lady sesshomaru sama 949 – yay Jasmine! Lol
Alexxis T. Swan – Welcome and glad to see you're enjoying the updates.
Guest – glad you enjoyed the chapter. Yes, Aladdin may be a tad delusional in that sense. We will see more of him soon and see Jasmine and Jafar develop together.
Valmontes – so glad to hear from you again! In chapter 22 we will see why Jasmine is having nightmares/visions and we will see more of Aladdin very soon. Also, I meant to type "Safed is a beautiful city." Glad you're still following along and enjoying the story!
Thank you everyone and the new followers and silent readers. Hope you enjoy this next bit.
It was barely dawn when Cyrus punctually climbed out of bed, letting his bare feet land on the cold hard floor. As he did every morning before sunrise, Cyrus headed out on his balcony, which faced the direction of Jerusalem, and prayed fervently. Then when his heart felt at ease and regenerated with strength for the day, Cyrus headed back inside and down the stairs towards the kitchen.
Cyrus set a pot to boil and placed the tea leaves in a china cup; cracking his toes and fingers as he waited for the kettle to hiss. He took out a few dried pieces of fruit from a stone-paste pottery bowl and popped them in his mouth – closing his eyes and running fingers through his hair as he whispered a prayer under his breath.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting."
Cyrus whirled around at the sudden deep voice, a split second suspending his breath as he flung a hand to his chest and another to the counter ledge; the latter sending the china cup to shatter on the floor.
"Jafar?" he breathed a laugh releasing the cloth of his kaftan and letting his eyes adjust to the shadowed figure seated at the end of the table. "You scared me senseless – I didn't see you."
"I noticed." Jafar's white teeth shone in the pale light, "Please, forgive my minatory appearance. Early riser is all."
Cyrus swallowed the lump in his throat and uneasily looked down at the broken china. Just as Cyrus went to gather up the pieces Jafar swirled a long finger in the air and instantly the cup was repaired and set perfectly back on the flat top.
Cyrus winced trying to remain polite. "I prefer it if magic wasn't used in our home, my friend. Nothing personal."
Jafar palmed his chest in mock hurt, then smiled reasonably. "Understandable – all magic, no matter how minuscule, does comes with a price. I assume your right to be leery of it."
Cyrus arched his mouth looking a little forlorn. The pot hissed loudly shattering the growing silence and Cyrus jolted, turning to the kettle. "Would you like some tea?" Cyrus called over his shoulder, already preparing a second cup.
"Please."
"I'm usually the only one up so early. It's my special time with the Lord – to clear my head and prepare me for the new day." Cyrus felt less rattled when speaking about God. He fixed another bit of leaves and poured the steaming water over top then added a swirl of honey to each. "I wasn't expecting to see you until later in the day." He chuckled and sat down adjacent to Jafar.
Jafar tilted his head, "If my presence is an unwelcome one, by all means, I'll leave you to your mitigations."
Cyrus sipped the tea with a pleasant smile. "What? No, no. Stay, I could use the company. I trust your room was to your liking?"
"Yes, quite. Your hospitality has been more than adequate." Jafar paused to bring the tea to his sly mouth. He could tell Cyrus was on edge and it only made the impending conversation more entertaining. "My wife also seems to have taken a likeness to you and your family."
The Israeli man chuckled and Jafar eyed him over the brim of his cup. Cyrus continued.
"And we all like her very much. Tzipporah too. Jasmine is a lovely, sweet woman, isn't she? I know your marriage was more or less unideal, but, there's certainly a gleam in her eyes when she's around you."
What the hell does that mean? Jafar's face ticked with rigidity then reigned into a collected mask, turning business-like. He placed his cup down and laced his fingers.
"We both know why I've come." He interjected when Cyrus looked ready to dribble more romanticized nonsense. "And though I so often place value on sentimental reunions, I prefer to get to the point."
Cyrus' dark, wispy brows, rose into his hair line. It wasn't that Jafar hadn't always been ruthlessly candid, but Cyrus was out of practice dealing with such a brazen personality. "Yes, of course," He mumbled, trying to match Jafar's austere posture.
