Summary : Aladdin is dead and his son is contemplating the fine line between love and hate. Can he and Mozenrath get some foothold in the matter…through each other? Slash ahoy, me mateys, angsty slash, but slash nonetheless.
The funeral was a small, humble, yet somber affair, betrayed by the dessert sun that bore down just as fiercely as ever, Agrabah's golden borders glittering not a mile away. The gravesite was unspectacular as well, just a raised mound of sand and a smooth, clean piece of slate, one name chiseled deep within it's front.
Aladdin.
The guests were starting to filter out now. For being the famed hero the man was, the guests were few. Of course, the Sultana had come. She had come in the palace's best black mourning finery, shrouding her pretty, though aged face, pearls glistening at her collarbone. She had ordered her guards and attendants to stop a good three yards away from the gravesite, she alone approaching the gravestone and placing a hand on it. What whispered words had passed between her and it would probably never be known, but she left with all the dignity she came with, going back to her new husband and children.
She went back to her life.
The others, who had attended Aladdin's funeral, to watch in silent reflection as the painfully simple coffin was laid in the ground, were common people, unlike the rest of Agrabah who had long ago turned their backs on their hero. The were the minority, men late in age who came, grandchildren in tow, kneeling with respect to pray in front of the gravestone. They came as women, housewives with their own children, who kissed their hand and placed it fondly on the grave's curving top, silent tears down their ruddy cheeks. They came from far and wide, drifting in. They were the few that recognized that they were alive and healthy today, able to live their life, because of this man.
But soon, the sun started to sink, sluggishly unhurried in the sky's dusking expanse, and the mourners left, but not without leaving tokens of their respect: simple white flowers that grew at Agrabah's walls, lilies from the ponds, childhood dolls and dove feathers. The last remaining person, left behind, stared at the odd pile at the grave's foot.
The prince of Agrabah remained, young Ali. He was the eldest, the only child conceived between Aladdin and the Sultana before that deciding incident of fate. An old friend of Aladdin would recognize the parentage instantly. While Ali had his grandmother's, Jasmine's mother's blue eyes, he was certainly his father's son in appearance. He had the same hair, a mess of soft brown waves, only tamed by the palace attendants and the twine he used to hold his bangs back from his eyes. He had his dad's smile, the same disarming way to melt other's defenses. He inherited his father's propensity for disregarding the rules, and a love of making things a little more interesting. Everyone at the palace would agree wholeheartedly with that fact in particular, whether relying on the memory of his decision to keep his new pet hunting dogs in the stable, or his experiment with the firework in the chef's new pastry.
Any other time, and Ali himself would laugh at the memory.
Ali had never seen much of his father, his only memories of the man he would always call Dad few and far between, limited to early childhood. He used to resent even the thought of Aladdin for that, until he recalled over hearing his mother ask, full of tears and rage, Rasoul if he had locked the city's gates, somewhere around Ali's 14 birthday.
What he did know about his father, he'd gathered from palace records, especially from the eccentric writings of the palace historian, who charted every detail of his parent's early adventures. He had lived off them growing up, with nothing to do but dodge palace tutors and babysitting duty.
He'd have to admit, however, that he learned more about his father than any account could tell from his father's Genie, the family's Genie, his childhood friend, like a second uncle. This was right before Genie had left, all of Agrabah's enemies taken care of, to live with his wife Eden and their adopted child Domdi. Ali had once heard someone say that when his father left, Genie had never quite been the same again. Of course, Ali and his two younger sisters never knew the difference growing up, they loved him as much as any child would love some magical incarnation of joviality and laughter. Ali doubted if his sisters, the twins, Amidara and Jezebel, knew the difference know, peaking 12 their next birthday. But as Ali grew, as he lost some of his dismissive-ness to everything serious in life, he would notice sometimes that Genie's smile wouldn't quite reach his eyes, that he would sit at a window and stare, silent and pensive, boring holes in the distant horizon with his eyes.
