Agrabah 1689
She had a comely figure which was thin – chestnut eyes beckoning; hair a glorious tumble of midnight waves. Still, the sultry manner, nor the slim curvilinear of her waist, couldn't faze him. Jafar had seen her sprawled out like this many a times over the last eight years. He knew what laid beneath those silk dressings and golden jewels. A black hollow pit. Much like him.
Currently, Sultana Sahara was protesting Jafar's leaving for England.
"Must you go? Stay with me, Eashiq."
"It's what the sultan deems best. Besides, it's only for a few months, my Queen."
Sultana propped up on her side, clearly vexed, "The sultan… is an idiot."
"He's still my master and I'm – just his ward." he spoke dryly, packing a few last robes in a sack bag.
During the first several years living in the palace Jafar had been a gardener. He'd done quite a bit of architectural work and soon became chief designer for the royal palace. He'd made the Arabian garden ethereal and a delicate design which was an intrinsic contrast to the hostile environment beyond the walls. It had filled a void for a while, Jafar breaking into the earth anytime his mother's corpse came into mind. The distraction of work welcoming along with the time spent with Sultana. She had helped him forget the most.
Albeit, euphoria, as of late, had dulled in sensation – Jafar, now twenty-four, and a full grown man, needed more than whipping and branding whores. Visions of death, and the desire to inflict excruciating pain on others, were rather vivid. Usual pacifications were proving trivial – including the Sultana. Though she was a stunning, powerful, woman he had begun to grow tired of her constant demands. What once felt wanton, causing awe struck wonder, now deemed monotonous. It didn't fill him anymore, and as the viperous woman splayed herself before him in protest, the visions of exacting pain on her were growing nearly out of control. The trip to England looked more appealing than ever.
"You're my ward, not that imp of a man's." Sultana rolled on her backside, propping up on her elbows as her legs fell apart to reveal dusky curls, "Don't believe me? Come to bed, Eashiq, and serve your mistress."
Jafar set down his last robe and fastened the baggage, turning to Sahara with a crooked smile. He knelt down on the edge of the cushions, placed his hands on her knee caps, then forced her legs shut. Sultana huffed, annoyed.
"If I am ever going to be anything more than a simple minded servant of an imp, then I need to prove I can be. This is the first time he's entrusted me with traveling abroad, and if I do well on this trip, I may be given more responsibilities. More power."
"I have all the power needed for us both." She twisted her hand gracefully until there was a spool of fire in her palm. It danced for a moment then flickered out.
Jafar stood and wagged a thin finger, large knuckles accenting their gruffness, "Ah-ah. You already know I want power for myself, Eashiq," he drawled the pet name, "yet you constantly refuse to teach me."
"That's because if I did you would leave!"
"I'm leaving, now." He laughed throatily, ignoring her angered face as she got up and crossed her arms. "You can't control this, woman. No matter how much you –."
– Whack –
His cheek smarted where a ringed hand had struck. But he hadn't flinched.
Sultana quirked a brow then went towards the window, fingering her armlets as she watched the city. "Men…You're all the same. Hate when a woman is in control in any way. If it wasn't for me, boy, you would have starved in the streets. I should've turned you away that night and let the guards have their way with you."
Same old mantra. He had heard it a million times. Each saga losing its sting. He knew she could never be rid of him. Jafar knew he was her weakness, though would never let on about it. So, he played along.
Jafar came from behind and smoothed her thin shoulder's, kissing her neck with soft sensuality.
"It's only three months my Queen. No doubt you'll find another toy to torture until my return. Hmm?"
She smiled wickedly and turned in his arms, pulling him in for a kiss before releasing him, "Even if you're a world away from Agrabah, I still own you, Jafar. Never forget that."
His nostrils flared as he faked a smile, "Then you better give me something to remember you by."
Sultana pursed red lips, shoving him from her chest and then again to force him back on the cushions. When she came to straddle him, Jafar rolled her over, lifted her skirts, and then fucked her the usual way. Rough and quick.
When he'd finished, Jafar headed out with bag in tow. He bid farewell to the Sultan, then reluctantly accepted a leg hug from the tiny princess, before boarding the ship to England.
England 1689
It had been two weeks since Jafar arrived at house Kingsley. Elijah was odd. The foods were odd. England was odd. Though Sultan Hamed had taught Jafar English, and a couple other languages, for the last several years, Jafar found it difficult to put into practice. His accent and dressings causing everyone to look upon him with disdain. As if he were a spectacle or some heathen. Jafar couldn't help but think that if he were wearing robes of royalty their transgressions towards him would be less judgmental.
Elijah was a man of few words. When he did speak it was often quick and grumbled; thick mustache clearly weighing down his lips and keeping them from full pronunciation. Plus, he smelled like tobacco and mint leaves. A smell of which Jafar was sure would forevermore make him nauseated.
