The Small Print's Limitations


Chapter Eight

"Here, you get his feet, I'll get his head."

"What happened to him?"

"How should I know? Come on, hurry up."

Aladdin dared to open his eyes as he felt slender hands slip under his arms, and then the soft grunt of a person above him, as he was lifted slightly off the ground. Hecould feel his ankles being lifted by much smaller hands, a weaker person; his feet kept finding the ground again as the person's hands slipped continuously.

He'd almost opened his eyes when the person at his head had pulled him into a sitting position, and his hand hit the floor, the broken finger falling ungraciously, the pain of contact shooting up his arm, causing him to shout in agony. Quickly, he felt his body being placed on the floor again, and felt the scurry of feet around him.

"Oh, he's broken his hand... rip your shirt, I'll bandage it up."

Aladdin winced in pain as his hand was picked up, and his finger tightly bound to the others, being held as still as possible. It did not lessen the pain in the hand, but at least it could not be moved freely.

"I think that'll be better now."

The hands were under his arms once again, and he was back shifting into a sitting position. He could feel the front of one's legs behind him, and gingerly, he rested his head back, the fabric of the pants much softer and gentler than the cold ground.

"He's too heavy for me."

A sigh from above him. "Alright, you go keep watch while I drag him."

"Keep watch for what?"

"Are you an idiot? Whoever did this to Aladdin is probably going to come back; we need to be out of here by then."

Aladdin sighed to himself as he felt his body being dragged, the muscles in his arms crying out in pain as he was pulled along, but not daring to complain; there were few places that he could be taken to right now worse than here. With effort, he opened his eyes slightly, to look up at his saviour.

Long dark hair brushed against his face, but he knew at a glance that it wasn't Jasmine's; the hair was too wavy to be hers, and the voice too young. As the figure looked down at him, Jafar's dark eyes peered down from behind a long fringe, and Aladdin felt his breath snap shut in his throat for a moment, before he realised that the eyes were set in a female face.

He reached up and grasped her wrist, squeezing gently, before allowing his eyes to fall shut once more. "Thank you," he murmured quietly, his throat arching sore, before finding himself lost in the world of unconsciousness again.

Aziza smiled gently down at the man that she struggled to hold up. "You're welcome."

*

The second time that Aladdin woke up, he was in a far more comfortable place.

He could feel the balmy summer heat against his face, the gentle wind against his body from the curtains flapping in the breeze. It felt several degrees cooler than it was during the daytime, and through the soft candlelight flickering in front of his eyelids, he assumed it was therefore, evening.

The pillows and mattress felt soft under his body, cradling him gently, and he was grateful for the light blanket covering him; despite the fact that it was not needed in the heat, it helped him feel more secure. Carefully, deeming himself safe for the time being, Aladdin opened his eyes.

He found himself in a little-used guest room, but the room seemed to be as comfortable as his own, decked out in shades of green and cream. His hand felt a little better, still tightly wrapped under the blanket, and while he knew that his hand wouldn't look the same again, always looking deformed with thanks to the sadist, it would repair itself over time.

The sound of a quiet cough caught Aladdin's attention, and he looked over the side of the bed, to see two small, gold satin covered feet propped up on the edge.

Aziza appeared not to have noticed him yet, sitting comfortably in a chair by his side, a large book open against her knees. He could only see the dark black hair on the top of her head, and he moved himself slightly in the bed, attempting to make himself known to her.

"Hey," he whispered hoarsely, his throat arching from the fight with Jafar.

Aziza looked up over the edge of her book, smiled, and closed it. The simple act of placing the book on the bedside table gave Aladdin a few moments to study his rescuer – she was not the classic Arabian beauty that her mother was, with her father's dark eyes taking up a good portion of her face, but her black hair was long, wavy and silky; the darkness of it sucking in the candlelight. But her body was all her mother's, and the small, hourglass figure was encased in a light bedlah outfit with flowing pants, in material of a fine purple.

As she pulled back from the table, Aziza's eyes met Aladdin's, and a faint blush crept over her face as she realised that he had been watching her. "Are you feeling better?" she asked, her voice quiet and slightly embarrassed.

"A little," he responded, his eyes focused on her face. "Who helped you bring me in here?"

"Jafar found you," she replied easily, and an alarm bell rang in Aladdin's head at the sorcerer's name, until he realised that she was referring to her brother, and that she wouldn't refer to her father by his name. "Then he found me, and we brought you in here." She frowned briefly, studying the room around them. "Unfortunately, I don't think this is your room, but it was the closest unoccupied bedroom we could find."

"That's fine," he said quickly, wanting to put the Princess at ease.

Aziza frowned, her eyes darting back to him, and she asked a question that Aladdin had dreaded. "You're pretty beaten up; who did this to you?"

For the first time in his life, Aladdin found himself actually defending Jafar.

"I'm not sure," he replied slowly, lying through his teeth. "All I can remember is walking into the room; I can't remember who was there, or anything that happened, until you found me."

Aziza frowned lightly at this simple lie, but she nodded briefly, her sympathy for the man clear on her face, and Aladdin hoped the guilt was not clear on his own.

He wondered why he couldn't find himself able to tell Aziza the truth, that it was her father that had attacked him, leaving for him for apparent death, without a care in the world. It wasn't like Jafar needed to be defended, and in his lie, Aladdin wondered if he was doing precisely that, and in defending the sorcerer, did that make him as cold-hearted as the older man?

But at a glance of the innocence on Aziza's face, Aladdin realised who he was defending.

