Glittering chiffon fabric whipped in the wind like a dancer greeting a song. Their song. He could hear it whistling, buzzing around his head even now. A tune constructed from love, hope, and tragedy. It was always tragedy that sang the strongest note in their melody. A tragedy which led to hopelessness and anguish, hate and confusion, then ultimately – he'd been told – healing. But the healing never came, or if so Malachi had yet to accept its comfort. Healing meant forgiving and forgiving meant forgetting who the enemy was; it meant disgracing her memory, downgrading the horrific ending to her life.
It always came back to that night; to where the ancient tree stood. Over the last six years Malachi had often been drawn back. He'd sit miles out, unseen, and simply relive what could never be undone. The Thieves and him did travel all over the middle east. Once in China and Australia for only a few months at a time. There'd been beauty unlike any he could've imagined. But this spot here held the deepest worth above all. It was where his life changed forever – where he died and was reborn from a lake of hell.
She had told him to come tonight, though he'd no intention of doing so until the spring months. Without question Malachi had obeyed Lilura's odd instruction; she knew things mortals did not, possessed the gift of sight. Which is why he stood here in the freezing cold.
The scarf danced more vividly, slashing about the breeze, sticking now and then to the branches before ripping free again. Malachi needed that scarf. It was the only thing left of her on this earth. It might still carry her scent. Or a fragment of hair may be bound to its fibers. Her skin had touched that fabric, her pulse had beaten beneath its covering. It'd laid between her chest and absorbed the sound of her heartbeat. Even her laughter was bound to the garment and Malachi knew that it could grant him a glimpse of his love one last time.
That bastard knew it also. Knew that Malachi would be watching. Why else would Cyrus have tied the scarf to its branches? It was bait, a signal after all these years, that the old fool was finally ready to meet his fate. So be it – it was always meant to end like this. Malachi versus the man he'd once called father. Tonight, was as good as any to run the fucker through or die trying. Should Malachi fail he'd at least be rejoined with his fiancé and child. It was time to end it for good. Ensuring the dark uniform mask covered his face entirely, Malachi climbed down from a flat stoned roof and headed for the hilltop.
The scent of stale rose water, from years of being tucked away in storage, filled his nostrils as he drew the scarf to his face. He buried himself in the rag and was pulled back in time with it. He was fifteen again, in the streets of Safed. Mirela was dancing. Brown wild hair tossing as she bowed and dipped, undulating her slender curves. Eyes blue and green swirls. He could feel her heartbeat, see the glistening sweat on her face and chest. She was with him, calling him. He could protect her, save her this time. Keep her and make her real again. Mirela pranced forward on jeweled feet and whispered against his skin. Her breath felt as real to him as the fluttering gust from a hummingbird's wing. Come back to me, she'd breathed carrying the scent of earth and spring flowers with her. Malachi nearly stepped over into the other side, to where she was, when someone from behind shattered the dream and stole her from him again. Malachi grunted like a snarling hog and carefully tucked his prized possession in the lining of his chest before turning around.
"Is that what you did that night? Hiding in the shadows before ambushing a woman?" Winter winds were picking up again biting through his mask but his cheeks were heated nevertheless. His heel turned up the soil as he walked. "No, of course not. You got her to trust you instead. Led her out here all alone. Defenseless, helpless," Malachi paused placing a gloved finger to where his mouth was. "Oh, and pregnant. That didn't stop you though."
"I hadn't known you were having relations before marriage." Cyrus said as if to use Malachi's sin as exemplary for his actions.
"Your grotesque cowardliness knows no bounds. Eh, Cyrus?"
"So that gives you a right to become a coward yourself? A murderer. A thief?"
Malachi scoffed sharply, pulling black gloves tight against his skin. "That's always the way you've seen things. Black and white. Your way is the only right one and so hello the soul that dares wander from the path you deemed worthy."
"It's not my path, but the Lord's, Malachi."
"Putting responsibility off again as usual." Malachi felt taller, stronger than his father. Something not felt until tonight and he aimed to build himself up and tear the old fool down. "See, unlike you I won't deny who I am, nor what I've become. I enjoy it. I thrive this way and am unashamed. But you," A double edged blade, engraved with the mythological bird, Roc, was unsheathed. The razor-sharp blade made of obsidian captured the milky moonlight as it pointed towards Cyrus. "You betrayed the brethren of the Thieves, deceived your wife, your children, always pretending to be a holy man. A righteous man. Even when you exiled Mirela – murdering your own grandchild in the process – you did it under the pretense that it was for a noble cause!" Malachi screeched now pacing like a riled coyote. "You're pretending still to this day, aren't you? I see it in those pathetic watery eyes; my mother finally found out, didn't she? She's gone, isn't she?" Malachi leaned aggressively forward. "You deserve to die alone – knowing every last person you ever cared for despises and sees you for what you always truly were."
It was Cyrus' turn to become angry, though he didn't try to hold back his tears. Pointing a thick finger in warning Cyrus said, "Do not speak of what you do not know. I've paid penance more times than I can count. Not a day goes by I don't live with regrets. With burdens of my past. With the agonizing truth that I cost Mirela and the baby their lives!"
"Don't say her name!" Malachi screamed in an octave too high his voice cracked. "I'll cut out your blasted tongue if you say her –."
"–I've already asked your forgiveness and I will not kill myself over your inability to do so! On judgment day I will answer to God, and God alone, but not to you. And someday you will have to answer for all you've done as well." Cyrus pulled back with a tepid look when Malachi's mouth twisted nastily.
"You know nothing of what I've done. What I'm capable of – the truth would turn your insides out."
"Like how you started those fires in Agrabah last month?"
Malachi's sneer snapped into a flat line.
"Children died in that fire, you know. Families. Innocent."
