It had been a major mistake, those drugs. Besides the fact he had still gotten his fill of memory lane, and a multicolored zoo parading in front of him (though the cart wheeling giraffes had been interesting), the hallucinations had caused…he shivered remembering it.
It had started small; a few fireflies that weren't there, a voice or two talking with each other that didn't exist. It was when Lady Farah appeared that he knew he was in for a few hours of hell. She was sitting comfortably in the chair by the table, her severed head in her lap, curls arranged over her knees. Small rivulets of blood trickled from her neck down her calves, fitted in tight light blue silk that was her norm. "Do I still bother you that much, handsome?" the head asked, smiling.
"No. Not really, that's why you're here first," he had answered from his place on the floor. Mozenrath wasn't sure whether it was good or bad that he was still rather lucid during his hallucination. He leaned back against his bed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was still there.
"Hush sweetling, everything will be fine. Just relax," she said, repeating those words from years long past. She grasped her golden curls and stood, letting her head hang from her hair. She stepped forward, drops of blood following her. "There's no Xerxes to protect anymore."
"He's passed."
"You've failed him?"
"That street rat killed him," Mozenrath said through clenched teeth. "I tried."
"But you were too weak, right? You couldn't do it? Or maybe you killed him?"
"I did not," he screamed. "He was my friend! I would never-"
"Oh? Are you sure? How can you be? I mean you're seeing me…and you know what came of me…maybe you really are insane...and you were seeing things...and you caused his final death...?"
Mozenrath leaned his head back again, and pressed his palms into his eyes. No! It's not real. Aladdin came and killed him-it wasn't your fault! He was so tired...so tired. He wished his body would just faint already, and escape this. But he knew he wouldn't. His mind was too active. And his mind loathed him.
"Don't you remember? Surely you do? You don't repress anything, do you," she said, her voice slowly growing deeper and deeper. "You feel these horrors make you stronger, jaded. But they hurt you as well, don't they? Bring you close to the brink? To madness?"
When Mozenrath next opened his eyes, Destane stood before him, grinning down at him, his scars stretching with the action. Mozenrath's body rejected the sight, screaming for him to stand and repeat his bloody death, to slaughter his master like the rabid animal he was. But he was dead already. One cannot kill the dead... Mozenrath had killed him. No need to do it again.
"Don't you remember? When I brought you to the mad house? They lived in their fantasies, seeing things that weren't there, thinking people were sitting next to them, soothing them. How do you know you're not living in fantasy…? Where Aladdin killed the whelp…and not you? Don't you remember? Of course you do. You remember everything. We walked through, and the holders were agreeing with those stinking, insane prisoners, covered in their own filth. They nodded and agreed, and you know what you said?"
Mozenrath's jaw tightened. He said nothing. In all honesty, he only had a faint memory of his trips with Destane. So preoccupied was he with his plans of grandeur.
Destane grinned. "You said…" The dark wizard turned to the darkened corner of the room, where the candle's rays did not dare to reach.
A young Mozenrath stood, dressed in his apprentice uniform and black cloak. His face was pale and eyes sunken, looking more like a skeletal cast of the boy than an actual imitation. "Does it help them, master? Pretending they are sane? Does it bring them back to reality?"
"Of course not," Destane said chuckling, staring at the older Mozenrath rather than at the apparition to whom he replied. "It is out of pity, and for their own amusement. These people aren't even people anymore. They're animals. They're nothing, because they are insane." Destane kneeled and sat on the ground across from his grown up apprentice. "You are insane. So logically…"
"You were insane," Mozenrath said.
"How mature."
"And I disposed of you as you saw fit for the insane. Was your remedy a bitter taste when it was used on you?"
Destane ignored him. Damn it all, not even his hallucinations obeyed him. "But you couldn't save Xerxes before you accomplished that, could you? Hmm? That little boy never achieved his prize whilst you walk free as a peacock."
Mozenrath's throat closed. The burning in his head reached his eyes and a small tear cut its path down his cheek. "I was a good brother."
"Brother," Destane chuckled as he lay back. "Weren't you the one who said..." Once again he let the other Mozenrath take over. Only now, the little boy has grown to a young man of sixteen, slender, and features defined, eyes glittering cruelly.
"We are slaves clutching onto the lasts shreds of affection, not a family," he spat cruelly. The real Mozenrath's stomach churned, remember the exact time and place he had spat those angry words at Xerxes. He could remember how Mina clung to his friend's sleeves, tears falling into her open, shocked mouth. It was a blow to the face having those misguided words spat back at him.
Destane laughed again, so loudly that his whole stomach convulsed. He continued to laugh till the sound echoed in Mozenrath's skull.
The evil wizard seemed to gasp for breath and choked on his mirth, bubbles of blood sprouting up from his lips. His hands tried to cover the gaping wound in his abdomen, and blood squirted between his fingers.
Mozenrath kicked the wizard away from him, still shaking with sorrow and anger. The simple tear that had run down his cheek had fallen to the floor where it stained the wood. From that one dark spot a small fountain sprung fourth, slowly, tantalizingly covering the floor. For some reason it did not spill through the cracks in the door frame, but pooled, growing higher and higher in the room. Destane continued his gargling laugh, even underwater.
