…
The sheets around the man are a brilliant scarlet. How pretty, thinks the boy. Like a sunrise. He has never seen a colour so bright.
He manages to find the balcony again before he retches over the side. He does not bother to clean his knives.
"Welcome", the shadows laugh. Welcome Ja'far.
Ja'far.
"Ja'far!"
Masrur is mopping at Sinbad's chest, where the sword has left a nasty gash, and holds his hand out patiently towards Ja'far.
"Your robe."
What?
"A cloth, anything will do."
Sinbad gives his Generals a shaky smile, and pats at Masrur's arm. He's saying something Ja'far can't quite hear, because he is staring his daggers buried in the assassin's back, and the world has gone foggy again.
He's 7 years old, and has just murdered his first man, and is terrified of himself.
He's 19 years old, and has just killed on Sindarian soil, and can't tear his eyes away at the man bleeding at Sinbad's feet.
The group manages to make its way back to the palace without any enormous amount of fuss, but when Pisti flies down the palace stairs to meet them white faced and hiccupping, the shock kicks in and Sinbad is smothered with bandages and generals and demands some harsh liquor that no one has the strength to refuse. Ja'far knows he should be joining the frantic discussion, describing the man's movements, his dress, where did he come from, who had sent him? Was he acting alone? But instead he drifts away down the corridor towards his chambers, and no one seems to notice when he quietly shuts the door. He stares at his fingers, where dried blood is caught under the nails.
Ja'far. Well done Ja'far.
He struggles to control his breathing, in and out, distant now, as he strips of the stained robes and his daggers and shoves the entire bloody bundle under his chair and sinks onto the floor beside it.
Someone close by is sobbing.
He should probably see to that.
…
He doesn't move.
He can't move, held down by two cloaked teachers as they press him into the wooden floor.
The Master regards the scene from where he is taking his breakfast, carefully peeling an orange.
"Why did you go outside?"
Ja'far's world is so dark. But a window had been left open, and for a brief, endless time on the roof he had stared wonderingly at the blue moon skimming the sand dunes.
He remains mute.
The Master does not play games, so he inclines his head and suddenly the hands on Ja'far become vices as the rags are stripped from his legs.
He is struggling as one of the men draws his blade, and pauses only to glance towards the Master in an unasked question.
The answer hangs in the Jafar's desperate silence.
"…Something he won't forget so easily."
He dimly remembers the words later, staring at the great stipes of red torn down his legs.