He scoffed drastically at that. "You're callin' whores and traitors innocent now? A score had to be settled with a traitor – everything else was collateral damage."
Cyrus ignored him. "Is that the sort of man you're proud to be, Malachi? A killer?"
He sat back in his hips, dropping the knife to his side unwilling to sheath it. "What would you know about that piss city anyway? Hell, you should be much more worried about what's going to happen to you."
Cyrus' expression was unreadable in the shadow of night but he spoke with conviction. "You're hardly a threat to me, boy and I am not one to you. This animosity needs to end."
Cyrus tried to reason peacefully but there would be no peace between them ever again. The bone handle grew slick beneath Malachi's firm grasp, his palm clammy with angst.
"It does end. With your blood." This is for you, Mirela.
Malachi lunged, legs apart, knees bent and Cyrus narrowly leaned away in time. The obsidian blade glinted, acrobatically flipping in its master's hand in a taunting fashion as both men stalked in a circle.
"I'm unarmed Malachi!"
"Another foolish move on your part."
Once, twice, the blade slashed down and across only to miss; Cyrus assumed it to be more for show than actual intent. (Otherwise he'd been done for already.) Malachi was toying with his food. They continued to pace, sizing one another up, looking for a weak spot. Cyrus was old, tired, joints stiff. He had size to his advantage but everything else was lacking.
"You'll kill an unarmed man?" Cyrus stepped sideways and winced from the pressure. "Where is the honor in that?"
"Where was the honor when you sent Mirela to her death!?"
"Mirela and that child are far better off gone rather than to have lived and seen what you've become."
A warrior like cry shook the night as Malachi charged then brought them both hard to the ground. They struggled in the dirt, howling, grunting their attack. Malachi pounded at Cyrus' face first then his gut when the blows had been blocked. His knuckles cracked from the force of his punches and pain shot like needles up his wrists, but Malachi didn't stop. In fact, he wanted more! The knife. Where was the knife!? Both men caught sight of it, locked eyes, then dove towards the webbing of tree roots to get to it. Cyrus took hold of the carved bone handle first; Malachi shoved his thumbs into his father's eyes until Cyrus relinquished the weapon. Malachi scrounged to take hold of it then heard the slight rasp of material ripping as Cyrus yanked him upright by the collar. A blow came to the side of Malachi's head then his gut before being let loose. The Thief dropped like a rock to his knees with a belly groan and pulled the covering from his mouth to spit blood.
"Enough, Malachi!" Both wheezed trying to catch their breaths. "I will not let you kill me but I refuse to take you out in the process. Like it or not you are still my son, and I am a man of honor!"
Let's see how far your honor gets you.
In a single breath Malachi pushed off the ground, charged forward, stabbed Cyrus in the gut, then retracted the knife fluidly and brought it back down at Cyrus' heart. The blade hit Cyrus' hand instead, which'd flung up in defense, and pierced through the middle of his palm.
Malachi didn't have the chance to correct the mistake or even register the agonizing scream of his victim. A force had flung him like a rag doll several meters back smacking his corpse into the impenetrable tree trunk. He hit and fell with a sickening crunch then went limp as if every bone in his body had shattered. Images began to blur and darken around the corners of his eyes. Someone came closer and Malachi whispered, "Mirela," praying she'd come for him in death.
Instead it was a snakelike creature, slender, slick, predatory. A devil.
"H-Hades?"
Black twisted sniggering emanated from the shadow. "Close. Very close."
And then there was nothing.
Jasmine's hands were trembling as steaming water sprang from the teapots spout. The boiling liquid doused black tea leaves in each of the four cups though to be honest Jasmine hadn't a clue if she was doing it right. She'd never made tea without help and the color in each cup looked all wrong. With further inspection it smelled funnily too, bitter. Her spine rolled as if to rid the unpleasant aroma. She should just redo it but considering what was happening it was hardly plausible that tea was anyone's current concern.
"Least its warm." She mused beneath her breath setting the china on a small platter to better carry them out.
Jasmine took a beat to stare out beyond the kitchen. In the parlor nearest the front entrance sat Jafar and Cyrus – who looked like a bloodied mess with one foot in the grave – in tall backed chairs with a decorated tea table between them. There was a neighboring room, much smaller and with glass paneled doors, where a third man stood. Malachi, she presumed, though hadn't been told indefinitely his identity. The room was plain other than a wooden chair, which looked unorthodox compared to the rest of the décor, a small table similar to the one in the parlor, and a settee that looked even more uncomfortable than the wooden seat. Malachi stood in the corner, arms crossed, head down but not defeated.
Trying to keep the platter from rattling with nervous energy Jasmine went first to distribute the stranger's cup of tea. Wordlessly she set it atop the table, casting a scathing glance at the blue and black uniform he wore. His face was covered – it could very well be Aladdin beneath those garments though if that were the case he wouldn't be standing here alive and well. His glinting orbs locked with hers and she hurried across to the parlor, taking comfort in the fact that Jafar was keeping an eye on her through the glass doors. She set down the other men's cups now, and quickly forgot she'd been embarrassed by the beverage and focused instead on what these two were saying.
Or weren't saying.
Once she'd stepped into the room they'd cut off midsentence and that's what concerned her. Instead they spoke with their eyes, flashing tense and knowledgeable glances that spoke with deafening volume. Jasmine should just be grateful Jafar had fetched her from the caves instead of leaving her there for the duration of the hype. Still her inquisition was unquenched; she deserved an explanation of what was happening. The young woman wiggled in her chair much like a child, coming to the edge of the seat as if her anxiousness would make them include her.
Everyone idly sipped the tea and Jasmine grimaced pulling a face that Cyrus found amusing despite his ailments. His laugh sounded more like a groaning whisper but it lightened her spirits ever so slightly.