Still, he settled in fairly well remaining steadfast in his tasks and focused.
Until the following week when Miss Henrietta Rose Kingsley had come home from her aunt's – where she was studying and learning to become a proper lady. When Jafar first saw the waves of blonde hair and wintery blue eyes, he was enamored. He had never seen a girl so beautiful before; and radiating such innocence. An innocence which would surely be destroyed should he allow himself to get too close to her.
Jafar had been brief in shaking her hand and steered clear of her the rest of the day.
At dinner that night, Henrietta hadn't taken her eyes off Jafar once as Elijah and he were discussing business.
Elijah started, "Jafar, how well versed are you with the history of your own kind?"
"Well, sir, I – ."
"Since the 1500s the Ottoman Empire had not changed as much as the West. It had no longer been just courage, handmade steel or archery that saw an army to win a war. They lagged in technology, boy and what had advanced the middle east economically through war, had ultimately become an economic drain. Your country's ability to wage war has always been what drove their income. Now, since that income is gone, Agrabah needs this trade, not to mention our money, more than Europe does. With that said, your Sultan Hamish –."
"– Hamed."
"Is not in a position to demand this much coin for your product. I'm a business man, and ruthless. I love money and power," he glanced towards the girl at his left, "And my darling daughter. Those that try to cheat me from any one of those do not get my business." That was that as he popped the end of a pipe under his mustache.
Henrietta was watching Jafar through hooded eyes from across the table, and it made Jafar uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
"Sir, correct me if I am wrong, but Europe seems to be falling behind the West as well?"
Elijah grumbled inaudibly, gripping the fat of his pipe as he sucked feverishly.
"But I can foresee what others may not. Europe could be a leading industry, and to do so, Europe will rely heavily on trade. Cotton and wool are essential productions, and without our raw supply of both, Europe's rate of progression will be curbed. Not to mention it will surely affect agriculture as well, and that too will develop much more slowly." Jafar hadn't known for sure if he spoke truthfully about the upcoming future, but had sounded absolutely confident in his premonition.
Elijah took a breath, then nodded a few moments after, turning his constant frown into a quirked smile as he shoved a hand out for Jafar to shake.
"Throw in two dozen crates of spices, and we have a deal."
Jafar smiled happily accepting the deal, and then reached for a roll in front of him. Elijah was rambling on but Jafar's attention had been averted. Henrietta's petite hand had dove for the same platter and had landed her hand on top of his. The sudden touch nearly made him jump from his seat, as his skin grew gooseflesh. Henrietta smiled innocently, batting her eyes. Jafar, on the other hand, had lost an appetite for sweet bread as he retracted his hand and made sure to avoid her the rest of the meal. For the rest of the summer too, if at all possible.
But it hadn't been possible. Jafar couldn't ignore Henrietta for she never gave him the opportunity. Her persistence impeccably vexing as she followed him everywhere he went. Even when he'd gone to use the chamber pot. On more than one account Jafar would have to direct her to leave, reminding the girl that he needed privacy.
Despite himself he grew used to her company over time, and soon began taking walks with her every day along the same trail, by the same pond, and past the same fruit bushes. As they went, Henrietta would tell him everything about herself. From her favorite color, to the dog at her aunt's home and even some dark secrets about her mother and why she had left. Jafar never opened up to her, even when she would hug him and tell him he could trust her. He didn't think she would betray him, still, the concept of trust, or even love made him shudder. Instead he listened patiently to each of her tales. Held her hand around the crook of his arm, and smiled when she told a joke, or grew solemn when she would become teary eyed when speaking about painful memories.
Near the end of summer, atop a bed of green grass and a blanket of midnight sky, Henrietta gave him her virginity. The next day Jafar and her had approached Elijah. The rambunctious, head strong, girl had declared they would run away together if necessary – before giving her father the chance to absorb the information of a marriage proposal. In response, Jafar gently quieted her and took Elijah aside to properly ask for permission to wed his daughter. The Londoner was hesitant at first, but after Jafar agreed to move to England and work for Elijah, the couple had Mr. Kingsley's blessing.
"I have to do this alone, Henrietta. You know that."
"I don't care Jafar. I'm going to be your wife soon, and that means I go, wherever you go,"
Jafar had been boarding a ship set for Agrabah. He fully intended to marry Henrietta, but first had to settle things with the Sultan. Hamed had, after all, looked after Jafar from the time he was a child and he owed the ruler as much as an explanation for leaving forever. He forbade Henrietta from coming on this journey, but she remained stubborn, as always, and had shown up on the docks. Bags packed and ticket in hand. He couldn't say no to her, and followed after. Trudging up the plank with a tinge of fear for how the Sultana would take the news.