Mozenrath shook his head. "No. It's not real. It's not real…" He pressed his hands to his face, hoping against hope what he thought would appear, wouldn't. But he knew that hope was useless as something solid and floating bumped his leg. He ignored it. If he just didn't react perhaps it would fade away and he'd finally pass out.
It wasn't until a hand caught his leg in a vice like grip that he realized this tactic wouldn't work. He jumped and ripped his palms from his face. Under the water, a small boy no older than seven was holding onto his calf. His stringy tangled hair floated around his head like some morbid halo. His lips and cheeks where bleached white from lack of oxygen and elongated water exposure.
Mozenrath ripped his gaze away. But he was no longer in his room. He was no longer in Rome. Instead he was sitting in the manmade lake that had once stood in the courtyard of the Citadel. Bodies floated like morbid buoys. The wizard shook his head, as if it'd dislodge the memories. The hand at his leg tugged until Mozenrath's eyes returned to him. He opened his mouth and spoke. No bubbles burst from his tongue; he had no air to release. The wizard couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could read his lips quite clearly.
'Why didn't you save me? Was it worth it?'
'Twas around that time that Mozenrath started screaming himself hoarse, hugging himself and rocking back forth. As a necromancer, he had no problem with dead bodies. But it was these dead bodies, from times long ago that sent him careening towards the edge. Luckily, this was the time his body decided to pass out, before his mind completely and utterly snapped one, last, final time.
Mozenrath welcomed the boring, mundane and safe memories of the street rat, for once, with open arms and a glad smile-though he'd sooner throw himself into a shark pit, naked, covered in blood than admit it.
When he had finally arisen from his unconsciousness like a mummy from a coffin, the sun was orange, and over his median in the sky. He rolled out of bed; his limbs felt more like the limbs of a stuffed doll than a human, numb and hardly useful.
He was extraordinarily glad that the chatterbox Siti and the nosy Henuttawy had not come to check up on him when he woke. Maybe he really hadn't screamed as loudly as he thought. He touched his throat. It felt slightly hoarse.
Surely they must have come in during his drug-induced sleep. For one, he had woken up with a blanket around him, and on the bed, when he was sure he had collapsed on the floor (but then who knows what he had done in his waking nightmare). The real evidence of this theory was the tray of fresh bread, cheese, and a pitcher of milk outside his door. There was also a cold wet cloth, most likely from the old Egyptian. If he didn't need it so badly for his war drum headache, he would have left it by the door or thrown it in her face. He didn't like being cared for. Pampered, yes, but not cared for. He didn't like owing favors.
Pressing the water soaked rag against his flushed forehead, he dropped the tray on the table. The plates clattered and the pitcher wobbled dangerously, almost spilling over onto his unfinished letter, scientific calculations to remove Aladdin's conscious from his, plans and designs for the new Citadel, and the portal Mozenrath had been working on since he'd been able to see straight.
Since he had nothing of this girl (Meegar?) which belonged to her, it was taking a while to find her. He planned to follow her today, find out her daily routine and plan around that, like he had when he had been interrupted by Henuttawy last morning. But with the blood pounding in his ears so loudly he couldn't even hear himself think, actually going out was struck off his 'things to do today' list.
When he finally did catch a glimpse of her though his portal, he thought there was something wrong with the magic. The portal was showing a lithe girl, running so fast that her image blurred, her long legs moving with a grace only excessive practice achieved. Surely this couldn't be the new Lady of Roman court, arms and legs streaked with dirt, and skirts hiked up around her knees? She weaved in and out of the trees, boulders and bushes, like an expert seamstress' needle through silk. She pole-vaulted over a particularly large rock and landed, spot on, for a moment. Using the energy from her jump, her legs unfolded like springs, sending her shooting through the air. She caught onto a low hanging branch and swung over a wet patch of road to land elegantly again, and continued on her way, without a stagger in her step or breath. By this time he was sure he was watching a Gallifeme rather than Lady what's-her-name. She held herself straight as a pin, with the stance of a warrior.
Mozenrath raised his eyebrows, headache momentarily forgotten. He knew she had been a thief, but he couldn't even remember Aladdin being this nimble. Then again he wasn't a girl...assumedly. After a while she slowed beside a small creek and paced in circles, lowering her heartbeat, and the wizard got a good look at her.
"Oh my," he murmured to himself.
She had the most alarmingly stunning eyes he had ever seen. Heavy lidded, rimmed with thick black lashes, they were the bright color of violet, slightly bolder in hue than the purple one would see in a setting sun. Sparkling, bright with her exercise, set in a delicate face most sculptors wished they could capture. Thin, surprisingly upturned nose and pale skin for a Roman, high cheeks that were flushed pink, and a shapely mouth with a full lower lip.
She untied her hair ribbon, combing out her waist length mahogany curls from its plait. Her mane of hair swung around her lithe, well endowed body. She kneeled by the water and splashed it along her arms and legs, rubbing the grime from her limbs.
As Mozenrath watched with rather rapt attention, headache quite forgotten, her skin glistening with the cleansing spring water, the saner testosterone-immune side of his brain wondered what she was doing here running in the backwoods of Rome when just last night her fiancée had probably been fighting the insane mechanic. Shouldn't she be on some distant balcony, gazing over the city asking some comic relief if her beloved was okay, and then having a heartfelt moment with the secondary character? Or rushing off to help her intended with said minor cast, preparing her one-liners and battle outfit?