"As you know Agrabah was attacked by the Forty Thieves. They ransacked my city, murdered my people, and I've a score to settle." Jafar gestured to Cyrus with a flick of his hand. "And I require the assistance of a retired member in unveiling their location."
Cyrus sucked his lip into his gums, taking the tiny cup in both hands and rubbing the brim of the porcelain. "Jafar. I'm more than retired – that was a lifetime ago."
"But, you know their patterns, their routes, their mindsets." Jafar reminded sternly, "there must be a safe haven, a cavern where they return often to keep their more valuable treasures . . ."
"They relocate all the time Jafar" Cyrus interrupted gently, then gave a pleading look. It was painful to talk about the past. "And, besides . . . I never knew where the main treasures were hidden. That was for the elders alone," Cyrus shrugged. He didn't agree with it, but it was the lesser of two evils. "Can't you just use . . . magic to find them?"
Jafar looked passively at his clean-cut fingernails. "If I was able to do so, do you honestly think I'd have wasted time in coming here first?" He darted a look to Cyrus then decided to behave himself. "Something or someone is keeping the Thieves hidden, blocking my powers with their own." He splayed firm fingers over his wide chest in emphasis, "Considering they have a force capable of prohibiting the most powerful sorcerer in the world, you can imagine I am rather concerned and that time is of the essence. This goes beyond revenge. Its self-preservation for my kingdom, and by further definition, people like you and your family."
Cyrus dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes rubbing free the tension. He didn't ever partake in the realm of magic or witchcraft – and the conversation of it now sent gooseflesh over the back of his arms. "I was just a boy back then, Jafar. I have no connection left with the Thieves." Cyrus intentionally left out Malachi's name – Jafar hadn't mentioned him, and if it was possible Cyrus wanted to keep Jafar from the idea.
However, as the silence grew thicker Cyrus knew precisely what Jafar was thinking.
Jafar leaned back in his seat, a flash of light dotting his dark eyes and making them look demonic. He strummed his fingers over the table top rhythmically. Cyrus sighed, not wanting to meet Jafar's deviant gaze.
"So – You did get my letter?" Cyrus whispered with a grunted laugh.
Jafar's expression remained covert. "I did."
Cyrus dug his tongue against the backside of his teeth to take a moment to calm himself. "Then, in my darkest, loneliest hour, when I turned to a friend for guidance –." he trailed off, drifting to a moment in the past, then exhaled reeling in his emotions, "but you couldn't be bothered with commoners anymore I suppose." Cyrus joked sarcastically. Jafar deliberately rose his brows.
"Yes, well, I've never been adequate in consoling a contrite spirit. Moreover, I assumed you would have turned to your wife about your son – my mistake in believing your marriage was free of deception."
Cyrus leaned back in his chair with a frown. He picked up his cup and cautiously sipped the scolding fluid. Tzipporah had been right. Jafar was here for his own selfish reasons and had changed since they'd last met. True they were just children back then. (Jafar no more than eleven at the time when they'd met.) Jafar had run away from home for a time – as had Cyrus – and in their misery and fear a bond had been formed. But the man sitting before him was no longer that wide eyed child who had clung to hope for survival. This was a ruthless sorcerer, a powerful sultan, a manipulator, and a lost soul – Even the lost deserve to be found, just as you were.
Cyrus' lined hands rubbed at the condensation forming on the cup. He kept his head low. "Then if you know what happened – you know that I no longer have contact with," his throat grew narrow, "Malachi."
Jafar gave a look that insisted he wouldn't be placated by empathy and Cyrus waved his hand in the air with a shrug. "Even if I could find a way to contact him – I can't condone the bloodshed that is sure to follow. There are children and women among them Jafar. Innocent blood."
"As I recall you have had your own share of innocent bloodshed." Jafar reminded coolly, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up, as if recalling a fond memory. "Allow me to worry about the technicalities."
Cyrus leaned forward, digging his elbows into his knees as he wrung his hands anxiously. "What will come of my son – will you kill him too?"