Agrabah 1689
Their trip had gone well. Although rather long considering Henrietta hadn't stopped jumping up and down once over the duration. Even as they landed on Agrabah soil, Henrietta all but hyperventilated with excitement; and Jafar had to nearly drag her along to keep from talking to every person in the streets. Within minutes all of Agrabah had known that a strange foreigner had landed; stirring further urgency that their visit needed to be done post haste. If Agrabah knew, Sultana already knew too.
"Well of course you have my blessing boy!" The rounded man with grey hair jumped off his elephant throne and embraced Jafar at his waist, Jafar rigid while patting Hamed on the back. "There is nothing greater than love, Jafar. You remember that, my boy." He wagged a finger, playfully warning Jafar to heed his advice.
Jafar smiled in the fake way he had come accustomed to. Love was a rather large, moreover, treacherous word. Being accused of such a thing forced splinters through his chest. Jafar cared deeply for Henrietta, naturally, and was pleased to envision a life with her. But being in love was a whole other thing of which Jafar was incapable of.
Hamed then turned to Henrietta, and took her in a warm embrace, kissing her cheek as she returned the affection. The whites of their eyes disappearing through over grown smiles, both overjoyed and spewing plans about a future, and a wedding, and babies. The latter forcing Jafar to become frightened and change the subject.
"Sire, where is the sultana. I had hoped to deliver the message to the both of you…" That way there could be less room for blatant violence.
"Oh…well. Um, disappeared again, I'm afraid…er, I'm sure she'll come down soon enough." He laughed nervously. "Come my darling, let me introduce you to the finest Arabian cuisine."
Henrietta went gladly with her newfound elderly friend, practically skipping towards the dining hall. Her jubilance causing Jafar to chuckle. Jafar waited for a long moment until the two had gone, and groaned inwardly. Then made way to find Sultana.
He had confronted her in the opium din, where she was sprawled out ceremonially, sucking away on hookah. After he had finished telling her all that needed to be said, she remained austere as if never hearing a word. It was when he'd turned to leave that she said anything at all.
"Do you love her?"
He scoffed turning back around. She already knew the answer to that question.
"Does she love you?" she blew an 'O' shaped ring, finally meeting Jafar's darkened stare.
Still he refused to speak. Sultana had a way of twisting words, and he was dead set in his decision to leave. In England he could grow. Here, there was nothing for him, other than whores and an eternity of servitude.
Her voice was honeyed though she gave a look which betrayed all innocence. "If you don't love her. And you can't accept the love she has for you, why do you entertain this illusion of marriage? You'll never be happy there."
"You don't know what will make me happy." Jafar spoke low but crisply.
Red satin that had gathered at her hips now cascaded down shapely legs, pooling around her feet as she stood. Sultana's walk slow, predatory, seductive. "This is about my powers isn't it? About your position in Agrabah."
He jutted his chin, peering down the length of his nose, "This is about me and my future wife. Nothing else –."
"Save it!" She snapped. "I understand your game, Eashiq. I understand … you." She stabbed an accusing finger in his chest then ran her tongue over a sharp canine as if in thought. "Very well, Jafar. Stay with me, and be rid of that little whore, and I shall give you the things you have craved all of your life."
Jafar inhaled briefly closing his eyes as she kept a clawed hand to his torso and circled him slowly.
"I will teach you everything I know about magic. Tell you the stories of wonders beyond your wildest dreams." She stopped behind him and raised slightly to whisper in his ear, "And I will appoint you Grand Vizier of the Sultan, giving you power and authority over Agrabah. And someday, even the Sultan may bow before you."
His cock twitched at the thought of all she offered. Skin prickling in gooseflesh. Tastebuds tingling from the power of which she spoke.
Nevertheless, Jafar's fantasy dispersed as experience shook him back to reality. The sultana was a liar and manipulator. A woman who would say anything to get her way; her word and honor as futile as searching for Alibaba's treasure. The instant he turned Ettie away, Sultana would laugh in his face and throw him in the dungeon. He would not be so easily fooled.
"I admit, you know me far better than any other has. Or any other will again." He grinned, spinning around to take her by the meat of her arms. "But I do love Henrietta, and I am going to marry her. There is nothing, and no one left for me in Agrabah. Understand, Eashiq…?"
The muscles of her neck strained as he roughly let go of her then moved past. She hissed under her breath, "We'll see about that," while turning fire over in her hands as she watched Jafar disappear towards the dining hall.
After dinner there was an array of merriment and entertainment prepared for the Sultan's guest. Dancers and acrobats all tumbling in the throne room while a troupe played on an array of instruments. Henrietta was grinning ear to ear, clapping along when a dancer pulled Henrietta by the hand and led her to the floor to dance with them. Her childlike wonderment shone brighter than ever as she moved with her newfound friends; her laugh contagious as it infected Jafar and Hamed. The young man clapped along with the music, keeping his eye on the little woman. He didn't love her yet. But, for the first time in months, he believed he actually could grow to.