"Not to your liking, your majesty?" Cyrus was pale, keeping a hand to his bandaged side but the smile remained.
Jasmine set her mug down with a low voice to match the setting. "Disgusting. I can't make it like Tzipporah does, that's for sure. It's almost worse than the time Tahira had attempted coffee – even though I'd settle for that glop in place of this." Jasmine stilled realizing none of them knew who she was talking about and in truth she'd forgotten about Tahira up until just then; and that made her sick with guilt.
Jafar held a question in his eyes but saved the inquiry for later. "It's something warm – thank you."
The reassurance was kind and Jasmine tried not to smile like a fool, instead she nodded apologetically and took another sip of tea. Other than Cyrus' occasional groan of discomfort the silence carried on. Not even their 'guest' made so much as a peep. Jasmine eyed the stranger in the other room carefully then watched in concern as Cyrus nursed an injured hand, rewrapping it in clean cloth.
"You're a stubborn fool," Jafar said in a hushed snarl.
"Been in worse than this," Cyrus made a sound that betrayed his proclamation of well-being. "Honestly, I'll live through it."
"Not if I finish you off first and put you out of your damn misery."
Cyrus chuckled weakly remaining defiant. "I've survived this long without your magic, Jafar. I'm not about to start doubting God now but rushing something unnaturally."
"For the final time I didn't offer my magic." If it were that easy to mend the body he'd have used it when Jasmine was injured. "I offered to stitch the gash so you can at least stop bleeding."
"Ever stitch something by hand; let alone a person?"
Jafar's black eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I was going to use magic as an aid in that regard –."
"See . . . magic. I don't want it. It's not that deep anyways."
"Fucks sake Cyrus." The muscles in Jafar's face jumped. Slender fingers rubbed the irritation from behind his eyes; he looked tired.
"Tzipp-," Cyrus whispered hoarsely, "Tzipporah has . . . has a s-sewing basket in the other room. Jasmine if you could."
She didn't need told twice. Within a couple minutes she'd retrieved the basket of needles and thread. Cyrus instructed her to thread the needle and tie a knot at the end of the string. Jafar shook his head disapprovingly but went for a bottle of liquor, per Cyrus instructions, and came back with it in hand. He uncorked it then doused Cyrus' stomach with the amber fluid. Cyrus swallowed a choking groan as it burned and the smell reminded Jasmine of the brothel.
"Now, Jasmine . . . s-sweetheart. I need you to."
"No!" Her refusal startled even herself but she couldn't possibly do what he was asking. She was at his feet, needle in hand, and looked between the two men with frightened eyes. "I can't, Cyrus. I-I don't know how – I don't like the sight of blood! If Jafar can't what makes you think I can?"
"You can. Your fingers are smaller, more agile. You'll be less likely to make a mistake. It doesn't have to be perfect. Just enough to stanch the bleeding and shut your husband up." Cyrus jeered with a smile that looked more like a grimace. "It'll be like stitching cloth together. Have you done that before?"
"Once." Jasmine said after thinking back. "When I was in the brothel – Ummah asked me to mend one of the girl's dresses. Tahira showed me just a basic stitch –."
"That'll work fine. Same concept applies. Just do your best darling." Cyrus' head rolled to the side, too spent to keep talking.
Jasmine's fingers trembled violently. Jafar was standing directly behind her; his presence both a comfort and distressing. She didn't want to mess up or prove inept. Moreover, she didn't want to hurt Cyrus. The tip of the needle pricked one side of the gash and Jasmine retreated afraid she'd vomit.
"I can't," Jasmine croaked and a strong hand gripped her shoulder reassuringly. She leaned her cheek against Jafar's knuckles and closed her eyes.
"Then he'll die, Jasmine . . ."
If that wasn't motivation she didn't know what was. Blowing forcefully out her mouth Jasmine dug up the courage to insert the needle through the bloody mess and stitched the gash as best she could. When she'd finished it looked mended correctly, more or less, and Jasmine swelled with pride. Jafar helped her to her feet and their eyes locked.
"Good girl." Jafar gave a crooked smile and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. It was the first time they'd touched since that morning in the caves. "You're capable of more than you realize, Mm? Now go wash up."
Jasmine did as she was told with a bounce in her step. Thanks to her Cyrus was going to be alright. It felt good to be needed, to accomplish something she'd never thought she'd be capable of doing. And Jafar's compliment was a pleasant bonus. But her momentary high quickly deflated upon returning to the parlor.
"Jasmine," Jafar said her name harsh, sitting upright again in his seat. "Go to the other room and finish your tea in there. Our guest is lonely. Keep him company while Cyrus and I talk."
Jasmine's mouth dropped. Why!? Jasmine looked to Cyrus who was in and out of sleep. It didn't look like he'd be doing much talking anyways. Somehow though he'd found the gumption to nod in agreeance for her to do as Jafar requested. Though it wasn't a request at all, was it?
"You want me to leave? To be in a room, alone, with another man?" An enemy no less?
Jasmine had reiterated it as if Jafar lost what remained of his sanity but he responded with cold eyes not to be argued with. Jasmine sharply exhaled discontent, snatched up her tea and stormed to the room a few feet away then plopped petulantly down on the settee. Both men were directly across from where she now sat, the glass panel doors mostly closed but un-obstructive to their view of one another. It didn't make her feel any better – or safer.
One minute she was a hero, helping stitch a man back together; the next she was tossed in captivity with a stranger to act as, what? Bait? What other means did they have for sending her away like that? Did they need privacy so desperately they'd rather put her in potential danger than have her privy to their conversation?
Fuck men . . . I swear.
"You fuck up your sewing job that badly then, eh?"
"Excuse me?"
"Seen you in there, trynna undo my handiwork. Must've fucked it up to have them toss you in here with me. That or they don't want you listening to what they're saying."
