(Greetings to you all. Since this chapter is long, and filled with slash, I
might add, I'll have to do it in two parts. The lyrics are from Kevin Devine
song, "Ballgame". He is, without a bit of flattery, the best songwriter in
the world. Sorry it's taking me so long, I have limited computer access.)

"A good man never drinks
And I've been drinking alone
So what does that make me?"

An abandoned book sat sad and alone, its still, yellowed wings spread,
hopefully offering up the valued text on magic it had to the contemplatively
silent sorcerer beside it. The sorcerer himself was swimming in a sea of
lethargic tranquility, and it upset him that he had nothing left to do.
After so many days of wasting time, he had hoped that this morning, after an
oddly dreamless sleep, he could catch up with his regime of research, magic
hunting, building his empire, and studying and practice. And this was all to
improve a standstill potential.
His fingers dug the soft curvature of his palm, and he sat up suddenly.
He was bored, desperately so, and was tired of fighting the obligation that
he had to be doing something.
He was the Lord of his own Land, right? Who said he had to do anything?
His air resolved, he turned to his other cloudy day pastime.
Wandering the Citadel.

By the time he had found the older library, he was bitter. Fully so. Maybe
it was because it was just so damn silent in the Citadel, that coward Xerxes
offering no respite. Maybe he realized just how small he was compared to the
sprawling horizon of room after room, hallway after hallway. Or maybe it was
the every handy bottle swinging from loose fingers. Either way, he fingered
pile of paper leaves, hanging out a heavy, dusted drawer. He gazed about the
place, as if seeing it for the first time, again. It was the library he had
first come to study in, when the satisfying, grand one of velvet and cherry
oak was too good for an up-and coming apprentice.
Abandoned for his masters, it was abandoned, and felt frozen in time,
drawers hanging slack-jawed from their desk fixtures, few, bare wood shelves
sitting dully on the floor, under-dressed in their coats of gray dust.
With a sweep of his arm, any contents littering a smooth wood desk, more
from age really, were sent crashing to the floor, and Mozenrath plopped down
in its place instead, looking about the room expectantly, bottle of ouzo in
hand.
On days like this, he favored the Grecian drink. It was hardly as special as
all that, not wine, but weightless, a light, golden color that picked up on
any and every ray of sunlight in the room, reflecting it in a crystalline
way upon the slender glass bottle. It was thin, deceptively so, and it slid
down easy and came down hard when it did, in once, commodious swoop that
left him pleasantly buzzed.
The ouzo fell but failed to spill as it hit the ground, Mozenrath's
attention inexplicably drawn to his new find, nestled under paper.
It was an old instrument. It was an old guitar.

"My hands they always shake
When no one calls my phone
So what does that make me?"

He looked at it numbly for a moment, the smooth, gleaming surface, bringing
a tide of memories with it. The memory of a scathingly doting Destane, and
the gift he gave his little bird, because it couldn't sing. He gripped its
neck tightly, turning away with a burning face, in anger, in furious
embarrassment. He had to learn to play it, but when Destane lost interest,
he didn't.
He kept it, coveted it in secret. Even the spite, the poison Destane gave it
to him in could not change the curious endearment he had. It was his, to
care for, to excel at, and to cast from his attentions as soon as he got rid
of anything that echoed of the dead Destane.
Yet here it was.
He settled onto his lap with shaking hands, hands that tested the sound. He
plucked humble notes, one two three. He drew his hand away swiftly in
surprise, looking at a split fingertip and the gleaming drop of blood.
He was out of practice.
He sucked on the bleeding finger thoughtfully. He could play all he wanted,
and no one would hear, save Xerxes.
So why was it a sad thought?

"So what does that make me?"

He adjusted, tuned the guitar as he walked, walked to the throne room. But
his feet didn't bring him there. They brought him to the same room he and
Aladdin had sat in, chatting like friends.
"Aladdin".
He tested the name on his tongue. He almost felt the need to look to see if
anyone heard. He sat, taking the guitar with him. He ran his fingers,
sliding, almost apologetically over the strings.
So what was he?
A sorcerer?
An outcast?
A musician?
He laughed to himself, soft and low.

"And I know the kid with his guitar,
So drunk and anxious
Has been done to death
But tell me what hasn't,
I'll try it."

Xerxes raised his head from his resting spot on a high tower windowsill.
Something wasn't right. The glass was cold and the view dizzyingly high, but
he pressed his face against the window, peering hard at a figure far, far
below. It was coming across the sands, through the deserted city.
"Master!"
Mozenrath looked up sharply as Xerxes came peeling into the room, a hand
placed protectively over the guitar as if guarding that bout of
vulnerability.
"Master, intruder!" Xerxes exclaimed.
He waited, watching Mozenrath's reaction with curiosity.
Why did Master hesitate?
Why wasn't he calling all the mamlucks on the attack?
He floated behind Mozenrath as he walked, slow and unusual to the door. When
he realized by sniffing…
Master was drunk.
Well, not quite. He was functioning almost normal, except he seemed…muddled.
What was it?
"Master…?"
But Master was not listening to him. His eyes were riveted to the
unaccountably there Aladdin, standing almost shyly in the doorway, a gritty,
steel hued city behind him.
"Hello Moze".
Well at least he managed to be casual about it.
"Ala-?"
"Yeah?" he prompted, Carpet fluttering nervously behind him.
Mozenrath sighed, running a hand over his face.
Damn ouzo.
When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally soft, his words strung together in
a tired rhythm.
"What are you doing here Aladdin? No, better yet, how did you get here?"
Aladdin shrugged, walking past Mozenrath with a charmingly cocky smile.
"Guess your mamlucks are as good as guards as they are as carpenters."
Clever, to remind him of yesterday.
Mozenrath watched his retreating back and damned if he didn't follow.
"You didn't answer my first question," he pointed out.
Aladdin turned, caught off guard.
His eyes flickered Mozenrath, as if searching, until he found his
distraction.
"What's with the guitar Mozenrath?"
Mozenrath was confused at first, but then realized that hanging forlornly
from his hand was the guitar.
"Um…" So here he was, halfway to sloshed-Ville, with a hangdog looking
guitar.
So cliché.
"Don't tell me you play". Aladdin said with a wry grin.
Mozenrath fought his blush down, clearing his throat in an attempt to fix
his head rather than his breathing, trying to gain control here.
"Well, not that it's any of your business, you see, but I grew up trained in
that sort of-"
"Well play then", Aladdin proposed