Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.
Agrabah soldiers ran in fours down to the base of the palace while holding spears and wearing war helmets. Everyone was talking over one another in the cramped room: Hakim discussing battle plans with his guardsmen, children crying in their mothers' bosoms, fathers trying to get some semblance of where they were going. The war was well underway.
Looking out from a small palace balcony, Jasmine watched Carpet reemerge from the clouds. He had been making trips back and forth to the Abbas, carrying four people at a time to the safety of a new land after exporting Dalia and the Genie. So far, Jasmine had overseen the transportation of over fifty Agrabah families, but there were still over a hundred left in the room and time was running out.
Carpet parked at his normal spot and the next family stepped forward: a mother, father, infant, and small boy. Jasmine placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Don't be afraid," she told him. "The ride will be easy."
"I don't want to fall," the boy whimpered.
"You won't. You have nothing to fear—I promise."
The father took over and steered his son ahead, nodding to her. "My Sultan."
Jasmine smiled bleakly. The praise didn't feel deserved. It was her fault they had to leave their home behind. It was her fault she'd wasted time looking for Jafar's lamp and trusting him when she should've been exporting families from the city. And while she did still have one final wish—one more chance to stop Shirabad—she knew she couldn't trust Jafar to honor it.
Carpet whooshed them off into the air, leaving Jasmine standing in a gust of wind. Her hair was braided and out of her face, and she wore a simple black top and harem pants. Strapped to her torso was a great brass breastplate with an emblem of the Agrabah Sultan. Even though it felt clunky and restrictive on her body, it made her feel as strong and able as her palace guards.
The next family shuffled forward until a pair of healers holding a stretcher hurried up to her. "My Sultan, your husband is ready for transport," said one as she revealed Aladdin's pale face underneath the sheet.
Jasmine grimaced. "Thank you."
The family backed off, permitting the Sultan's husband to cut in line. Jasmine reached down and ran her fingers down his cheek, her dear Aladdin still battling the poison. She knew he wanted to be awake for her, to help her win this war, but at least this way guaranteed his safety.
Carpet returned ten minutes later. Jasmine helped the healers balance Aladdin on while they sat on either side of him. Abu swung onto Aladdin's stomach from the healer's shoulders and chirped anxiously once he and Jasmine met eyes. As Carpet swept back into the sky, Jasmine felt a piece of her heart leave with them.
Suddenly, a gasping guard wrenched open the doors and ran up to her. "My Sultan—the messenger… the messenger you sent to the Shirabad prince…he…my troops spotted him behind enemy lines with a spear in his back…"
Jasmine's stomach dropped. Hakim came up behind her. "Are you certain?" he asked.
"I'm certain, captain."
Hakim shook his head. "Then it appears he has refused all offers of negotiation."
"He can't want hundreds of people dead," she reasoned.
Neither man could answer. "Dismissed," Hakim told the guard and pulled Jasmine aside. "My Sultan, I think it's best if you were on the next ride. My guards can oversee the people."
Jasmine gaped at him. "And leave Agrabah on the brink of war?"
"For your safety, yes." Hakim's eyes were big and imploring. "You don't belong on the battlefield."
"Neither do my people, Hakim."
He sighed. "As I said, we will oversee the rest." He grabbed a cloak from one of his soldiers and handed it to her. "Take this. You must disguise yourself in the new land—"
She swatted it away. "I'm not running, Hakim. Sultans do not run from their enemies."
"We need you alive."
"We need to win this war. And you won't without me."
Hakim sighed again, surrendering. Jasmine knew it was in her favor that he didn't have the time to argue with her. He reached down into his belt sash and pulled out a small hidden knife, flipping it so that the handle was facing her. She suddenly realized his intentions.
"I can't."
"You must," he insisted. "This is war."
Jasmine took a deep breath and forced herself to accept the hilt. It felt so foreign in her hands: a weapon. She had read countless war stories and expeditions growing up, but she never thought she would wield something like this herself.
Hakim gripped her arm. "Use it if you need to. Don't be afraid to kill. Fight for your life. Promise me." Jasmine nodded, but he urged. "Promise me!"