"I chose to come in here," came a defiant lie. Jasmine wanted to look straight ahead to deter conversation but didn't want to stare across at Jafar either, of whom she was irked with, so opted to stare down at the black tea instead.
"Sure, you did. Face it you're as unwelcome as I am."
Whatever. There was a pregnant pause and Jasmine apprehensively sipped the now cold tea. If it was possible it tasted even worse than when it'd been hot. Malachi peeked back towards the adjoining room and shook his head.
"Can't believe I missed. I never miss. Would've had the old git too, square in the heart, had it not been for that freak throwing me off."
Jasmine's youthful face creased. "That man you tried murdering is your father and a good man! And the only freak here is you."
"Yea?" Malachi bit dryly then marched forward in a single stride to pull up the wooden chair. He flipped it around then straddled it to face Jasmine and leaned his forearms atop the back. They were too close for comfort but Jasmine trusted that Jafar would be watching a few feet away. "That coward murdered the love of my life and our unborn child. See – by the look on your pretty little face I'm guessing he left that part out?"
"There were some details he didn't share . . ." She hadn't asked either.
"How convenient." wide legs jittered from bouncing on his toes and he animated the narrative with strong menacing hands.
Jasmine clutched her tea a little tighter pulling into herself.
"You didn't stop to wonder why he's all alone?" Malachi pretended to scan the moonlit room. "I'm guessing the old ball and chain found out the truth – couldn't stand the sight of him knowing what he did and took off. He isn't my father and he isn't a good anything."
She should let it be and didn't know why the accusation upset her. They'd only met two weeks ago but for whatever innate reason Jasmine sought to defend her friend. "He is good. He has a good heart. I trust him."
Small numerous teeth glinted in a sarcastic grin. "Are you always this gullible? Try keeping your mouth shut about things you don't know shit about. You'll seem less ignorant that way."
He didn't go back to his corner of the room as Jasmine had hoped. Instead he pulled down his mask and took up the cup of tea. Both cheeks swelled as he swished the fluid around before swallowing with a loud gulp; Jasmine noted his adam's apple was unregularly large and his shoulders and chest were narrow. A contrast to the broad girth of his father.
Malachi coughed into his fist, "That's the shittiest thing I think I've ever had down my throat."
Heat prickled her cheeks. "Considering what you've done you should be grateful you even have your throat."
"I think I'd rather have it torn out than to have to choke this down." He took another sip anyways then jeered. "Now I know why they sent you in here: To torture me."
"No one's making you drink the damn thing." Jasmine muttered and he shrugged. A few minutes passed before he spoke again.
"So . . . how long they planning on keeping me prisoner before killing me?"
Oh Allah. "No one is killing anyone." Least if she could help it. "Even if you do deserve it. Sides, you don't have any bindings on, no shackles on your feet, or bars on the doors. One would hardly call you a prisoner." Sometimes men were far more melodramatic than women.
"I suppose then that looks are deceiving. But you would know all about that, being a prisoner yourself, Princess Jasmine. Ya, I know who you are. I didn't at first but now I know. That one from Agrabah. You stood in the middle of the street that day, a child in your arms as you ran your gums at our leader. It was impressive. Stupid. But impressive."
It was like she'd swallowed a hard-boiled egg. The affirmation was surreal. This man had been a part of that horrific day. Until now the Thieves seemed more like an apparition, a ghost of the past that she could in theory forgive. Now it was all too real, the pain raw and wrath bubbling beneath her chest.
"You attacked my people?"
"Your people?" Malachi leaned forward arrogantly, "Hah! Don't you mean his? It's his city. His palace. His people." He looked her over, slow, deliberate, with an upturned lip. "His bitch."
Smack him upside the head! Knee him in the groined!
"No disrespect," Malachi feigned surrender. "Just call it as I see it. You're his prisoner just as much as I am. I've heard all about what happened, hell most the middle east has by now and in a year the rest of the world probably will too."
"Im not a prisoner." Hadn't she said that inwardly on a loop the last few months? At first, she had been but she was here by choice now. She'd been the one to come back to Jafar. Had chosen him. Right?
"Of course not, because you're clearly his equal. You're sitting in here with an enemy, in the dark, by yourself while Satan sits in the other room oblivious to your well being, or needs, or feelings." Black gloves swept up the tea again, "Just calling it as I see it," he winked then threw back the remainder of the beverage. "Hmm. It kind of grows on you after a while." He noted conversationally analyzing the empty cup for more.
"You're pretty arrogant for someone that just had their ass handed to them."
"Why shouldn't I be? As you said I'm alive still. I have my enemy within reach," He gestured back to where Cyrus had been, "And now I've got the company of a beautiful woman. Maybe your Sultan sent you in here to do more than chat with me? Does he lend you out to everyone? Or just those he's trying to get information out of."
Saliva built in the side of her cheeks and she swished it across her tongue while compressing her lips.
"You know, Your Highness, it's customary for a woman to pleasure a man, especially one your Sultan is trying to strike a deal with. Surely, he'd want me in a cooperative mood – hmm? After all it's a meager expense for him to part with his whore for one night. That's all you are to him isn't it? A bargaining chip. A tool in his ploys. He's only getting started too – I'm sure I'm the first of many to come. So, lie on your back and tell me again that you aren't a prisoner – oof!"
He had come too close, practically clambered on top of her on the settee. Jasmine's knee rammed between his thighs allotting her time to scoot out from under him and put enough distance between them.
"You've got that same spit fire you had that day in the streets." Malachi was doubled over, kneeling on the floor, but presumed to laugh. "Man, Lilura would love you."
"Who?"
"No one," He said after regaining his wits about him. He stood with a crippled stance and chewed at his upper lip. "I wouldn't ever touch you."