Henrietta ran back to Jafar and kissed him sweetly on the lips. "I have to powder my nose," she giggled rubbing her nose on Jafar's.
"The room is down the hall, Ettie. Would you like me to take you?"
She got up from his lap and kissed his rough hand, "Nonsense. Stay and enjoy the music. I'll be right back."
There was a check in his gut, but Jafar pushed it down, watching her gloved fingers slip from his hand as she headed out through the grandeur doors. Although he knew he shouldn't worry, and that Sultana wouldn't try anything with so many witnesses around, Jafar felt the gnawing of fear. It's persistence ravenous the longer that Ettie took to return.
Soon he could bare it no longer and excused himself to search for her. When she wasn't found in the garderobe he looked in the opium din, then in the Sultana's private room. All of which were barren. Then, lastly, he headed for his secret room in the tower; and there he found Sultana and Henrietta – the latter strapped to an iron table, which was raised at a forty-five degree angle. Blonde tendrils of hair quivered as she sobbed hysterically.
Sultana held a jagged dagger, casually keeping its edge to a pale throat; seemingly expectant of Jafar's arrival.
"You're just in time Jafar. My new toy and I were just having a discussion."
He remained frozen. Sultana's eyes locked on him even as she spoke to Henrietta.
"If love is strength then tell me, little one... Why has Jafar never told you about his whore mother?"
Henrietta closed her eyes not wanting to see Jafar's, "I – I, don't. It doesn't..."
"Did he tell you that she slit her own wrists because of him?" Sultana nearly licked Henrietta's lobe with how closely she purred against her trembling flesh, "That she slit her throat because she could no longer stand the sight of her bastard son."
"Sahara, stop…" his voice broke. A tremble of rage covering his skin, like the tremor on the surface of a pot of water about to boil.
But Sultana fed off his radiating fury, pressing the blade a little deeper into Henrietta's skin. Threatening to break the flawless milky texture. "He's killed to you know?"
Jafar all but barked, "That was an accident!"
"Mm – he loved it, little one. And he'll kill again. Maybe next time, it will be you."
Blue eyes blinked away salted fluid. A bubble of fear rising from her core, "I don't…I don't believe you!"
"Oh, you don't have to believe me sweetness. He knows I'm right."
"That's enough!" Jafar bellowed taking a step forward then stopped mid stride, as Sultana dug the blade until a small droplet of blood dribbled from Henrietta's precious throat forcing the girl to cry out.
Jafar could only beg. "Sultana. Eashiq. Please."
"What Jafar…I thought you loved her."
She threw the words back at him having known that his earlier declaration was a lie. Sultana straightened, alleviating the pressure from the girl's throat as she spoke; the dagger continuing to point at her victim.
"And if you loved her, you wouldn't hide from her. Wouldn't keep secret who you truly are."
"That's not who I am…" It was a lie. Albeit necessary to keep from breaking Henrietta's heart.
"Yes, it is," she slithered forward ensnaring Jafar with illustrious power. Her long nails scratching lightly at his neck. His eyes closed forcing her out of his head. But he failed as she hummed against his skin. "You know what you are. Just as deep down you know that no one will ever be able to accept you."
Henrietta whimpered, wanting to assure Jafar otherwise, but became paralyzed with fear.
"Eashiq," she spoke softer, "This whore will offer you nothing. Europe offers you only promises of poverty and death. Love is weakness. Love is torment. I still offer everything you have ever wanted. I give my word, pledge my soul to you that everything I had promised shall come to pass. Be rid of this wench. Be rid of the weakness that continues to ensnare you – before it is too late."
Jafar closed his dark eyes trying to mentally shut down. Unfortunately that had warranted uninvited memories. There was a time when all he had ever desired was love. Since birth, since childhood. He sought it from his mother first, then from others.
After that day by the river – when the Sultan had given Jafar a name – Jafar had raced off to find the children who had otherwise shunned him. Now that he'd had a name to tell them, he was sure they would see him differently. Would love and accept him, and play with him like any other child. But it had not been so. A dozen of them had spat upon him, ripped his clothing and beat him until he was bruised with broken ribs. His mother, too, had been unforgiving when he'd come home in a flood of tears seeking help.
Still he had sought refuge with her over the years. Hoping she, of all people, would come to love him. When he was ten he had slipped up again. Jafar had carved a figure for his mother as a gift. When she'd said thank you he told her he loved her; then, before he could apologize for his actions, she had hit him over the head with the wooden sculpture and kicked him in the stomach.
