Sinbad as if it were nothing. Just like he had done on the day they escaped Maader's hold. Ja'far had done nothing but surprising him after that. He was a leader, one who would always be able to guide the other to the right path. And that he did as a simple shadow. That was enough to respect the man for. It would be the main reason people from the outside would find when Masrur only listened to his king and the advisor. Ja'far was strong and smart. He could drag Sinbad with him without getting in trouble. Yes, he respected all those things. But everyone in Sindria did, that was nothing special.
All Masrur needed was the memory of Ja'far, standing with him on the plateau that was supposed to be the grave for one of them. The soft sound of blood dripping down onto the floor. The scent of death, the flow of electricity through the air as the bolts of lightning hit him. Ja'far hadn't killed him. He never wanted to kill and never did he want to kill one of his dearest friends. Even if they only knew each other for a few weeks. Masrur had felt no meaning to his life back then. He had been nothing but a freed slave, someone who worked in favor of the man who took him in. It had been Ja'far who had showed him how much he was worth.
The halls of the palace were once again abandoned when Ja'far had left to speak with his king. Masrur walked away as well, the idea to find a comfortable spot to sleep lingering in his mind. As he passed a servant girl, he was greeted with a small bow, one he returned to her. Yes it was all different now. There was no longer the feeling of being a lowlife human. He had been worth enough to be spared in that battle and that was more than enough. They were both safe and so were their friends. In Sindria they were safe. And that was all the both of them needed.