Mozenrath lifted the cloth from his forehead to peer more closely at the semi-bathing heroine. "Would you look at that Xerxes? Very pretty," he murmured absently. But Xerxes didn't answer back.
"I'm not Xerxes, but she is pretty."
Mozenrath jumped, his knee hitting the table at his right. The milk bottle and open inkpot hopped upon the surface and tripped, spilling their contents.
Mozenrath swore and hastily picked up his books and letters with his right hand before using his cold cloth to mop up the mess before it spread, as his head snapped around to see who had interrupted his very private musings.
Haji had his head in the room, keeping his body safe behind the door. "Problem?"
"I know our cultures are truly different," Mozenrath snapped, his headache slamming back in full force, "but surely knocking can bridge the cultural gap!"
"I didn't think many palaces had doors in Arabia," Haji said. "I was coming to check on you. Henuttawy said you might be dead."
Mozenrath smiled. "I usually don't disappoint, but tell her I'm quite fine, if you must." He dried off the table and picked up his quill, signing the letter and sealing it. "Take this and post it," he said, handing him the parchment.
Haji, who had been watching Megara stroll through the forest, took the letter and looked at the name on the front. "Ahhh, let me guess," the cripple said, tapping the latter against his forehead and closing his eyes. "Hmmm...you're writing Tiye a letter so that she'll give you a word lashing through parchment rather than a real lashing when you arrive on her doorstep, yes?"
"All hail the conquering soothsayer." His potion calculations were soggy, and the ink was running. Completely useless. Yes, it's official. Fate is telling me I'll never be free of these dreams. "Was there any weird noise last night?" Mozenrath inquired.
"Besides the battle? No, why?"
Mozenrath breathed in relief. So he hadn't really screamed in his sleep. Good. "Well, you did say hunters were lurking about," he lied smoothly.
"Oh, no, don't you worry." Haji's face, usually kind and open, took on a positively nefarious smile. "They won't be coming around here anytime soon."
"The hunters becoming the hunted?"
"Something like that. Must protect my own, you know?"
We have to protect each other, Moze. We're all we have, all that we can have. Don't let selfishness loosen your hold on it...
Mozenrath shook his head, dislodging Xerxes' long dead voice.
Haji leaned against the table, massaging what was left of his knee. "We don't bother them, but they don't exactly return the favor."
Mozenrath didn't really care.
"It's like they're swarming now. I think a very old or strong vampyre must be around here somewhere for them to be so agitated."
"Could be a fire-born," Mozenrath said, started to put away his papers, hoping that the cripple would leave so.
"A what?"
Sighing, Mozenrath said, "When a fire elf and a mortal mate, you get a fire-born, or vampyre that hasn't been bitten. Tend to stand the sun a bit more."
"How does a human give birth to a vampyre?" Haji sounded disgusted.
"I don't ask questions like that, messy medication isn't my forte," the wizard snapped. "But as a wizard you should know this." A sad day indeed when wizards don't even know the basics of the magical community.
"I'm not the strongest link in the family's magical chain," he said, a little on the defense. He glanced at the ceiling. "That would be Siti."
Mozenrath was going to snort, but stopped himself, realizing that perhaps insulting the man who was currently housing him by insulting his wife was not the best idea he'd had. So, wonderful, the only magical being in the house worth mentioning had the wit of a bird and a mouth that babbled more than a brook.
Sensing his irritation, Haji raised the letter to his forehead again in salute, and turned limping out of the room. Mozenrath could see a small circle of fresh blood, bleeding through his white tunic.
"You know, that's supposed to go on outside the shirt." Tiye leaned against the door frame of Mozenrath's new bedroom. Positioned in the same hall as the master's chambers, it was of a relatively nice size. Actually anything was better than the matchbox the two growing boys had been forced to share. It actually had a window that looked out on the west end of the desert, where no abandoned houses cluttered the skyline. The room itself was bare, no shelves, no desk. If Mozenrath was going to write something, Destane wanted to see it. The canopied bed was softer and laid with layers of blankets. Destane's reasoning had been that Mozenrath would need at least a few hours of good sleep if he was going to be of any use in his new position.
Xerxes' cot from the dungeon had been brought up and shunted into a corner, where he now sat. "A slave bed for a slave," he said, still with that odd inflection in his voice.
"It is," Mozenrath asked, looking down at his waist where he was lacing up the cincher. He had already tried out his lab clothing, the light white tunic and loose pants covered by a grey-brown smock. This finer, more colorful set of clothing was what he would wear in company, like tonight, for welcoming Lady Farah. Mozenrath's insides clenched.
They were more a testament to Destane's wealth than to Mozenrath's station. Destane, the great wizard, so rich he could even dress his servants well. Xerxes' new, clean clothes lay in a folded pile untouched.
"Here," Tiye said, putting down the plate in her hands to come behind him and unlace the cincher with practiced ease. Two days ago Tiye had started this near obsession with cooking. Despite the fact that they had the undead servants and older children to do such things, she had shooed nearly all of them out, and started a cooking frenzy, silently cooking, and marinating, and boiling in silence. Dosa and biryani, flaky paratha, tongue-burning vindaloo, and thick korma. What she had on her plate now was Mozenrath's absolute favorite food, honey cakes. As he placed the cincher on the bed he snagged one and popped it whole into his mouth, the thick sweet taste making his eyes close.