At age fourteen hurtful rejection had slowly turned into bitter rage. One day, while hanging laundry in the streets, a tiff had ensued in which Jafar demanded to know why she deplored him so. Why she refused to give any shred of affection or look him in the eye. For a response she'd flogged him, ripping through his sack clothing; the level of relentless brutality making him pass out and blood to pool from his back and decorate the dirt. Though it was done publicly, not one person had helped him; in fact, the onlookers either stopped to watch the show, or simply went on with their own business.
From that day on, he had never spoken a word of love. Hadn't even dared to dream of it, afraid he would be punished by Allah and tortured for such imaginings.
Shaking away the tormenting memories, Jafar watched now from Sultana's blade over to the young girl. Sahara was right. She was always right. He could never allow himself to love Henrietta. Look where such sentiments had gotten her.
Nor would she be able to love or accept all of who he was; it was unfair to put that on such an innocent soul. In the end, love would destroy one or both of them. Though it would be painful at first, he would forget the blonde haired girl; and in turn she would forget him.
"Okay…" it was a whisper at first, and Sultana lit up vindictively.
"What was that?"
"I said alright!" He growled biting down on each syllable. "I agree to stay. She goes back. Unharmed."
The ambiance shifted into more threatening territory as Sultana turned back to the little girl. "Well, that wasn't the deal, Jafar. I said be rid of the wench. And that means proving you can never go back to her or change your mind."
Jafar repressed a violent shudder detecting Sultana's blood lust. This was all his fucking fault. He never should have let Henrietta come with him.
"Shh – Shh – Shh.." Sultana cooed, pressing her breast against Ettie's. "It'll be over fast. I promise."
With that the dagger was raised overhead and brought down, Henrietta turning her face as she screamed – the plunge barely halted in time when Jafar's large grasp seized Sultana's wrist. The weapon ripped from the Queen as she hissed then spun around.
"I knew you didn't have the balls to do it. You fucking little worm!" fists tightened as she readied herself to murder both of them, but Jafar simply cooed, looking over the shining of the metal in his hands as he spoke calmly.
"On the contrary, my Queen. I possess the ability to see what you cannot."
"And what would that be?"
Jafar chewed his cheek with a glimmer in his dark eyes, moving towards Henrietta. When he spoke it was steady. Deep and certain. The complete opposite of how wrecked he was within. But he was doing this for Henrietta. There was no way out of this in which Henrietta would escape with her life. Not unless he did what was necessary.
"That there are things far worse than death."
Henrietta caught on to what he intended to do with the weapon in hand and she broke out into a sweat, trembling violently as she struggled in futility against the restraints. Henrietta begged and pleaded for him not to do this. That she loved him and didn't want to live without him.
That was the problem. And further proof that love sent people to their doom. He couldn't let her die because of him, but he couldn't let her walk away unharmed. Sultana would never allow it. In his gut he trembled uncontrollably and wanted to throw up. On the outside though, he remained collected and forced himself to put up a wall.
Forgive me, Allah. Forgive me, sweet girl, for what I am about to do.
There was so much blood. So many tiny pieces of flesh where he had cut. The wounds clean and precise, and distinctly placed in areas that could be covered by clothing. But they were nothing compared to the scars that were forming in his heart. In hers.
After yet another piece of flesh was removed, Ettie had finally, finally, declared hatred for Jafar. Screamed bloody murder and dammed his soul to an agonizing eternity in hell. Only then had he stopped. Only then had Sultana been satisfied by her ward's obedience and agreed that Jafar would never be able to return to Henrietta again.
Sultana slithered her tongue into Jafar's throat, keeping an eye open so she could watch Henrietta further flinch and look away in heartbroken disgust. Then, she was gone from the tower, leaving Jafar to clean up and dispose of his mess.
Wordlessly, he cleaned the wounds he'd inflicted and bandaged them, while Henrietta's ashen face avoided him at all costs. When he finally finished, he resumed to be indifferent about her.
"There is a private ship waiting for you in the harbor. It's paid for in full and will take you tonight towards London. Keep your bandages clean to prevent infection."
"What do you care?" she croaked, circles ringing her tear stained eyes, "You should've just killed me."
"I just saved your life!" he spat turning on her then realized the error of his confession. She flinched conflicted, thinking over what he'd let slip.
"Come with me then. Please…" she sobbed.
He looked appalled by her weakness and shrunk away from her frail touch. Her naivety would be the death of her. A death in which he had just taken extreme measures to prevent. Unfortunately for them both he needed to sever her fantasy for good. Hitting deeper than a knife ever could.
"I don't love you. I could never love you."
She stumbled backwards holding her stomach and heaving as if he cut out the last remaining part of her. She didn't want to believe it, but his deadpan look was without hesitation.
"I only want power. And what you offer is weakness."
"You'll regret this someday…" she whispered at first, corners of her mouth pulling downwards as she gasped for air, once more weeping from the depths of her soul. "I loved you – even still I can love you… one day you'll realize that you were wrong. That you lost everything!"