He would appreciate, however, the times when he could wheedle information about his father from Genie without his mother around. He'd learn of his father's personality, his own struggles and fears, his intimate triumphs.
But he had to learn about why his father left from a nasty gossip, a cleaning maid, which hurt his pride more than the truth itself.
"Dammit Dad, Dammit." He cursed, a knot in his throat building as he hit the gravestone with a tightly clenched fist.
"You know, talking to graves might give people the wrong idea."
Ali looked up in curiosity at the unfamiliar voice, eyeing the odd stranger standing quite comfortably a few feet away.
The stranger dressed in all black, from his sharply, high-necked shirt with the teardrop opening to his baggy pants and his boots of fine leather. A red sash was tied smarty about his waist. He had a couple of oddities, like the bandaging all the way up his right arm, to the black gauntlet on that same arm. His hair was tied back dismissively in a tie at the back of his neck, which kept the heavy, long black curls from falling in his face, at least to some extent. He leaned heavily on a walking stick at his left side, gripping it's knobbed top resolutely, which struck Ali has odd since he couldn't have been more than forty something.
But it was his physical features that made him look as if he didn't belong. His skin was milk white, flawless but for tiredness around the eyes, pitch black and set strikingly against high cheekbones and a Roman nose. The man reeked foreign, though Ali wasn't about to point it out.
The expression on his face was unclear and guarded, betrayed by pursed, plush lips for a guy.
He's probably a lost traveler, perhaps someone one who had known his dad and was here to pay his last respects.
"Were you a friend of my father? You missed the funeral, though you're welcome to…" he trailed off, that pesky knot making itself known in his throat.
That man politely ignored the ending of his sentence, preferring to instead address his question.
He laughed a little, corners of his mouth tilting a bit when he answered.
"I guess you could say that." His voice was soft, but somehow commanding attention, clear and unrushed. It was thick, almost tinged with some accent Ali couldn't place.
The man, tall and reasonably fit for a guy his age, made his way over, not letting his slight walking impediment compromise the casual dignity that come off him in waves.
He walked in front of Ali, staring at the gravestone with some strange expression, something akin to regret, to whimsical pondering, to scorn and fond farewell.
"How did he die?" he asked flatly, unabashed and seemingly insensitive to the situation.
Somehow, Ali appreciated that more than everyone tip toeing around the fact the father he never really knew was gone.
" Ambushed by a band of old enemies." Ali said, fists clenching all over again.
To his horror, the man snorted.
"Aladdin, taken down by a herd of clods. Allah, he must be kicking himself."
He smiled to himself, as if the thought brought him comfort. Ali, however, recoiled, yelling at the man.
"It was almost thirty to one! I know! The guards hunted them down! He didn't stand a chance, they were cowards for even pulling such a low move on my father!" he said hotly.
The man eyed him with a look of such fucking knowledge; it made his blood sizzle and his head hang. It was almost patronizing.
"Ah, of course you wouldn't know. Oh," he added with deceptive afterthought, "don't you mean you hunted your father's murderers down?" His eyes locked with Ali, giving him no chance to deny.
Ali was stunned, hand immediately going to the sword blade tucked neatly in his belt. He had cleaned it off the hot blood; he knew it. Did the man see a tell tale fleck he did not?
"Ah well," the man sighed resignedly, "He had a full life I suppose."
If Ali had let his hackles calm before, they were fully raised now. He practically roared into the other man's face.
"He was 38! That's not a full life!"
"Yes, Ali, but could you really imagine Aladdin growing older?" The man challenged, startling Ali with his sharper tone, his voice rising, but controlled where his wasn't. And from the palace accounts, for all the descriptions of his father's, he wasn't quite sure he could imagine his father older than the young man hero everyone remembered him to be.
The man watched his expression carefully, like some ornate calculation, before continuing, satisfied he got the response he wanted.