"Yeah no shit, I wouldn't allow you the chance." Speaking of which, where in the hell was Jafar!? A quick glance over the shoulder and Jasmine saw Jafar and Cyrus were no longer sitting in the parlor room. Fucking hell. "Don't," Jasmine shouted palms outstretched when Malachi limped forward. He stopped.
"I don't rape women . . . I wasn't going to actually touch you. Was trying to prove a point is all."
She didn't need any proof that he was a scum ball like the rest of them, just as Jafar said they were. The man pulled back the hood on his head, releasing sandy brown curls that resembled Hadassah's wild hair, only lighter. He ran open palms down the side of his hips in a nervous habit and Jasmine seen something had struck a cord to erase his arrogant nastiness.
As if to answer her question he said, "I don't join in for that part of it, the raping. Never have. They only do it sometimes, as punishment for the men that wont hand over their belongings. They make them watch – we have to watch too or join in. I never do it though."
Jasmine rubbed the fabric of her collar between her thumb and index finger, supporting her elbow as she held an arm over her stomach. Malachi looked differently, almost kind and tortured at the same time. Suddenly her perception of the man became a thin veil between revulsion and sympathy.
"Then why stay with them? They do horrible things – you do horrible things, all for what? What could you possibly get out of all this? I get you're wounded and angry by what happened to your family but how does violence make any of that better?" There she went again preaching to someone considered a lost soul, but she couldn't help it. It was pressed at the back of her teeth and she couldn't keep from offering light to someone in darkness.
"He said you were like that," Malachi snorted and Jasmine thought he'd been referring to Jafar. "Aladdin said you were different than any one he'd ever known before. Mirela was like that too. Loving, kind. She always saw the good in people even when it wasn't there. She was beautiful too, like you. Is it true then?"
"Is what true?"
"That you were going to marry him?"
"I thought I was."
"You loved him?"
It felt like a trap, as if Jafar had been the one to send Malachi in here to bait her. Jasmine leaned her back tiresomely against the wall and nodded.
"A street rat and a princess. You are different."
She didn't respond. It was none of his damn business what her plans had been a few months ago, or how drastically it all had changed since. He was the one on trial, not her. She needed to get him to open up; Jasmine thought of bringing up the fact that Malachi had burned down her city but doubted it would lead to anything fruitful.
"I'm glad Aladdin found some type of home, I was worried when he went off on his own . . . I ran into him at an inn the other day."
"I haven't seen him in almost a week. Last we talked is when he mentioned you though."
"A week, huh? You don't all stay together?"
"What're we hens in a coop? We all have jobs to do, our own agendas to contribute to our tribe. Sides he keeps leaving with her lately. Disappearing all hours of the day and never coming back with anything useful. Now I know why." He looked pointedly to Jasmine as if she'd been the one he had snuck off to see all week. Jasmine steered the topic in another direction.
"I didn't know there were women? Looked like only men when I met your group." She used the word 'met' lightly.
Malachi took a seat in the wooden chair, suddenly making it feel like an easy conversation. "Nah they don't do any brunt work. We've only a few anyways, most are wives of the men but each woman belongs to a man in some form or another. Lilura's the only exception."
There was that name again. Lilura. He let it slip out as naturally as he had the first time then looked panicked that he'd said it again. Jasmine was quick to keep the conversation flowing.
"Lilura must be one tough woman in that case. I admire that – I'd kill to be in control of my own destiny. But," she sighed finding a painful truth to her confession, "unfortunately my life was never meant to be my own. I've always been told where to go, what to do, what to wear, what to think, or rather not think. Who I'm to marry – I don't even have a right to my own heart . . . maybe you're right." Their eyes locked then, her suffering emanating through the connection. "Maybe I am just a prisoner."
The legs of the chair scratched against the rug as he shot out of the seat and hurried over to her. He placed one hand by her head, leaning on his arm as he peeked around to ensure they really were alone.
"Come with me then. I can get us both out of here, help me and I'll find you a place in our tribe."
"Why in Allah's name would you think I'd want that? I'm nothing like them."
"You're nothing like these people either," his breath was stale, pluming in her face as he whispered. "Face it, you'd rather be living on the streets than in a stuffy palace. Rather have freedom if it meant sleeping in the dirt than spend another moment in a luxury as a captive. There's no oppressive rules."
"Clearly rules of morality are lacking as well."
He ignored the biting sarcasm. "Your blood may be royalty but your spirit is made of something else. You don't belong here and you know it at your core. Haven't you wondered why you're drawn to life outside of those walls. Why it was you in the streets that day fighting alongside peasants? A royal doesn't do those things . . . I'll take you to Aladdin," He added the latter as a last-ditch effort, their noses almost touching. "Come on Princess, let me show you a place you can finally belong. Let me take you to them."
"What an excellent idea."
Jafar's rich staccato forced them apart, Malachi practically flipping over backwards to get away from Jasmine in time. But it'd been too late – Jafar hadn't missed a segment of their transaction. Moreover, he saw the allure Malachi's declaration had on her; she'd been fantasizing unashamedly because every accusation had been valid, piercing her soul with undeniability. Jasmine shrunk beneath Jafar's knowing glare. They would talk later. For now, it was Malachi's head on the chopping block and Jasmine kept to the wall handing Jafar the reins.
Jafar slithered in and though unencumbered by his staff was able to captivate his audience with the same alluring venomous bravado he'd perfected during years past. The whelp snarled at his approach, backing away like a toothless dog, growling with no bite; meanwhile Jafar possessed a lethal venom.
"You're rather small for a greasy ape –it's quite a letdown, if I'm honest." Jafar taunted, erasing their distance bit by bit. "Don't be afraid," he tutted sardonically, "You happen to be the luckiest man alive."
"Ha! I'm having trouble seeing just where the luck plays in."