"You should see him, Tiye, he's been looking over these stupid clothes like they were stitched by the gods," Xerxes called from his corner. "I know the hair was a bit of a giveaway, but now this infatuation for clothing..."
Tiye shot him a half irate, half amused glare, and slid the garment off Mozenrath. "This goes on last, with the arm guards. Arms up, suck it in," she said tightening the bandages around his torso. They kept the sweat from his skin staining the silk of the tunic. Her fingers gently brushed the discolored patches on his neck from the collar that had once rested there.
"Besides," Xerxes said, standing up and plopping himself on Mozenrath's bed, "this one you may just have to sit down for. Mozenrath has finally come to his senses-he's going to help us. Well me, but now that he's on board, how can you say no?"
"Hmm, seems I can't," Tiye said, as if they were talking about the weather rather than a coup against the most dangerous wizard in the world. "Fate seems to be practically dragging us by the hand."
"Yes, funny how fate has a habit of doing that." Mozenrath said this noncommittally, putting only a slight inflection on 'fate'. His eyes flicked up to the full length, golden framed mirror and caught Tiye's eyes. Her long face was blank, gold paint glittering in the candlelight, her chocolate orbs ablaze with Ra's fire. For an eternity of a second, Mozenrath challenged her, his sister, his friend. Daring her to tell them what she had done.
Challenging her as a fellow rather than as a younger sibling, no longer the young child trailing her heels, but a young man who was seeing his world clearly. Could she see that? Could she see how he had grown, from a wide-eyed child to an apprentice of a trade? True, he hadn't even started, but the simple fact of his new position marked the passage of time, to the fact that they were not children anymore, dreaming of freedom. They were young warriors, ready to take their freedom.
Tiye blinked once. And then again. Her lips parted, and Mozenrath hung on every word. "Quite funny."
And there it was. The first intentional lie between them. His heart mourned their loss of honesty, while his head pondered the fact that perhaps growing up was learning how to lie to those you love.
"So, we will go ahead with this scheme," Tiye said, turning away from the mirror and Mozenrath's knowing eyes.
"Yeah, Moze and I were figuring out how to sneak papers back here, since he can't be in the library that much anymore."
"Well that does put a damper on things-not at all?"
"Only under allotted time-"
"But since Moze is always in there, it shouldn't be a problem," Xerxes said, talking over Mozenrath. He bounded from his bed to Mozenrath's in one vault across the room. Bouncing on the firm feather mattress, he looked from Tiye to Mozenrath. Obviously he had not missed that moment of stalemate between them. "Moze said we could sew pockets on the inside of our clothing and stuff paper in there, or shove it in our boots. I don't think Master will pat us down every night."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Tiye said, wrinkling her nose, and joining Xerxes on the bed.
"Well how are you going to send us information from Egypt? We haven't thought about that."
"That shouldn't be a problem, I won't be leaving for a while now."
"But how will we-"
"I can be in the library more than Mozenrath. It'll work out," she said, taking a bite out of a honey cake.
"Why are you staying? Doesn't Mirage want you back for suitors or whatever," Xerxes said, disbelievingly, then wrinkled his nose. "Great, how long exactly are we going to have to deal with your molly-coddling?" he teased.
"I guess she wants me here. I don't know how long, but maybe long enough to rid you of your fleas-but that may take a year or so."
"Heaven forbid, a year! I don't like it. Master is too weird around you," Xerxes snapped, looking at Mozenrath for support. Mozenrath looked away, back to the mirror, and made a show of adjusting his bandages. When he glanced back, his friend was wearing the same hard odd look he had seen yesterday.
"I'll be fine, would you stop making such a scene? Mozenrath might have an odd fascination with clothes, but you're the one being the drama master."
Xerxes looked between his two friends, almost accusatorily.
Mozenrath slipped on his satin tunic, and almost tipped his head back at the feeling of the silky material gliding over his abused flesh. The rough skin of his fingers caught on the cloth as Mozenrath gingerly adjusted the shirt around his lanky body. It fit well, with room for growth. As he tied the black and gold sash around his waist, his voice took on a scholarly tone far beyond his years. "I think I should start looking for information about a lamp first before going after the key-"
"Why? It's the other half of the key we're looking for," Xerxes cut him off again.
"Because there are millions upon millions of keys, and hundreds shaped like a beetle or scarab. It's a common symbol, born out of Egypt yes, but widespread none the less," Mozenrath snapped. Xerxes shrank back slightly. "If we look for this lamp, we could trace backwards, to where it's held, and from there to the key. There aren't many magical lamps to my knowledge besides the ones home to the djinn."
Xerxes raised his hand. Mozenrath looked over and gave him a glare. When Xerxes didn't speak Mozenrath growled. "What?"
"Done talking?"
"What do you want to ask?"
"You really think it's just a djinni inside?"
"What did you think it was?"
"I don't know, magic oil or something. Something like the Hand of Mintos you were reading about last month."