" I knew your father better than most people did. It would have killed him to grow old and incapable. It just wasn't him. With all the old battle wounds, those injuries that never quite heal, he would have been bed ridden by 45. Do you really think he could have lived like that?"
The stranger's eyes flashed with defensive pride as he spoke next.
" He died doing what he was born to do, what he rose each morning to do, whether he liked it or not. He died fighting life, he died a warrior's death, not as some worn and haggard bag of bones." He spoke the last part bitterly, words strangely tipped with self hate.
Somehow, pride also surged in Ali, but something still bothered him. Who was this man to know so much? Who was he?
"How did you know my name?" he asked carefully.
"Oh, everyone knows your name." His older partner dismissed with a wave of his hand. " You're the prince of Agrabah. Besides, the resemblance is exasperatingly uncanny." He said with a smile that wasn't really directed at Ali.
" Well you know my name, and I have yet to learn yours." Ali proffered, offering all the hospitality his palace-bred manners had to give.
The nobly dressed man's eyes shot to his harshly, searching, flickering from the sword on his belt, to the city in the distance. Ali found himself strangely helpless but to watch how such a solid color eyes as black danced with light.
Finally, his guest's face cracked into a habitual smirk, though more out of cynical amusement than scorn. He leaned forward a little, to make his face level with Ali's. His voice was almost a whisper, wicked, but not quite.
"You don't know me, but I'm sure your battle axe of a mother does, and no doubt the dinjn and your father's usual old fan club would. Well I'm sure I 'd get the royal welcome."
Something clicked in Ali's mind, something pointed out several tales and accounts of one sorcerer, one young Lord of The Black Sand.
One Mozenrath.
He stepped back abruptly, eyes wide with shock, instinctually falling back into a defensive stance. This only provoked Mozenrath to laugh, mirth alit on his face, the cultured sound so befitting with the patch of facial hair resting cropped on his chin.
How could Ali not have noticed, that's what he was asking himself. But maybe it was reasonable. It had been years since any recording of Mozenrath, a recent one anyway. The man before him was, or at least looked, healthier and more filled out, older and more mature, than the beanpole the accounts described. (Well actually, that was Genie's description) His outfit wasn't really hanging off him as described, and wasn't quite the same, not as baggy, looking easier to move around in, which would suggest that he's more physically active.
But what did he care? He asked himself hotly, this man, this man was Mozenrath! This man was his father's, his mother's, his city's enemy.
Mozenrath eyed him like one would a child who had just uttered their first curse word when Ali's hand went to his sword handle once more, laughter forgotten.
"Oh come now, is that really necessary?"
" I know who you are-"
"Obviously." Mozenrath finished for him, making Ali feel small and ashamed at his outburst. " So are you going to 'slay' me for my misdeeds against your parents, or perhaps just for mankind's benefit in general, because if I'm about to be hacked to death, I'd prefer to know why."
Something about his tone made Ali feel guilty, so to combat he pointed out irately.
"You've got your magic. Besides, your dangerous, I was just getting read to defend myself." Right, that sounded fair enough.
"Ah, I've seen you done your research." Mozenrath said, almost conversationally. What surprised Ali, however, was when the sorcerer came to sit on the cart the palace's best horses had pulled him here in, looking up with no fear of attack through those tired, black eyes.
He held up his gauntleted hand. "As you can see, this 'magic' has pretty much ravaged my arm, and as of late, I don't just use my magic for anything. So, you're pretty much safe. Besides, I didn't come here to fight you." Mozenrath looked once more at the gravestone.
Danger forgotten, Ali felt something else rage in him, something far more frightening than loyal anger, or defensive instincts.
Hatred for the man that ruined his life.
He heard what that cleaning lady said, ringing in his ears, mocking him every day since then. It boiled under his skin, the knowledge that his father left his mother for…
Another man.
This man.
Allah, Dad, why this man?
"Why weren't you there for him?" Ali demanded.
Mozenrath arched an eyebrow in mild curiosity, not even looking up.
"Hmm?"