Half of Jafar's mouth pulled back, his beard lining the predatory grin he bore so well. "I suppose an introduction is in order –."
"I know who you are – rather what you are," Malachi interjected widening his stance and gathering both fists at his side. "How could I be afraid of someone like you – someone with blood more tainted than my own. Guess you need a reminder of how filthy your blood is – your lower than the low. Born as a slave to slaves."
Malachi gathered phlegm then shot it out to land directly on the toe of Jafar's slipper. The Sultan smirked in bored amusement, pressing on.
"Make no mistake that the sheer fact you draw breath is due solely to your father's requests. Were you a prisoner in my own home, on my own ground, there would be pieces of your gangly,pubescent body scattered about. Now I'll make myself exceedingly clear: I will refrain from killing you, for the time being, but that does not mean I cannot break you into a thousand pieces in the process. I will shred you, limb from limb, break you bone by bone in order to tear down the walls of your mind and access the information I desire. Now, gutter rat, do we have a consensus or shall it become difficult?" He loomed overhead now.
"I'd die before I gave up my family," Malachi croaked.
Jafar's eyes flashed with pleasure, voice falling silkily sardonic. "Oh, I was so hoping you'd choose difficult."
Jasmine recoiled to the farthest wall of the parlor. The glass doors had been shut behind her but she could still hear the screams, the cracking of bone against bone. She thought to rush upstairs and hide underneath the bed to escape the nightmare, or even step outside for fresh air. But she couldn't. Not if she wanted to remain a boundary between Malachi's survival and death. Twice already she'd intervened, wedging herself between the victim and his persecutor in order to give Malachi a fighting chance. She'd been allowed to give him water, only once. She felt helpless.
Malachi was no saint, that was to be sure. She retained an amount of hostility for him and those he ran with. In the same token, Jasmine had seen a glimmer of potential in him. A potential to be something other than what he currently was. The same potential she believed Jafar had in him. She was either intuitive and gifted with foresight or idiotically naïve for believing either man was capable of being saved. Regardless, Malachi was a life and life, good or not, had value. Therefore, what Jafar was doing was wrong. End of story. But then again, she couldn't stop it from happening nor walk away. She was caught in the crossfire plagued with anxiety and an overwhelming urge to vomit in a nearby potted plant.
"Fuck you!" Malachi swore, screaming like a banshee.
Jasmine had heard the term from Geraldine; a banshee was a grieving spirit, trying to warn her family about her impending doom. Her eyes were said to be red from centuries of crying as she tore out her hair while bawling all through the night. Jasmine didn't believe in such spirits, but if she had, Malachi would be the exact replica of just that. She cast a wincing glance his way. He was still tied to the wooden chair, blood spilling out from unidentified areas of his body. The moon was setting now possibly making the time four in the morning. It'd carried on for hours this way and Malachi had given nothing to Jafar.
When Malachi's wrist snapped backwards Jasmine had met her end. The glass panels burst upon her entrance, slamming against the walls as she stormed in and shoved Jafar by the shoulder. Again, lodging herself between the two men.
"Call it a night! He's done – walk away!"
"Move little girl before –."
"Before what? You torture me too? I said that's enough for one night. Please, just walk away."
It seemed like ceaseless minutes in which she held her breath before Jafar relented. He waved a finger aerially and out of the shadows two men appeared, startling Jasmine in the process. Had they been there the entire time? She'd not noticed them until now. They were unimpressive in stature and wore simple colored uniforms though they might have held a derisory level of importance. They came to Malachi's side then knocked him unconscious with the blunt end of a sword before carrying his unconscious body down the hallway and out the front door. Jasmine supposed they'd take him to the stables having been hired to guard him through the night.
When it was just the two of them Jasmine whirled around on Jafar, who meticulously cleaned splatters of blood from his hands. "Was all that really necessary?"
His eyes glinted like obsidian, mirroring the moonlight. "Didn't enjoy the show, my dear?"
"You realize that you won't get anything from him that way."
"I'm getting something out of it." He smirked, having enjoyed the chance to blow off a little steam. "I'd have hired help to do the dirty work for me, but ill confess it's much more satisfying this way."
"Nice."
The cloth Jafar'd been using was slapped down over the back of the chair as he readied himself for a tedious argument.
"Where was Cyrus in all that anyway? I looked over and you both were gone. Did he know what you planned to do to his son, didn't he hear the screams? Am I going to find him bound to a chair somewhere as well with a gag in his mouth?"
"Somehow I doubt any answer given will be to your liking." Jafar mimicked her crossed arms sitting into his hips with a wide stance. His sleeves had been rolled up over his forearms and his chest peaked from the slit in his collar. "Cyrus is in his room, half dead while Agrabah struggles to recuperate and my wife was nearly lost to me forever all because of that little cunt, so yes, sweetheart, what I did was very necessary and will continue to be for every passing moment that he refuses to cooperate."
"He was opening up to me!" Jasmine palmed her chest as if wounded. "He would've cooperated. Wasn't that your plan by sending me in there? You knew he wouldn't find me threatening, that he'd talk to me because I seem trustworthy."
"Astute observation."
God, she wanted to pull out her hair. "And it was working, so then why did you interrupt it!"
"Was there something you were looking to finish?" He snarled suddenly unable to hide behind a self-possessed mask. "He never would've taken you to them - though I suppose a woman will believe anything a man says when he has her backed up against the wall whispering her innermost wants and desires."
Jasmine rolled her eyes shaking her head to blow off the heat surging between them. This was no time to have a shouting match. "He gave me a name; did you hear that too?" Jasmine said with more composure than she felt. "Lilura."
"What'd you say?"
"Lilura . . ."
". . . You're certain that's what he said?"