"Hand of Midas, and while magic oil might useful once or twice, the way Destane talked about this lamp it's obvious that it's something much more than enchanted liquids. Djinn have cosmic powers, they can do anything they want, unlimited." Mozenrath saw his eyes grow darker in the mirror as he reverently relayed the information he knew about the phenomenally powered Djinn, like he was praying. He pulled on the cincher again, and laced it up. Next came two leather pieces that were attached to each other by laces as well, that slipped over the arms. He wondered why these were provided. It wasn't as if he was going to be performing in battle with these clothes. He turned this way and that.
The slave boy was gone. Instead, in front of the mirror stood a pale young apprentice, someone with place, and someone of society, of rank. A 'he' rather than a 'them'. True, he could stand to gain a few pounds and grow out his hair, but with this simple change of clothes, little slave Moze finally seemed to fit the grandeur of his name, Mozenrath. Fit for the arms of a princess-
Stop that.
"How do you control something like that," Xerxes said, completely enthralled in the story, not noticing Mozenrath's attention taking a leave of absence.
"By what I've read, you own the lamp-you own the djinn. Though, it would be a sweet irony if the djinn Master wants was spirited."
"Spirited?" Up till now Tiye had been eerily silent again. Leaning back on the pillows, and letting the conversation unfold in front of her, instead of taking part in it. An odd stillness had settled upon her, like one he had seen on children about to succumb to the flu or pox.
"Yes, djinn that have a sense of personality, free will I suppose would be the crudest, simplest terms. Sometimes they may even dictate terms. But most djinn like that are instantly cast off after being used, so they've been bred out to a rarity," Mozenrath said, wrapping bandages around his neck to hide the ugliness there; placing cool, new linen over the years of abuse and pain, hiding it from the eye, while the heart still knew its presence.
"I don't think that'll happen," Xerxes said, waving away this information. "In fact, I think that Al should be waking up by now...
...He's been out too long and he's sleeping like the dead. What do you think, monkey man?"
Three squeaks of agreement and two small, warm hands shook his arm. Aladdin's brow furrowed and he shifted away. His head was resting on the side of the carriage; gently bumping at the wheels below him navigated the rough road. It took a moment for him to register that he was no longer hearing Xerxes' bright voice, but Genie's worried one.
The two hands pulled at his sleeve now, Abu squeaking in concern. A few moments after reacquainting himself mentally with his bearings, Aladdin opened his eyes. The shutter of the small window had been closed, and the only light in the carriage was the sun's rays seeping in through the small cracks. Aladdin himself was stretched out on the bed-seat, atop the feathered mattress and silken blankets. He was propped up by soft pillows, and clad in silk. He was rather used to such luxury by now, but still acted as if he were borrowing these things rather than owning them, not wanting to soil them with his street rat mannerisms.
Carpet lay on the floor, unmoving. He had had quite a workout last night. Abu was sitting on Aladdin's shoulder; the sultan was so used to his weight that he had not noticed him there before. Genie was hunched over him, concern etched in his smooth blue skin.
"Something happen?" Al slurred, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching.
Genie poofed out of sight only to return with black combed hair, and in strange yellow coat and hat. Above him, rain started pouring, and he pulled open a large yellow umbrella. "Good morning, good morning, you've slept the whole day through! Good morning, good morning, to you," he sang, walking in place.
"Genie, watch it," Aladdin said, trying to pull as much of the silk finery away from the rain as possible. "No so elaborate so early, huh?"
"Whoops, sorry 'bout that!" Genie transformed into a small sun, heating away the moisture. "Good morning to you! We're all in our places, with sunshine-y faces!"
Aladdin dropped the silk he was holding and shielded his eyes. "Xerxes, c'mon," he snapped, irritated.
"Huh?"
"Nothing," Aladdin said, swinging leg legs off the seat and yawning. Usually he awoke alone, since Jasmine began starting the day earlier and earlier as their marriage went on, and had time to flush out the residue of Mozenrath's emotions from his mind before appearing in front of people. But now, the wizard's annoyance with Xerxes had bled into Aladdin's conscious.
"But you just said-."
"I'm sorry, Genie," Aladdin snapped again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath. "I just woke up. I've been sleeping a lot deeper lately-and I get irritated when I shouldn't." Thankfully that was all Genie needed to hear to deter him from his questioning Aladdin's slip of the tongue. Al slapped on a dashing smile and stretched his back again until he heard it pop, then felt his arm. The wound beneath had been treated by the doctors and wrapped up in silk bandages. Aladdin had protested and said that linen would work better (something he had learned from Mozenrath when Xerxes had been burned by a fae blood spill), but he had been ignored. That was the way of the palace, join or be shunned. One would think a Sultan would be above that.
And then again, one would be completely fecking wrong.
Opening the shutters, Aladdin peered out over the terrain. He could see plants, and trees and green things. They were getting close. Resting back against the carriage, he asked how long he'd been out.
"An hour or so. I know the doctors said you'd be sleepy-I didn't know we needed to order a coffin!"
"Hey it'll take a lot more than a few bruises and a swipe at the arm to stop the hero of Agrabah."
"Suwltan," Abu squeaked.
Aladdin's face fell immediately. For a moment, just for a moment, it had felt like the old days. No, longer than a moment. Since the battle he had felt like Aladdin again, just a hero, fighting just a villain, winning, trading one liners. No memories but of past battles, no feelings but the wind in his hair, the fire near his skin, the adrenaline flooding his veins and mind. His mind had emptied, seeing everything only at face value. Just fighting. Mindless fiighting.