Though her guttural sobs came as an explosion to his gut, Jafar merely stiffened with a sharp inhale. "I'll get everything I've ever wanted. And I'll do it, without your love."
With that, she had finally gone.
He watched from his tower as a guard helped Ettie safely board the ship. It wasn't until it had left the dock that Jafar fell to his knees and vomited. Violently.
Over the course of nine months Jafar had shoved Ettie from his mind. Sultana remained true to her promise, every passing day teaching him how to wield powers and manipulate elements of the earth. Although he could only do small things, she promised him that one day they would find the tiger head cave, and unlock powers beyond their wildest dreams. He studied tirelessly the forms of magic and ways to concoct potions and spells more powerful than any alchemist. Also true to her promise, Sultana convinced Hamed to appoint Jafar as Grand Vizier. Which wasn't too difficult. Hamed had loved Jafar for years, and believed him to be a bright and capable ally of the throne.
Jafar worshiped Sultana outwardly but within he loathed her for what she had made him. For what she had forced him to do all those months ago. He had thought to kill her on several occasions. A slit of the throat or the right potion would steal away her life easily. However, each time he thought of it she had surprised him with a kiss and a beautiful smile. Had given him a serpent staff to aid in his ability to control his powers, and then had discovered half of the scarab for the cave of wonders. She emanated vibrancy and darkness all in one and he realized, no matter how much he hated her, he could never harm her. After all, there was no one else in the world like him, no other person capable of accepting him for who he was, other than his Eashiq.
Hamed's union with Sahara was, naturally, arranged. Only age twelve when she'd come to him, and he eighteen. She was quiet with a thick guarded demeanor, but pleasant all the same. They never had much in common, and hardly knew each other beyond the surface. He was cordial, while she distant and closed off. Such disposition towards a husband would've angered any man. But not Hamed. He was never angry. As the years passed their relationship remained strained and was more of a formality between friends. Sultana rarely enacted wifely duties either, but Hamed endured graciously. He didn't like to pressure her, and backed off whenever she claimed to have a head ache or sour stomach. Sultan Hamed never acted out in resentment. Instead continually loved her from afar while waiting for her to come to him.
As the years went on, Sultana changed. Albeit the change that had come for the Queen was without grace or courtesy – abrupt and consuming in nature. One day, while taking her usual stroll through the streets of Agrabah, Sahara had met a witch. Sultana had commanded the palace guards to stay outside whilst she followed the enchantress into a hovel. For hours, she had remained in the witch's company. When Sahara finally returned to the palace that night there was an anomalous way to her behavior. All through dinner Sultana was overly excited while rambling on about spells, magical artifacts and ancient histories concerning sorceresses. Hamed had told her that was all nonsense and she should avoid such deceiving folks. But again, during the next several outings, Sultana had encountered the witch. Each visit turning the young queen a little darker and a bit more unusual. Then she started locking herself away in a private room for hours to read spell books and ancient scrolls – gathering all resources pertaining to spirits and powers beyond their realm.
He hadn't recognized her anymore after that. And admittedly, lost any shred of control over his wife.
Her visits to the streets had expanded to long hours of the night. Sometimes Sultana would even go missing for days at a time. Upon returning the woman smelled of wine and a musky odor would waft from her womanhood.
He never said anything. Never gave a hint of hurt. But hurt it did. Deeply. The pain was even more so when he noticed she was corrupting Jafar; forcing him along in her nightly outings.
The poor boy was a motherless child and, from what Hamed had gathered over the years, Jafar never knew what affection was. For those reasons alone Hamed could not blame a lost sixteen year old boy for any of the decisions made by Sultana. What those decisions entailed of, he wasn't entirely sure, and the uneasy worry grew on his heart like a weed.
One night Hamed had voiced his frustration by confronting Sahara. He'd told her that he wouldn't stand for the corruption she forced upon such an impressionable young boy. But in truth she frightened him, and he soon cowered down from the argument; becoming swept under the tide. For the next several months Sultan Hamed prayed that Jafar would be protected from Sahara's sorcery and would find his own path to happiness.
Roughly three years later Sultana seemed more like her old self. Although never loving, she looked at Hamed with a certain glow and began to insist they have an heir. Hamed found this as miraculous news and after several weeks of trying had been able to conceive. Another nine months and little Princess Jasmine had been born. The Sultan's heart was full of newfound love, and while his wife had turned back to a sour disposition, he found it easier than ever to dull the feeling of his crumbling marriage. Little Jasmine being all he would ever need again.
All had seemed well at peace for years. Until one evening, when Jasmine was newly five, storm clouds ruptured mercilessly and would change the Sultan's life forever.