"Should you hold up your end of the deal Malachi's life will be spared." When Cyrus looked uncertain, Jafar inhaled as if bored and flicked at a dust spot on the table. "I give you my word." He assured dryly. "Now do we have an agreement?"
It had been six years since Cyrus seen Malachi. Six years that he had been tormented not knowing if his son was alive or dead, or how deeply he had fallen into the darkness. Cyrus spent restless nights plagued with nightmares about Malachi's way of life. (A never-ending punishment for Cyrus' own evils.) He may never speak to his son again – but to have Malachi out of harm's way, and the ability to start life anew, Cyrus felt there to be no other viable option. And in the meantime, Cyrus could work on showing Jafar a different way of life – a way to love and find a healing of his own. Two birds one stone.
"I need some time to think it over. A day or so in prayer."
"Naturally." Jafar finished his tea, stood and stabbed a long finger down on the oak, speaking thick with warning. "After you've spoken to your god, keep in mind that I am not as lenient as your deity. I came to you first out of respect for our history, but one way or another I will get what I am after. It would be a shame for your son to be caught in the crossfires due to your misjudgment." He sneered, "Again."
Cyrus narrowed his eyes growing painfully still as he stared up at Jafar. He didn't take kindly to threats nor to heart wrenching reminders. If Cyrus were the same man he'd been before meeting Tzipporah, then the conversation wouldn't go over nearly as smoothly; never mind if Jafar would win – the old Cyrus never would have backed down.
Instead, he took a breath, rubbed his palm over a knee, and nodded, breaking eye contact.
Jafar's large hand came down on Cyrus' shoulder. "Then I'll see you this evening, my friend."
Cyrus agreed silently and Jafar turned to head up the stairs towards the guest room. When the upstairs door open and closed quietly, Cyrus let his shoulders relax and stretched the tension from his lower back. After draining his tea, Cyrus cleared the cups then dressed in a warm fur mintan and headed out for his early morning stroll – praying the entire way and reliving the past he so often tried to forget.
Safed Israel, 1693
Fifteen-year-old Malachi strolled the streets of Safed during midday. The marketplace sold jewelry, pottery, and an abundance of fruits and vegetables. Children chased each other through the stands and a merchant shooed them away with a cloth, making them squeal mischievously and dart towards the other direction. Malachi couldn't help but laugh with a beam of joy illuminating his tan oval face and he moved along peacefully watching the people around him.
Mirela danced in the streets, fanning her colorful skirt and tossing her wild brown hair as she ducked and weaved to the drums her people played. Her eyes were blue pools with streaks of jade. A rare jewel unlike any that Malachi had ever seen before. His mouth parted, tongue growing heavy in his mouth as he watched the Romani dancer from afar. Most everyone ignored her and the few she was accompanied by – the gypsies known for their sleight mannerisms and gentile ways. But Malachi was entranced and as their eyes locked, and she awarded him with a blushing smile, the young man knew instantly that he'd found the one God intended him to marry.
Mirela and Malachi stole away together in the night and by morning he had been turned into a man and made plans to wed her. Malachi returned home with Mirela at his side to seek his father's blessing – fate however had different plans.
"She's not right for you! How could you bring her into our home? Around your pregnant mother for God's sake? I forbid it Malachi!" Cyrus bellowed with stentorian power. His anger getting the best of his emotions. The wench was just outside the front door and could probably hear – let her hear.
Malachi puffed his chin, eyes forward in the distance, "I love her father."
"Love?" Malachi spat, digging a fist into his hip while stabbing an accusing finger, "Her beauty has bewitched and blinded you – that is not love Malachi, it is lust!"
"And she loves me."
Cyrus nearly spat as he laughed sardonically. "And I assume our family's good fortune and wealth plays no part in it?" Cyrus smacked his hands together in front of his son, causing Malachi to flinch. "Wake up boy! She will rob us blind and leave you with a broken heart. She's part of the darkness, and no son of mine will form a union with such wickedness – I forbid it!" He finished with spittle forming at his mouth.