But he was Sultan. These escapist moments were rare and far between. Of course he sneaked away to the training ring whenever he could. The whispers in Agrabah were that Jasmine had been blinded by Aladdin's heroic escapades and had married a cad who only wanted the luxuries of palace life. Though he sat in on every council meeting, every ambassadorial visit, he almost always flubbed somehow. Mispronounced this one's name, mixed up which area had what problem, forgot vital points of Agrabanian history when trying to make a speech, or making overly crude jokes with other kings. And of course, the not-so-subtle gifts of gilded bassinets and golden rattles weren't helping his desire to associate in these circles.
It hadn't helped that he had scoured the palace's library for any scrap or mention of spells and magic, wanting to know about all these spells and references Mozenrath used on a daily basis. Apparently that didn't go over well with the librarians. How had he not noticed the rampant prejudice against wizards before? Even Jasmine, to his surprise, had taken him to task over this newfound interest. "Right now is not the time to trod on dangerous territory, Aladdin," she had said, like a stern mother. "The people's love can be fickle when they are unsure-with no heir and a few faulty treaties no one will like you all of a sudden trying to learn dark and dangerous things!"
Once again taking up his position against the carriage wall, he rolled over the short dream in his head. He knew what had become of Mozenrath and Xerxes, but the more he saw of this Tiye the more he wanted to know. "Genie, do you...have you heard of anyone named Tiye? Even been to Egypt?"
"Oh Al," Genie said, leaning a cheek against his hand and floating down to sit on the seat opposite. "Bad news, mi amigo. She's one bad kitty."
"Kitty?"
"Oh yeah. She works for Mirage!"
"Still?"
"Huh?"
Aladdin flushed, quickly covering up his mistake. "Uh-I mean she does? I never heard of her."
"She's one of the more dangerous villains. Mirage thinks it, she does it!"
"She trapped by Mirage?"
"I don't know many people who are trapped by her and enjoy the work! She's also called," and here Genie zipped under a pillow, quaking, "the genie killer!"
Aladdin drew back, appalled. "The what?"
"You think Mirage hates genies? Tiye's the one who obliterates them!"
"That's not possible, Genie. I thought you were cosmic?"
"We are!" Genie shivered again. "Only if our master wishes us dead, or," he choked up again, "destroys our lamp!" He pulled the pillow over his face. "Let's talk about something else, eh?"
Aladdin's brow furrowed again. That sweet motherly girl had become a villain just like Mozenrath. How? How had the boy playing model in his new room turned into this single minded killing machine, his 'sister' a magical monstrosity? In his mind he saw the pale boy's face slowly morph into his adult counterpart. The hesitant mouth curling into an evil smile, the eyes hardening, deadening. He ripped the pillow off Genie. "Okay Genie, we don't have to talk about her if you don't want to."
At that moment the carriage rumbled to a stop. Aladdin had learned long ago not to open the door for himself. As frustrating as it was to sit and wait like an idiot for a servant to open the door for him to get out, it was easier than dealing with the stares and whispers about the street rat-king.
He slid on his turban, not even bothering to try and stuff the rebellious tufts of hair back under the stiff frame. "Public faces," Aladdin said, grinning. He patted Carpet, who popped up. The heavy wooden door was pulled open, and the young sultan shielded his eyes from the afternoon life. The spicy hot air of the desert had been replaced with clear, crisp, cool air and the scent of greenery.
A stooped over man with loose leathery skin stood before him, bowing, the white toga draped around him limply around him. "Ah, Sultan Aladdin! I am Deccus, the grounds keeper. All of Master Hercules' household welcomes you, and give many thanks for your assistance to the Master in last night's battle!"
"It was no problem really, just Mechanicles and another massive unstoppable machine of wanton destruction. Nothing I haven't seen before," Aladdin said, grinning. He hopped out of the carriage, motioning for Abu riding carpet to follow. Deccus glanced wearily at the magical carpet. How could one forget Rome's strict no-magic policy?
But Aladdin loved Rome. Not that he didn't love Arabia more, of course, it was simply that this place was so completely different, he almost felt his worries fall away. It was just as busy, just as packed, and the upper crust just as two faced. But here the sellers a few miles away would be selling unpatterned bolts of cotton, chiffon, and plain silks, plums and ice, shouting in Greek and Latin, fanning themselves, though to Aladdin the air was cool and wonderful. Women walked around, faces and arms bared, the men with their heads uncovered, walking in sandals on the stone covered paths, reading the notices upon the doors for the Senate house. Commoners in an actual middle class, able to rise or fall, no castes, no despair, only hope.
Attaching the lamp to his belt, he followed the shuffling housekeeper up the marble steps of the villa. In fact, the whole building was gleaming white marble, as tall as the sky; the carvings etched into the stone were painted with gold and vibrant colors in every shade of the color spectrum. Fenced in by yards and yards of beautiful greenery and gardens, bursts of colorful flowers settled in the bushes that gilded the stone pathways and fountains.