Agrabah 1690
Hamed had walked into Sultana's private quarters unannounced and found his wife performing a blood magic ceremony – on their daughter. The child had been tied down by her chubby arms, little incisions in the palms of her hands which wept innocent blood. The pure fluid catching at the base into two small saucers.
Sultana was chanting. Jasmine was screaming.
The contents of Hamed's stomach lurched to the back of his teeth and he forced the bile down, stumbling in to free his daughter. He snatched Jasmine in his arms and ran out of the witches din; Sultana chasing behind in defensive protests.
"They are small incisions, they won't even leave a scar!"
Hamed couldn't listen, now nearly sprinting away from the woman. A woman he no longer recognized.
"Did Jafar know about this?" Was all Hamed muttered, never looking over his shoulder.
Sultana lengthened her strides, "Of course not! Our daughter is of no concern to him."
"So, you act alone!?" Hamed swung around, now nearly forcing the woman to tumble into him, "You alone would force our child as a sacrificial babe for this black magic of yours?" Jasmine tried to look but he forced her head down on his shoulder. Away from the woman that had given her life, and yet saw to blacken it.
Sultana glowered, charcoal brows tucking as the corner of her lip curled. She owed no explanation to this pathetic coward. "Jasmine is of pure blood. Pure, royal, blood. I need it for a spell I'm perfecting. A spell that will make me more powerful than ever!"
"At what cost?! This hole you have wallowed in for years has become a bottomless pit. Always hungry. Never satisfied as it demands more of you!"
The sorceress spoke over him, hearing nothing as she defended every reasoning for power – even if it wasn't the full truth. "With new powers, I can protect our city. Our Agrabah. Of which you have squandered for years!"
"You cannot blame me for your doings woman!" Hamed screamed with a powerful boom he never knew capable of. It shook his own self to the core while momentarily startling the jeweled woman. "You love your power more than you love your own flesh and blood. Admit it!"
Hamed exerted strength to calm himself, stepping back, still keeping a hand to the back of his child's head. Indeed, he could no longer recognize this woman. Though perhaps he never knew her to begin with.
"Jasmine, is mine. I suffered months of celibacy then endured your bed to fulfill the prophecy given to me!"
"Prophesy?" he stepped backwards upon the crushing weight of emotions. "You – you wanted a child to fulfill some palm reader's prophecy? Do you hear yourself anymore, Sahara?"
"A prophecy that requires pure royal blood. A prophecy which would make me the greatest enchantress in the world! And you will not deny me what is rightfully owed to me!"
Hamed had witnessed his wife performing small incantations over Jasmine through the years. But they seemed to be harmless anthems and nothing that worried him too much. He had simply accepted that part of Sultana, more or less, never assuming she would harm Jasmine.
He began again slowly. "If these dark forces, that you embrace, were to command you to sacrifice the life of our child… what then would your response be?"
There was a falter in her passivity. An inkling that the real Sultana laid dormant within the enchantress. But in another instant the light was snuffed out. Sahara gave a shrug.
"I can always spawn another."
The blow was a hot wind upon his face. It burned through his cassock and to his intestines before ultimately smoldering his very soul. Giving a head nod, and shifting his gaze about the chilled room, Sultan Hamed turned; refusing to let the witch see him cry.
Hamed reached his chambers and hid away with Jasmine bolting the door before tending to his daughter's wounds. Her hands were wrapped in fine silk and soon after Jasmine had fallen asleep in her father's massive bed. Hamed watched his daughter practically all night, fighting internally over what plan of action should be taken. He was always such a simple man. Content and never one for quarreling or even becoming angry for that matter.
But for the first and only time in Hamed's life, he concluded there to be no other way than to fight for what he loved. Though the Sultana would always hold a place in Hamed's heart…he loved Jasmine far more.
"Sire, I have some scrolls to look …" Jafar exhaled without the ability to intake another breath. Long stature tumbling back into the parlor doors from whence he'd came.
Hamed's eye were blood shot as he looked up from where he sat huddled over a body. Short round hands trembling while his chubby face grew puffed and blotchy from weeping. No one spoke for a long moment.
"…I..." Hamed tried. He really wished he had words to express what had happened. The why's and the apologies for it. But each time he attempted to speak he fell short; tumbling into grief stricken tears. Eyes closing as if it would unwind what he'd done. Or rather what he had ordered be done.
Hamed hadn't the guts to do it himself. Nor the heart. Rather he'd appointed one of the hand maidens to keep an eye out for poisons in the Sultana's lair. After a few days the girl had reported back to him with a red velvety fluid in a crystal vial. Then he'd ordered the servant to get the Sultana to drink it; although he refused to know when or how it would happen. Just that it did as soon as possible.