"I promise," she said.
Hakim released her, his eyebrows still knitted in concern, and started out the door with his troops. As Jasmine watched him go, she was suddenly overwhelmed by his loyalty to her, his love for her and for Agrabah, and she realized that she had never really been alone after all.
"Hakim."
He turned around. She did her best to smile. "Thank you."
He pressed his fist to his breastplate. "My Sultan," he said, and disappeared in the sea of departing soldiers.
Jasmine composed herself and returned to the balcony to help the families. She searched her clothing for a good place to hide the knife and finally found a secure spot within her cloak. Once she tucked it in, her fingers brushed against something cold.
The lamp.
Right.
Jasmine immediately dismissed herself to her chambers. If the battle reached the palace and her specifically, she needed to do everything in her power to keep Jafar's lamp from Shirabad clutches. And she knew just the spot.
Upon arriving, she shut her chamber door behind her and hurried to the closest bookshelf. She put her finger on the fifth book from the left, the top row, and dipped it so that it faced up. Something clinked and unlocked, and when she shoved the bookshelf to the left, a globe-sized hole was revealed in the wall. Her and Dalia always used to sneak snacks into the hole to eat overnight; it was the perfect place to hide things from anyone—even the former sultan. No one else knew of its existence.
She removed the lamp from her cloak and steadily placed it inside. Even if Shirabad was successful in invading Agrabah and killing her, the knowledge of the lamp's hiding place would die with her.
Huffing, she leaned all of her weight on the bookshelf to push it back in place. While she did, a shadow fell over her and something small and red landed on her balcony railing, its wings rustling closed.
Jafar's parrot.
Jasmine couldn't help but glare at it; no doubt it was there to intercept the lamp. She held its curious stare even as she finished moving the bookshelf back in place.
"Just try," she muttered. "Even you aren't that clever."
The parrot didn't respond. Instead, it opened its wings and took off, squawking, "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"
Suddenly, another shadow fell over the room, much greater than the one before, and Jasmine was viscously knocked into the wall as a crash rocked through the entire palace.
"Hold the gates!"
"Hold the gates!"
Hakim was still staring up at the palace, up at where a Shirabad trebuchet catapult had launched and buried a fireball into the second story. All of the generals and guards among him were screaming and shouting, but he couldn't tear himself away from the horrifying realization that he had left his Sultan in that very room just minutes before.
He could hardly breathe.
"Captain!" a man shouted directly in his ear. "Orders!"
Hakim turned back, disoriented, to face the gates. There was a great pounding behind them—Shirabad soldiers trying to infiltrate the palace. Many Agrabah men looked up at him for direction.
He swallowed, mustering every bit of strength he could to focus.
"Hold, men!" he said. "Hold!"
More guards rushed to help barricade the tall gates, but the wood was splintering, breaking. Letting out a shaky breath, Hakim reached into his belt and drew his sword. On his life, he would protect Agrabah and his Sultan. If Shirabad wanted Jasmine, every single one of them would have to go through him.
The other soldiers followed his lead, the ringing of steel filling the courtyard. Among him were about a hundred men, all armed and ready to die to protect the civilians inside. Hakim thought of his father in the fields when he was a boy and the sound of his sickle against a hundred wheat stems. Only this time, for Hakim, it would be bodies.
Hakim heard a whooshing noise above him, up into the night, and then—
Crash.
Everyone stumbled in different directions. Hakim looked back up at the palace.
Another catapult fireball into the fourth story. Smoke glugged and glugged out of the palace roofs, obscuring the moon and stars above.
Behind him, the gates cracked open.
Shirabad men wearing red spilled and spilled from the opening, brandishing their swords and screaming war cries. Every Agrabah soldier was suddenly rushed by ten, twenty men—the air filled with smoke and the clashing of swords. Hakim stood astounded at the steps, the realization of their inevitable death hitting him in seconds.
Three Shirabad soldiers broke from the front line and clawed their way to the steps. Hakim stepped forward and met them mid-strike. The first fell, a sword to his chest. The second, to the shoulder. The third had Hakim in a headlock from behind. Using all of his force, Hakim broke away and decapitated the man.