The boy's neck corded, the muscles in his cheeks flinching to hold back his own anger and hurt. Cyrus stormed off, ushering Hadassah and Josiah into their rooms and forbidding Tzipporah from seeing their son. Malachi could hear his mother in the other room sobbing and Cyrus trying to calm her. He closed his eyes briefly at the threat of tears.
"Malachi?" Mirela whispered from the doorway post, her eyes wet and lip trembling. "It's alright, Malachi. You belong with your family and I belong with . . ." she hiccoughed a sob, "With my people."
Malachi rushed to her, taking the young girl in his arms as he stroked her hair. "Shh, hush my beloved. Nothing will separate my love for you. Not even death itself can keep us apart." He whispered sweetly in her ear, Mirela's tears dotting the fabric of his robes.
Malachi loved his siblings, and the unborn child in his mother's womb. He adored his mother, and respected his father. But there was one thing he loved more than the rest – one of whom he was certain was created to fit the other half of his heart. He had already lain with her - their souls already part of each other and he would be with her despite all odds; even if that meant marrying her outside of the law of Judaism – outside of his father's blessing.
Cyrus walked despondently through the stone streets of Safed, across the valley on the outskirts of the city and arrived at the top of a frost-bitten hill where an ancient olive tree, that bore the weight of centuries passed, was mounted.
The trunk was deeply gnarled and curved in deformed knots. Its hollow roots grew straight up out of the earth, each with an impressive width of several meters. It was more than a tree – it was a supernatural force that had witnessed the history of life and death; maintaining a rustic aura that both silenced the spirit and awakened the soul. Through drought, disease, and famine this tree had survived the trials of time and still bore life. A factor that calmed Cyrus and led him to believe that even after destruction beauty was still possible.
He sat beneath the tree, lowering his forehead to one of the roots and closing his eyes. He had always come here for refuge and a place to speak with God. And though it still was his safe haven, the spot of the ancient tree had been turned into a beckon of shameful regret.
Word traveled quickly within the walls of Safed. Before day's end, Cyrus had heard rumors of his son's preparation to flee and wed the Romani gypsy girl. Cyrus thanked the men who had come to him in private, and he'd taken the rest of the night to pray alone. He traveled to his favorite spot, high on a hill outside of Safed, under an ancient tree and prayed fervently for guidance. Albeit, as the sun spilled across the land, signifying the hours passed in relentless prayer, Cyrus had yet to find peace and lacked a solitary word of discernment. Anger and fear weighed upon him like an anchor, drowning out all other sense of reason and numbing his ability to hear the Lord's voice. Sometimes the Lord took too long to reply – Cyrus had reasoned. This time he would take matters into his own hands, and pray for forgiveness after.
He dragged her by the hand, tiny bare feet stumbling along the way as she tried to carry her small baggage.
"Quickly now. Hurry. Hurry." Cyrus commanded in a hoarse whisper.
"Where is Malachi?" She asked brittlely, looking back towards the disappearing city and then again to Cyrus as they ran through the tall grass.
"He's waiting for us at the top of the hill. But we must hurry child." Cyrus lied. "The villagers know what you two are planning. They mean to hang you for your sins, I cannot let them harm you nor my son."
Mirela tripped with a yelp, dropping some of her items and Cyrus hurried to help her stand, then practically yanked her up the hill until they were beneath the olive tree and hidden from the moonlight.
Cyrus looked around anxiously as if waiting for something and Mirela hugged herself feeling uneasy but wanting to trust the Israeli man. "W – Where is Malachi?"
Cyrus lowered his eyes guiltily and folded his hands in front, widening his stance as if to assert himself and not back down from his decision. Mirela stepped slowly away, color draining from her face as three burly men appeared and made their way towards her.
"No," the girl wheezed, then screamed, "No! Don't do this Cyrus! I love Malachi! I love him! I would never hurt him – get off me, get your hands -." Her screams were snuffed out, one man holding her front and the other her feet as they carried her away into the night and towards a ship. The third man turned to Cyrus and received five silver coins.