"Yes? He said it twice. Said she would want to meet me and that she was part of their tribe; though he made it sound like she was in charge to some degree . . . Why? Do you know who she is?"
He shook his head with a look of forlorn rather than appreciation at the information. Everything in Jasmine screamed out like alarm bells that Jafar was hiding something. She knew Jafar to be many things but a liar hadn't been one of them. More than most Jafar was forthright, even to the point of brutality, but it'd been a trait she'd respected. Now he was lying right to her face?
Jafar scoffed, "Excuse me?"
"I said you're lying," she reiterated leaning forward.
With a catlike silhouette Jafar erased the distance and towered over her. Jasmine pulled inwardly then made a conscious effort to draw back her shoulders and broaden her chest; that only made Jafar chuckle darkly as if her attempt at bravery was comical. Jasmine was quick to wipe that smirk off his face when he tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear and softly grazed the side of her cheek with his knuckles. She froze.
"I would like to take you to bed, pussy cat." The smoky rumble came from some place in the back of his throat and moisture pulled unwarranted at her center.
Maybe it was a combination of what'd happened earlier in the caves, mixed with the way his sleeves were rolled up, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he stood before her, and the musky scent of healthy sweat and fresh night air that stemmed from his powerful body that made Jasmine simultaneously queasy and aroused. Why did she want him still? Even after seeing what he did tonight, after knowing that just a moment ago he had lied to her.
"We're both exhausted," Jafar's fingers began rubbing the tension from her shoulders and her resolve melted like candle wax with each stroke of his thumbs. "I was so proud of you today. For helping Cyrus, for being my brave, clever little wife when dealing with our enemy." Her eyes fluttered closed as he slipped behind and pulled her hair to one side to exhale softly on her skin. Large steady hands smoothed down the flat of her belly then dipped between her thighs finding her moist and warm. He smiled against her neck and susurrated like a viper. "Prefer the bed . . . or right here on the table?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The table, the chair, the floor, everywhere! Don't stop, don't ever stop. I need you – You're being a damn cliché, get it together woman! You're upset remember? And nauseated, you need to throw up – kiss him, grind against him, tell him you're falling for him – no be strong, be independent. Would your mother have let Jafar manipulate her like this?
Oh, that did not just happen. Her eyes flew open. Now she was comparing her relationship with Jafar to the one her mother had had with him!? For Allah's sake now she was really queasy.
"I'm gonna be sick."
Jafar pulled back to look at her white face. Before he could ask Jasmine rushed out the room into the courtyard and became ill in the soil of a bush against the house. Thankfully she'd not eaten much that day and her stomach emptied before Jafar caught up with her. She remained on all fours trembling, too worn and lightheaded to stand. Jafar lifted her into his arms and carried her back inside and up to the guest room. With few words Jafar had helped Jasmine undress and get into bed. He proceeded to bring up a glass of water before blowing out the candle and slipping into bed next to her. Jafar assured that she didn't have a fever and diagnosed her ailment from stress and exhaustion; which sounded about right. At least her stomach had calmed considerably and they both fell into an easy sleep.
It was still dark when Jasmine woke so it couldn't have been more than an hour before the nightmares had woken her. She remembered them this time – an island, a grotesque bloody battle, a woman with a knife. Jasmine fought to steady her breathing and swung her legs to the side of the bed, body slick with sweat. Fleetingly Jasmine thought to wake Jafar and tell him about the recurring dreams but he looked dead to the world and she knew he was far more exhausted than she had been. Beating someone for hours on end would do that, she supposed with a roll of the eyes. Jasmine snuck from the room successfully and headed to the kitchen to try and find some leftover bread. The nightmares weren't the only thing that had woken her. An angry noise crackled the silent home.
"Shh, I hear you damnit."
Great now she was talking to her stomach. It wasn't long before Jasmine had made a plate of day old bread and some cheese and a pot of tea. This time it wasn't as strong and by adding a bit of honey it'd tasted almost perfect. Jasmine hummed with a smile soaking up the rare moment of solitude and delicate peacefulness. The harmonious moment was conversely obstructed by a low cough.
"Sorry," Cyrus bemoaned with a sheepish grin, "I needed something to drink is all." He shuffled into the kitchen looking weak but much improved from hours prior. Jasmine was admiring his strength when she realized she was being a horrible houseguest and rushed to offer Cyrus the tea she'd made.
"It's better than the first I promise. Would you like a sandwich maybe? I got out the bread and cheese already."
Cyrus nodded his thanks, groaning as he took a seat at the table. Before long they were sitting adjacent one another enjoying the early morning as they ate and drank in companionable silence. The sun had only just started its ascent and sluggish orange hues splintered through one of the windows.
"How's the hand?" Jasmine nodded keeping the tea cup near her lips. Cyrus shrugged turning his hand over to analyze the bandage.
"Believe it or not its not my first stabbing." Her eyes fell to his stomach then and he waved her concern away. "I'll survive that too – in large part thanks to you."
"Glad to be of use . . . Malachi wasn't too happy I stitched you up." She didn't mean to sound insensitive but lack of sleep and watching Jafar beat the man for several hours had desensitized her to the topic. Cyrus stalled, vying for time as he sipped his tea.
"Jafar get the answers he needed?" He asked but clearly already knew the answer.
Jasmine traced the water ring her cup had left on the wood and shook her head.
"Suppose he got satisfaction out of the beating; it'll stave his thirst for bloodlust for the time being but it won't be enough." He made Jafar sound like some blood sucking bat feeding to stay alive. Perhaps more unsettling was how easily he spoke of his son's fate.
"There were two men here; some type of guards it looked like. Jafar had them take Malachi out front to the stables I think. Did you know about that too or were you only in on the beating?" Contempt thickly laced her response and Cyrus sat back unapologetic.
"You think less of me for allowing Jafar to do what needs done."