Tonight, nearly a week after the fact, Hamed had tried to come and speak with Sultana and possibly find a redeemable quality in her – so that he may be able to change his mind. But when their conversation quickly turned sour she had taken a large gulp of wine. Then another, and another until a sizzling gurgled in the back of her throat and a hole was burned into her gut. Sahara fell to the floor and coughed up blood while Hamed, horror struck, fell to her side and took her face in his lap. He didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. Or tell her how sorry he was.
Now as he rocked back and forth on his knees still clutching her to him, he felt no trace of relief. No satisfaction in what he had done. Only grief. Only despair. This was not the way to protect Jasmine. He had only harmed her by stealing away her mother. There could've been another way. There had to have been another path to take. Yet once again, Hamed had chosen a cowardly one.
Large brackets formed around Jafar's mouth, eyelids closing before slowly opening gain; vision blurred through forbidden tears. He shouldn't cry. He never cried. And to do so now would be an insult to her.
Sahara's face was grayish in a way that made it look thicker, leathery, as if all blood had drained into her core. Her eyes were bloodshot and aiming at the ceiling. Engorged veins traveling blue rivulets from her neck to her temples. It didn't even look like her anymore. Yet, despite how many times Jafar blinked away the image, it was her indeed.
"Baba?"
A tiny voice came from where Jafar stood; though neither man acknowledged the little Princess as she entered. When she'd stepped closer Hamed acted with prevarication avoiding the large innocent eyes that searched his soul. He would surely burn for eternity for what he had done.
"Jafar…" came a strangled version of his voice as snot dropped from his nose, "Get her out of here – please..."
"Baba," Jasmine stepped further in and her bottom lip trembled at the horrific sight of her mother, "Baba!" she cried louder now, "What's wrong with mama? Baba!"
The princess reached out to take the slain woman's hand but was suddenly ripped away by massive claws and pressed into a strong chest; the Vizier carrying her away from her mother forever, even as she wailed and pleaded for her.
Grief surged through Jafar with every expelled breath. Peaking even as he drew further away from Sahara's body. There was an incinerating bloom in his chest which burned then chilled simultaneously. It was like a stream of molten lava being suddenly doused with frigid water, turning the unforgiving liquid into a black hardened form. Then again, another batch of fire coiled on top of the first layer, only to be solidified in the same way. Over and over, until it became a crushing weight of impenetrable darkness a thousand miles deep. He could hardly breath against it. Could no longer feel the drumming of his heart nor see clearly as his steps faltered and he nearly fell over with the child in his arms. Oxygen dissipating from his lungs until his brain suffocated and his senses dulled. He had barely felt a servant take Jasmine from him as he continued on towards his tower, and hid himself within the stoned walls.
Jafar sat for a long while. Maybe for several days. He didn't eat or sleep. All he could do was sit on the hard freezing ground.
After some time though, the vizier stood, void of life, and picked up his scepter. Eyes shut. Mouth dry. Jafar thumbed the smooth dead material and waited for the flood of emotions to come.
Nothing happened though for a long time still. Not even the tears of which he knew he needed to shed. Instead all that he could feel forming, were the purest forms of rage. A sudden burst of emotion split through the iron clad of his heart and plunged into him. Jafar hunched over as he gasped, choking down the sudden lugs of breath.
Within an instant blackened misshapen hatred had given him back the capability to live. Revenge pumping blood back to his veins and heightening his ability to think; to feel. Anger fueled his thoughts and fed his desires, and as he squeezed the neck of his staff Jafar cackled malevolently. All forms of sanity or decency forever gone. Jafar would exact revenge on all that had ever done him wrong. Would consume everything and anything – starting with Agrabah. He would never again being powerless or weak.
Furthermore, Jafar vowed to become what Sultana was never able to be: all powerful and unstoppable. He'd apologize for nothing. Have pity for no one, just as the world never had pity on him. And anyone that sought to get in his way would suffer horrifically.
Agrabah 1701
Jafar sifted through scraps of ruble. Tossing wreckage into carts to be hauled away and disposed of, or refurbished if possible, and occasionally found another deceased amongst the debris. In which cases their bodies were placed into a separate cart and would be given proper burials later.
It was getting darker outside and the able bodied men grew weary. Jafar, tired as well, still sucked every last drop of energy from every man for another hour before finally calling it a night. When he made way back towards the square, Jafar felt the blisters on his grime covered hands, and frowned. He had taken position in the palace long ago to avoid crap like this ever again. So how Jasmine had guilted him into doing this work, he'd never understand. All he knew was she was slowly slicing away the edges of his exterior; forcing him to do things that were completely against his nature.
He knew he must look like complete shit, but hurried along to find his wife. When he finally caught a glimpse of her, Jasmine's back was to him, dried with blood and caked with dirt. He took a moment to look at her from a far; feeling once more that surging force of electricity, and it made him slightly smile.
But it was short lived as terror punched his gut. Jasmine having fallen over, head smacking hard upon the ground.