It wasn't Jafar. Jafar could suffer for his actions, and Aladdin wouldn't care; in fact, he would look forward to the day in sheer delight. No, he was defending the children, and to a smaller degree, their mother. Aziza and her brother were innocent victims in Jafar's twisted game against him, for reasons he couldn't fully comprehend – the sorcerer had deserved his death, and the very idea of him having returned nearly made Aladdin clench his teeth together in deep frustration.

But Jafar's undeserved anger towards him, and Aladdin's brutal receiving of the sadist's attack was not the children's fault, and Aladdin had to protect them as such – they'd only just met their father again, and Aladdin didn't think that it was fair to them to advise them that their father was a murderer. They would learn of the horrors at his hands sooner or later, and Aladdin wouldn't be the one to advise them; no, their mother could do that.

His stomach clenched in on itself at the thought of Jasmine, the love in his heart that Aladdin felt beginning to blacken. Surely ten years had been long enough now for her to move on, but no, as soon as that arrogant prick of a man had walked back through the door, she'd fallen at his feet. He'd tried to rescue her once, by doing her a favour that he'd never been thanked for, and she'd had had the chance to be with him. And she'd blown it.

The hand that had wrapped itself around his heart squeezed hard, and despite the love that he felt for Jasmine, Aladdin was at the end of his rope, trying to work out how to save her, when she clearly seemed to think that she didn't need saving. Well, fine with him. If Jasmine wanted to act like Jafar's personal puppet again, then she could go right ahead; as far as Aladdin was concerned, Jasmine had dug her grave, and she could lie in it.

With this knowledge, Aladdin knew that there was no way that he would tell Jasmine that he'd killed Jafar – he owed them nothing. At this rate, Jasmine would most likely believe Jafar over anything Aladdin said; it would sound all the worse coming from her own husband.

The rustle of fabric next to him made Aladdin look up, and he felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Aziza leaning over him, her eyes gentle, mistaking his emotion pain for physical pain. And he had no words as she leant down and pressed her lips lightly against his, her eyes remaining opened, darkening with emotion that Aladdin didn't understand.

"Feel better soon," she murmured, and slowly and silently, walked away, leaving him lost to uncomfortable thoughts.

*

As Jafar's eyes raked over the hundreds of people in attendance at the Sultan's funeral, he realised that Razoul had not been joking when he'd spoken of the women of Agrabah being locked away.

In fact, it seemed that the only women in attendance were his own.

If he had taken Razoul seriously, Jafar might've had a second thought in allowing Aziza attend, but he knew there was no way that he could stop Jasmine from attending her father's funeral – that even if he did hide her away, that she would find some way of showing up anyway. Though they had spent the last ten years part, Jafar knew that Jasmine could be just as cunning and manipulative as he was.

But in all fairness, she was not herself at the moment, and her husband's return was not enough to cancel out the private pain she felt at her father's death. So despite his better judgement, he'd hypnotised her so that she could attend the funeral without falling apart, something that he hadn't done to her since they had married. To be fair, Jafar had asked if she'd preferred that he hypnotise her, and dully, she'd agreed, on the condition that she would be immediately released from his mind-control once the funeral was over.

And so, he'd put her under his spell, and he kept her close to him as the funeral proceeded, her hair wrapped under a hijab, her face an expression of complete blankness, his hand resting against her lower back being the single sign of public affection between them. But as his gaze flickered across to his daughter on his other side, Jafar rather wished that he'd hypnotised her, as well.

He hoped that he was the only one to notice that Aziza seemed unable to remove her eyes from the street rat, standing with the other common folk, away from his family. Aladdin looked rather worse for wear, much to Jafar's satisfaction, but he was frustrated to see him at the funeral, where he didn't belong, and his daughter's obvious interest in the boy unnerved him.

As if feeling her father's disapproval, Aziza pulled her eyes away from Aladdin and stared up at him, her eyes defiant.

"Stop staring at Aladdin," Jafar hissed under his breath, attempting to remain quiet enough to avoid attracting attention, "and get a grip on yourself."

Aziza raised an eyebrow at him from under her hijab. "I'm not staring."

"You're making it obvious to everyone; you will behave yourself!" He snapped in a low voice, his daughter's clear lie beginning to ruffle his feathers.

Far from looking embarrassed at her father's scolding, a flicker of faint amusement passed across her features. "You've been away for ten years," she replied, her tone smug, "You can't come in and just tell me what to do."

"I am your father!"

Jafar's raised voice had caused those nearby to turn, surprised to hear what was becoming an argument between the sorcerer and the princess in public. Jasmine failed to glance at them, with Jafar desperately trying to keep the bickering out of her mind, but their quiet son had turned to face his father from the other side of Jasmine in interest, clutching his mother's hand tightly. With a slight shake of his head, Jafar watched as the curious boy glanced at him, before returning to the funeral at large, his hand squeezing Jasmine's just a little bit tighter.

But as he watched his son turn away, Jafar felt Razoul move behind him, the guard's voice low in the sorcerer's ear: "I did warn you not to bring them out of the palace," he murmured. "Women cannot behave themselves."

Though he frowned at Razoul's words, Jafar couldn't help but agree with him, at least when it came to his daughter, at least at this time. Knowing that her father wasn't going to continue the argument in public, Aziza simply gave him a slight smile, before allowing her eyes to wander across the crowd, falling on Aladdin once more, under her father's disapproval.

And while Jafar eventually turned away from his daughter, bringing himself mentally back to the funeral, the gentle summer day slowly faded into a blue twilight, he knew that he would have to do something about this undesirable... relationship of his daughter, and the little thorn in his side of a street rat.


TBC