Ali had enough of his game. He promptly stormed over in front of Mozenrath, grabbing a handful of his collar and jerking him up to his feet, stepping back to accost him yet again.
"Why weren't you there for him, you bastard? My father left his wife for you, and you weren't even there to keep him from being killed, you coward!"
He sneered nastily at Mozenrath, eyeing him dismissively, disgusted at the whole situation.
"Guess my father didn't know how to pick 'em, did he?"
Mozenrath pointed a finger at him, his own voice shaking with the effort of holding his temper.
"You have no idea what you're talking about, boy"
"Oh I know very well what I'm talking about. I know the whole story. I've lived knowing that my father shamed his family, running off with his worst enemy because a wife and child wasn't good enough for him. We weren't good enough for him. But you were?" he asked incredulously.
" You tainted him," he continued, practically spitting the word with venom into the sand, surprised too that Mozenrath was letting him continued without interruption. " You corrupted him, made him…" he struggled with getting the word out, " Gay."
His arms wrapped tightly around his chest, looking away and looking uncomfortable.
There was silence, his only reply. It disturbed him, looking at Mozenrath curiously.
"What?" he got in response, " Are you done now, you know, gay bashing and disgracing your father's name on his very grave?"
Ali's eyes widened, in realization, but Mozenrath wasn't letting him get off that easy.
" I didn't make your father 'gay', your father liked who he liked and was very straightforward about it, at least he became that way. He didn't see gender as a barrier, but that wasn't his defining trait. But I really don't understand why I have to explain this to you, of all people."
" I never knew my father." Ali answered defensively.
"Because your mother wouldn't let him, no wonder, that pride of hers must have gotten a huge denting…" he noticed the glare he was getting from his younger partner, and stopped. " In any case, I'm sure he would have liked to be a part of your life if he could have been." He said stiffly, like comforting others wasn't his forte.
He looked at Ali.
"Are you still angry at him, knowing that?"
The young prince of Agrabah pondered the question. He mulled it over. No, he wasn't exactly mad at his Dad anymore, not as much anymore, (the wounds would always be there).
"No…" he was only sore at one person, the source of the burning turmoil deep within him.
"Why," he asked, " Did you leave my father to die?"
Mozenrath sighed. He closed his eyes, not answering right away, but pinched the bridge of his nose in a true sign of exhaustion, something more than physical.
" I didn't leave your father to die, Ali. We split ways a long time ago." He added quietly. He sat down again, looking very much like he wanted nothing more than to stare down at his hands, clasped between his knees, but instead straightened his posture.
Stubbornly.
Ali, in his turn, was immediately wanting to ask why, but knew he wanted a different answer, a reason to be mad at this infuriatingly calm, logical, patient man who made him feel like a kid and an adult all at the same time.
"And so it didn't occur to him to come back?" He stopped Mozenrath, seeing the explanation on the other man's lips forming. "Oh, I know my mother didn't like him around, but he could have found away to at least see me, that's not selfish, is it? I'm sure he could have found a way, he was The Prince of Thieves."
He smiled slightly; somehow hating the fact Mozenrath mirrored the same look.
Wistful, Remembering.
" Oh I don't know. Ali, it's not really my place to explain everything your father did anyway. I believe, if you ever looked hard enough, you'll find the answers you're looking for."
But that unsolved, unresolved issue in Ali's mind didn't sit well on his disposition.
It festered.
"Maybe I don't want to know." He muttered more to himself than anything. He was still surprised, and slightly discontented, when Mozenrath veered conversation into a whole different topic, looking at him almost with a friendly air.
"You know Ali, you really are your father's son." His hand rose, though he quickly dropped it. " You look so much like he did, once, when we were both young. And yet, it's different with you somehow."
Ali's ears burned hotly. Hearing about how he and his dad looked alike was not something he wanted to hear, not now. He didn't want the fact that he had a legacy to follow waving in his face, no, definitely not now.