"What needs done – god you sound just like him. Malachi is still your son."
"With all respect, your Majesty, I'd appreciate it if you left these matters solely to myself and your husband. That boy out there died to me six years ago when he ran off to join my enemies and nothing proved that more than his actions tonight. If it weren't for Jafar I would have died on that hill and that's the Lords truth. Any redemption I thought my son could've had . . ." he trailed off, scratching the back of his head before smoothing the natted hair. "My son is a killer. He's killed before and he will again if given the chance. They've got a hold so thick on his soul now. Malachi is like a wolf who's tasted human blood and he can't go back to being satisfied without it."
Sounded a lot like Jafar.
"He's too far indebted to them – I know because I've been there. The King of Thieves were my family at one point too. And to a kid that never had a family it was the safest place I'd ever felt. Malachi doesn't believe he has any family left and that's the same thing as being an orphan. It's always a comfort to belong, even if it's with the wrong crowd." Cyrus' eyes glazed over though she couldn't tell if it was from deep thought or exhaustion. "Malachi won't give them up easily to be sure; but every man has a breaking point. The sooner he cooperates the better . . . for us all."
"Will you honestly allow more abuse?"
"I gave Jafar my word to aid him in finding our common enemy. Malachi is a stranger to me now. Where would the honor be to betray my word to Jafar and protect a murdering thief? Right is right, Jasmine."
Her eyes felt hot and she snapped in a tart tone. "Honor? How is there honor by treating another human like meat on a hook? How is bloodshed honorable in any capacity?" What if Baba had said that about her!? Turned a blind eye at her torture because she'd made too many mistakes. What sort of father would allow such a thing?
"Malachi made his choice and still has once to make. He can make it stop."
"And if he doesn't?" She was standing now, voice a high pitched shrill. "If this brilliant plan the two of you chumps concocted doesn't produce any value what then? W-Will you let Jafar kill Malachi!?"
Cyrus sighed, "I don't wish to speak of this any longer. Jafar will wonder where you've gone off to." He went to sip his tea and Jasmine smacked the cup sending it to shatter on the floor. He remained calm, much less like herself.
"Was it all bullshit then!? Everything you told me yesterday. About Jafar? That he was lost but he could be found – that even the darkest parts of people could still be touched by the light! Did you mean any of it or is that theory just not good enough for your own son? Because I saw torment and regret and fear in Malachi's eyes. Not a lost cause, not a cold black soul, but a person trapped between two parts of himself. So, answer me!" It was a full-blown shout that surely woke the house if not the neighborhood. "Are you just refusing to believe it for yourself or was it all a lie?"
Cyrus' eyes were lined with red and Jasmine felt her throat close.
"Please," the top of her lip quivered with emotion, ". . . don't tell me that my husband can be saved, that I am responsible for helping bring goodness to his life then deny the same for your own flesh and blood. You can't dangle hope in front of me just to take it away. I – I have to believe there's a way back from all the ugliness of one's past. For Jafar, for me. And if you take that away from me, if you say it's all hopeless, after everything I've already lost . . . Cyrus I don't know if I can survive."
Cyrus tilted his head to the side with large concerned eyes. He didn't want to lie, to say everything would work out for her, or even for himself. She looked to him as if he held the answers but in truth he'd never had any. Simply put, he was utterly worn. The chair scooted out as he stood, Jasmine stepping back in the process to allot appropriate space between them. All he could offer was a stiff smile and squeezed the meat of her arm as if imparting a level of strength; or maybe he'd been trying to draw out some of her own for himself.
"Oh," Cyrus turned back around when he was halfway down the hall. "Umm, I'm going to write to Tzipporah. Let her know Malachi's here. I don't want her to see him like this but it'd be far crueler if she never got the chance to see him again. I figured she at least has the right to know – maybe even be able to get him to talk if Jafar can't. Goodnight, your Highness." Cyrus walked dejectedly to his room and closed the door, leaving Jasmine to face the dawn alone.
Jasmine pinched her eyes shut, finding it difficult to obtain enough strength just to keep breathing. On weak legs she'd made it as far as the stairs before collapsing, an overwhelming weight forcing her to the ground. Jasmine clung to the railing with one hand, covering her mouth with the other and sobbed there on the bottom steps. The world had become so full of darkness. At every turn something sought to break her spirits, plague her with hopelessness and death. If it wasn't her life and family being torn apart it was someone else's. It was too difficult to cope with anymore and all Jasmine could do was grieve.
She grieved for the loss of her father; for the man he had been, the man she thought he was, for his health, his happiness, his reign as a loving kind Sultan. She grieved for the loss of her mother, rather the image she had tried to protect all those years. For the loss of her first love – of what could've been even if it was far from realistic. But she didn't want realism anymore, she wanted to stay in a bubble of ignorance rather than face the harsh truth. She grieved for Tahira, for Ummah, Vada, the little boy in the café, Rahman. She grieved for Raja and even the genie she had never gotten the chance to know. She sobbed brokenly on the steps, each tear in remembrance of those she loved and cared for. For Tzipporah, the children and Cyrus and even Malachi. Most of all she cried for herself; the loss of her identity, authority and innocence. She'd lost those three things it seemed daily, on a loop. And lastly, she grieved for Jafar. The man that had brought so much pain and pleasure, confusion and clarity to her life. She hated him, she loved him. Wanted to heal and save him and now she was told there was no real hope.
Tragedy, heartache, misfortune, calamity, disaster, whatever she chose to label it, it all meant the same thing. Defeat. At every turn Jasmine kept losing and the turmoil broke her at the knees and held her down by the neck. She just wanted a shred of light to come back into her life; the same light she tried believing was possible for Jafar, Aladdin, and Malachi.
Now it would be a miracle if she even found some of it for herself.