"Take her to a land far from this one – to the other side of the world even – but see that no harm comes to her. Here," Cyrus also handed a gold coin into the sweaty outstretched hand, "For food and supplies. Send word once she is safely taken care of. Understand?"
The sailor flashed a discolored, greedy smile, licking his lips with a dark tongue as he eyed the gold. "But of course," came a low croak that wafted a putrefied smell of rum. "Pleasure doing business."
Then as quickly as the decision had been made, Mirela was gone forever.
What have you done – came a voice from within and Cyrus stumbled backward, hard against the olive tree. His eyelids turned hot and he found it difficult to breath; a swelling pain sprouting from his gut and intertwining its vines around his lungs. It had been a mistake, but there was nothing he could do about it now. What he'd done he did for his son – to keep Malachi from the path of destruction that Cyrus himself had encountered too often. It was for Malachi's own good. For the good of the family – and in time Malachi would come to see that.
Cyrus cleared his throat through his nose, pinching his face as he held his breath. The pressure built up behind his face as he pulled a colored scarf from inside his robe, and twisted it tightly in his hands. Mirela had dropped it when she tripped. Cyrus, finding it on his way back to the house that night. Cyrus had hidden it away and persisted with his web of lies. First to his wife. Then to his son.
He'd told Malachi that Mirela had fled and abandoned him. It had broken his son's heart but Cyrus assured himself it was the best way – that Malachi would soon forget her and move on. But Malachi did not forget and swiftly fell into a pit of despair, refusing to eat or leave the house for days on end. Then, several months after the fact, a letter came for Cyrus, and Malachi got ahold of it first. The words inscribed on the parchment would forever be engraved on Cyrus' soul.
"Honoured Sir,
I am uncertain whether the late misfortunes have come to your knowledge; however, I most humbly regret to write you the condition of the Romani girl aboard our vessel. Whence we arrived in England her condition was critically impaired and she was nearly three months pregnant. Many a times I had witnessed her sufferings and yet the Captain and crew refused to listen to me pleads for her well-being. Mirela died shortly after our landing as did her unborn child. She was pleased once to stifle me as a friend during our voyage and as an act of kindness I promised to send word of her fate to a man she called Cyrus.
I pray this letter finds you well, as it is with generosity and humbleness that I present such terrible news.
EG, 1694"
The memories grew ever vivid and Cyrus could keep back his tears no longer. He trembled violently falling on his forearms and lowering his head to the frozen ground. Mirela was dead because of him. Malachi had acted out of vengeful hurt and joined a mob of murdering thieves to spite his father. All this because of Cyrus' selfish cowardliness. Tzipporah still never knew what Cyrus had done – no one but Malachi had discovered the truth. Well, and Jafar.
It was a mistake, a shameful, twisted error, in which Cyrus had pleaded with God, a million times over, to undo. Cyrus had even begged to trade his life for that of Mirela's and the unborn babe.
Cyrus pulled his legs under his core, gripping at the dirt as he wept at the base of the tree. His stomach was hard, shoulders quaking as he sobbed and muttered words that begged for forgiveness and a way to undo what had been done. All he had ever wanted was for his son to be happy and lead a fulfilling life overflowing with love and joy – you may have robbed Malachi of his first chance, but that doesn't mean you don't have an opportunity to fix it.
Cyrus stilled with breaths calming and less choppy. If Jafar could accomplish what was needed, and if he held true to his word, Malachi would be free of a life with the Forty Thieves; could possibly return home, or at the very least find a new place to settle down, find a woman to marry, and get the happy ending he always deserved.
With that, Cyrus' decision had been made.
Mintan is a vest or short jacket and Caftan (or kaftan) is a man's belted tunic usually lined with fur and embroidery and indicated a wealthier class. Again, if I get anything wrong culturally or otherwise, please correct me!
Jasmine will discover the past in the next chapter.
Sorry this one is shorter than most (4k), but there wasn't room to add the next bits without it overflowing. If there's any grammar issues or if it's confusing, please PM me and I'll fix it.