" I am not like him." He said, but Mozenrath ignored him.
"Yes, I can see it better now. Though it's not your mother in you, you are different than your father." His mind was caught up in the comparison, the experience of seeing a younger Aladdin right here in front of him. But Ali was broader in the chest and arms Aladdin was, that Mozenrath could recognize. While Aladdin had remained almost small all his life (a fact that infuriated him to no end), in size and height, and though his air, buzzing like hornets, could fill an entire room better than someone twice his size, the fact remained that a life of poverty and malnutrition took their toll. But Ali, who had routinely trained with Agrabah's soldiers, ate well, and was even a tad taller than Mozenrath himself, made for an interesting contrast.
Ali's eyes were blue, not Aladdin's brown eyes. Aladdin's had some amazing ability to change with his mood, from warm and compassionate, shinning with triumph, or dead and glossy with despair. Ali's eyes, it seemed to Mozenrath, only flashed with a youthful determination and self-righteousness that made Mozenrath remember who he was.
"Stop it, I don't want to hear about it. I am nothing like my father."
"Oh but you are," Mozenrath said with a grin, "He's living in you. You are every inch of Aladdin's son." His words triggered something in Ali, some furious need to hurt this man. He jerked Mozenrath up once more by his collar, the man's boots lifting clear off the ground, skimming the sand with the shoe's toes.
How does it feel, Mozenrath, to be the smaller man? He asked himself in perfect irony.
Ali shook him, shouting in his face.
" I am not my father! I am nothing like him! I will never be like him!"
Blood roared hot in his ears, his eyes, his hands that made the man's still limber frame shake.
"I will never," he added fiercely, a finger in Mozenrath's face, "abandon my family and try and rely on memories to make it all better. He'll never be okay in my book; I just don't care anymore. I will never forsake a family for someone like you," he added with contempt.
Mozenrath smirked, ignoring the position he was in. He smirked with the superiority of a man who knew better.
"Is that it?" he asked, eyes dancing wickedly, " Is that really the reason you curse your father's memory? Or maybe it really is that you're scared…"
"What do you mean?" Ali demanded, wondering in the back of his head why in the world he was letting this man capture every iota of his interest. Why hadn't he left a long time ago, just left Mozenrath here?
Mozenrath made a slight choking noise as the fabric of his own collar tightened round his throat, Adam's apple bobbing.
"You're scared," he rasped out, still maintaining the delight he had in saying what he had to say, in finding out what he found out just then, " that you can't live up to your father's name. No matter how much you try and make yourself believe you hate him, you want to be just like him, but then you don't really, because you don't know if you can. You don't know if you can risk everything for a small chance of a desperate hope, you don't know if you can break out of the palace mold and leave all your protections and defenses behind."
"You," he finished triumphantly, "Don't feel man enough."
His words cut Ali; they cut him so deeply he swore he could feel them scrape bone.
And he intended to return the favor.
Mozenrath didn't even cry out, didn't make a sound when a strong, tightly balled fist smashed into his face. He didn't fight the second one, or the third, or the gravity that pulled him when Ali released him, falling hard with the help of the outraged shove Ali planted on his chest. He tried to rise, however, spitting blood into the sand, but Ali was done quicker in a flash, his knee pinning one sprawled out leg. He lifted Mozenrath half way up, pounding at him in such a feral way he didn't regain sense of self until he drew back his fist and saw blood on his knuckles.
…Not even a fight…
The man hung limp in his grasp, one hand bracing himself back on the sand. He panted, breathing hard, blinking blood out of his eyes, flicking his head back in an agitated way, trying desperately to get his curly bangs out of his eyes to see better.
Ali stilled, staring unabashedly.
What did his father see in this man?
Mozenrath was only fairly surprised when the younger man's lips crashed demandingly onto his, trying to adjust where his head wasn't bent so dramatically back. His hand rested at the back of the other's neck, not really doing anything, just resting there.
…Aladdin, we're loosing it…