Inside, sunlight invaded through the wall high windows and the gentle sea-salt smelling breeze made the chiffon curtains dance lazily. Aladdin sorely wished he knew Greek, so that he could read what was engraved in the bases of the statues that flanked the entrance corridor. Images of battles and heroic deeds he didn't understand, frozen in time. Deccus prattled on about congratulations and gratitude, and how happy 'Master Hercules' was to have him here, but Aladdin only half listened. Though he hated it, he had learned to only half listen to servants, as so many of them spoke nothing but mindless pandering. Just another part or himself, common courtesy, that he had to beat and mangle into submission to fit into this new world.
He stopped in front of a particularly beautiful statue of a woman with long curling hair fluttering in the wind, lifting a gold painted apple to her mouth with both hands, her spine curving gracefully. He squinted at the base and recognized the word 'Venus' from his studies of fertility goddesses. His stomach dropped a notch.
As he gazed he saw through the marble curls Meg peeking through the servant's door. Her face was streaked with mud and her hair was pulled back into a messy tail.
Before Aladdin could catch her attention, a sharp, shrewish voice rang out, making them both jump.
"There you are! What is this? Dirt? You are better suited as a Brittanian scullery maid than a lady! Where do you think you're going?" the voice called when Meg scurried off up a set of stairs. The owner of the voice, a bony red haired woman came stalking to the edge of the stairs, continuing to berate the girl. "By Olympus, how am I to make you a proper lady, hm? You disgrace us!"
Aladdin slowly tiptoed away from Deccus as he moved on, still talking, and moved towards the stairs. The red head stopped midsentence to drop a curtsy. "Your Majesty."
"Wha...? Oh, thanks." Stupid, who thanks someone for addressing you by title? He moved past her and started climbing the stairs.
"Oh-my lady's-"
"It's okay, um...you're dismissed," he said awkwardly before bounding up the stairs, rubbing his cheeks, hoping the blood would dissipate before he reached Meg. The upper portion of the villa was much more roomy than the lofty entrance. For one it wasn't a blinding marathon of white and gold. Lamps rather than statues lined the smaller halls. It was still huge, but darker, the sun not touching as much from the limited windows. There were doors here, areas closed off from a passerby's sight. Usually Aladdin didn't like small cramped areas that reminded him of his and his mother's hovel, but when you were surrounded by servants, you valued your privacy over anything else.
But this did cause a dilemma. The servant quarters were down below, and he knew only Megara and Hercules stayed in the villa, but which door would the ex-slave hide in? After trying a few that led to nothing more than a writing room, a dressing room and a room that was simply empty, he finally hit upon what he was looking for.
Meg was standing by a basin next to a large divan, splashing water over her face. At the sound of the door opening she whipped around ready to bolt again.
"Just me," he said grinning.
"Aladdin." Meg's face broke out in a grin. She placed a hand on her hip, and leaned against the basin. "You overgrown rat. So Rome finally got you in its clutches."
Aladdin's grin spared wider, and he stepped forward, hugging her to him. She still smelled the same as when he first met her; of lilies and grass and greenery in general. He had been so happy for Hercules when he announced the engagement, and elated when he found that she was an ex-street dweller as well. The first time they met, they were thick as the thieves they had once been, trading stories about various city adventures and minor crimes. It had come to a shock to Aladdin that with her level of experience, she was only sixteen. But that had been a year ago, and they still had that connection every time they met.
"Temporarily. You know no monster can keep me down, not even the one eye monster named empire." He let her go and slid into the divan. She threw herself down (completely unladylike) and slumped in her seat.
"Nothing can keep you down with that fairy dusted dog mat."
"Hey, it's a door mat, not a dog mat," Aladdin teased back. "You should go apologize."
"Oh, excuse me," she mocked. She tugged off her walking sandals and chucked them across the room.
"Have a good run? Escaped your dungeon master I see."
"So you've met Attia, eh?" she laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, she's my-uh-'maidservant'."
"Oh, like Malik, my 'groomsman'," Aladdin asked. Apparently they both had right hand servants that acted more like strict teachers on their bad days, every day. At least when Aladdin yelled, Malik went scurrying from the room. He'd hate to have Attia looking over his shoulder.
"Maybe we were mistaken about royals' saying 'no commoners in the palace'. It wasn't about snobbery, it was for our own protection."
Aladdin chuckled, head tilting back. "Nothing is more bitter than a dream becoming reality."
"Oh...my gods. Have you been reading poetry," Meg sneered. "Has the dainty princess got you gardening flowers too? Or maybe you're picking ones made out of silk for her sensitive nose?"
"No," Aladdin said, hauling a pillow at her. "Come on, Jas isn't that high maintenance. She was kind enough to you, and only Venus could love you."
"Hm." The new lady stood up and took a white cloth off the stand's bar, dipped it into the water basin and rinsed off her bare arms.
Aladdin watched her perhaps a little too closely. He'd seen harem girls with their bare legs and bellies, and even as queen Jasmine still bared her arms and shoulders, but there was something alluring about Roman women and their dress. Something about the mystery of the unseen, or maybe it was just how Romans styled their silk to hang on a girl's curves. Or maybe it had been a while too long since he and his wife had tried for a baby.
"Kind, I suppose. The kind of niceness you show to your least favorite family member when they start coughing up blood. Or when a naive urchin becomes a rich wife."
"She's not like that anymore, hasn't been for a long time. I mean she married me."
Meg raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That doesn't make her nice, it makes her blind."
"Blind?" Aladdin vaulted up from the settee, and came to stand close to her. He could smell lake water amongst the lilies. "Blind you say? Well I guess this face could dazzle a few choice damsels into blindness."
"'Choice damsels'? I'm not sure that's married man talk."
"Marriage just means I can't touch or act, doesn't mean I can't look. I buy an apple with my last coin, I can still look at the melons."
"So Jasmine's the apple? Who's the melon? Aladdin," Meg folded her arms, "could you mean me? I found my hero already, rat-boy."
"No, you're not a melon," Aladdin said, imitating her position and leaning close. "You're more of a soft, ripe..."
"Grape?"
"I was going to say pomegranate."
Meg clutched her stomach and made a great show of stumbling back and coughing. "Oh! Below the belt! Below the belt!"
Aladdin put up his fists playfully. "He may be lying in silk, but this dog still got some bite."
"Like it was anything to fear in the first place," Meg said, punching his shoulder.
"I knew it," a sweet male voice said from the door. Hercules squeezed through the door wearing a face of mock shock. He slowly approached them, staring hard at Meg. He looked very out of place in his white Roman toga that made his shape obvious rather than complementing it, like linen hanging haphazardly on a monolith. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you've gone and stolen my man!" He wrapped a large muscled arm around Aladdin's shoulders. Meg smiled, shaking her head.
"Hey Wonder-boy," she said, rolling onto the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek. Aladdin pulled away, gazing at the couple. The perfect Roman marriage: strong sweet hero, and Meg, femme fatale to bring him back to the ground every once in a while. He wished he could give them a few words of wisdom, something to smooth their way, to avoid his problems. He wished he could tell Meg how to travel the upper crust. But how could he look in her eyes and tell her to kill part of herself to make her way easier? How could he ask her to metaphorically slice off parts of her body to fit into a puzzle she'd grow to hate? Could he, should he tell Hercules not to force her? To wrap himself in their love like a shield against the court that was inevitably going to scorn his bride and lover? That he shouldn't expect to still travel and climb the circles he wished to with his fame alone? That perhaps, just perhaps, he might come to the conclusion that Meg was the blight everyone would tell him she was...?
Aladdin shook his head. The two had been talking while he had crawled into himself. They hadn't noticed, and he smiled gratefully, happy that he didn't make another social blunder.
"How's the shoulder," Herc asked, gesturing to Aladdin's left side where the horn of the mechanical cow had snagged the skin as he had swung from it.
"Doing just fine, a little sore. Glad carpet was there to catch me."
"Unfortunately," Meg interjected, receiving a playful bump from her fiancée.
"Why don't you go get ready for the celebration at the temple, Meg?"
"I see you want the little lady gone so you guys can snort and scratch and howl over your victory. I got it," she said, patting his arm. "Just remember your house training boys." She grinned at them as she walked away.
Aladdin smiled after her, and turned to his friend. They talked about how nice it was to be together again, to fight again, about their love lives and their trials as political figures, though Aladdin had to keep from spitting out scathing comments about how Hercules had no idea what he was talking about when he spoke of 'the trials of being a figurehead'. Another side effect of Mozenrath's conscious in his.
"So Herc I was wondering about your temples."
"They're quite amazing. You know, the one we'll be in, Nike's, is quite grand. I think you'll have fun."
"Yeah, I think I will too but um... h-how's your temple of Venus?" Aladdin asked.
"Venus? Herc laughed. "What, you want to bring back Jas a gift-oh..."
Then he did it. He gave Aladdin that gods damned look. Pity, and empathy that did nothing. The Mozenrath in him wanted to punch him in the face, hard. Send him flying back through grass and porcelain and see him bleed. Prove his manhood. But he didn't. Like with everything, he tucked it behind his walls, and locked the doors.
"Don't worry Al, I'll take you there, show you the ropes," Herc said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm sure they can help."
Aladdin nodded his thanks and followed. I will get over this. First I will have my baby, then I will eradicate Mozenrath from my mind, both the dreams and the guilt. Yes he was innocent, but I have repented, and asked Allah for forgiveness. And in any case, innocent or no, he became evil. Evil will always lose. I'm sure if I hadn't done it then, he would have attacked, and I would have ended up killing him anyway.
Funny, how your mind could go on and on, all the time, knowing it was wrong.
First of all: I am so so so so sorry! I never meant for it to be this long. But I am going to explain:
My situation is I live at home as a student with my mother, elderly grandmother and diabetic uncle, I we all pull together for the better of the household. Recently my mother lost her job, which was our primary source of income. She decided never to be fired again, and returned to school for her nursing degree, so our household has been even more hectic. Also another member of our collective family (uncles aunts and our household) has been basically doing everything to tear the family apart. So between helping around the house, my mother and her schooling, my own schooling, and trying to clean up the drama-makers mess, It was extraordinarily hard to churn out this chapter because I didn't want the quality of this part lessened by my drama for you guys.
Secondly: I probably have the best readers ever on . I mean it. You guys are so awesome, understanding and supportive!
I'm also sorry it's so short, but it's better if I cut off here, since the next section is so long, it would have been even longer for this chapter to come out. I've already started the next one, so until next time, have a safe day, and please review!