He had no time to process his victory. More and more Shirabad soldiers were overwhelming him, all breaking free from the front line and Hakim was blinded by rushing armored figures.
Hakim felt something sharp sink into his side. He fell backwards, his sword knocked out of his grasp. He looked up at the sky and saw one star through the smoke and chaos—a little white light—and he thought of his father and the sickle and Jasmine.
He closed his eyes and breathed a small apology.
Someone gripped him by the head, securing him in place. The last thing he heard was the slicing sound of metal against his throat.
Jasmine weakly opened her eyes.
Pain.
So much pain.
When she lifted her head, she was on the floor. Smoke filled her nostrils and she was covered head to toe in ash and soot. Every joint in her body screamed as she steadied herself up on her elbows. Her head—oh, her head—was pounding, and something warm and wet was sliding down from her hair to her chin. She gently touched her face and her fingertips met blood.
She looked up.
The last place she remembered being was in her chambers. Now she could hardly distinguish where she was in the palace: half the floor in front of her was gone.
Her home.
Ceilings above her were slanted and caved in, flames licking at the cracks. The floors were riddled in rubble, dust, and ash; decorative tapestries and glass vials were in fragments. Jasmine saw an arm sticking out from underneath a fallen chunk of ceiling, the hand open and lifeless.
Her people.
Crying out, Jasmine pushed herself onto her feet and adjusted her breastplate. She needed to find them, wherever they were. They couldn't possibly be…
Jasmine ducked through the broken hallway, through shrouds of smoke and dust, searching for someone, anyone. The entire palace took another hit, shuddering the floors and walls around her. Wincing, she held up her hands to protect herself from falling debris and continued on, coughing up smoke.
Suddenly—bodies.
Her pace slowed dramatically. They were strewn everywhere, all across the floors, the walls, the broken holes. Men, women, and children lying facedown, arms flung out, limbs unnatural and contorted. Bloodied burkas and turbans, fingers and faces blackened and charred from the flames.
Jasmine felt her knees buckle. She hit the floor on all fours, her vision swimming in tears as she tried to inhale, tried to breathe—
It was her fault.
It was her fault.
Jasmine dug her fingers into her scalp, the horror drowning her.
All those innocent people—all those children—
Her fault—
She screamed.
A moment later, so did someone else.
Jasmine jerked up at the sound. It came from far down the hall, down where she couldn't see through the dust. It sounded like a woman's—an ugly scream, a cry for help.
Without hesitation, Jasmine scrambled to her feet. If there was even one person still alive, she would do anything in her power to help. She ran and ran, tripping over dead arms and dead legs, trying to ignore the bile rising in her throat until the smoke began to clear.
Another scream.
Two people came into view. One fell—the woman—as the other stood above her, his cape a stark red. He jerked his arm back, freeing his sword from the woman's abdomen.
Jasmine couldn't hold in her gasp.
The soldier turned his head. She threw herself behind one of the unbroken pillars, praying that he hadn't heard her. But before the panic could set in, she heard another voice.
"Mama…"
There was a child nearby—a young girl. She stood only a few yards from where the woman fell, standing short and meek with a face streaked with tears. To Jasmine's horror, she could see that the soldier heard her too.
The soldier advanced on the child, who fortunately had the wits to know when she was in danger and fled in another direction. The soldier grunted and pursued.
Something feral ignited inside Jasmine.
No.
Stumbling to her feet, Jasmine fished for the knife in her cloak and gripped the hilt with fervor.
Not the child.
She had never felt this way before, so determined to protect. Before, she had hesitated to even take Hakim's knife, fearing the responsibility of killing anyone—even men who wanted her dead—but now she felt willing to fight to the death so long as that motherless child was safe.
Ignoring all the pain in her joints, Jasmine took off after them.
Walls collapsing.
Explosions.
Screaming.
Catapults firing.
Swords.
Crying.
Jafar listened.
The lamp was his echo chamber, his only access to the world outside. It had been uncomfortable at first to adjust to the space after his imprisonment, but now he found it strangely soothing to just listen, to wait. And fortunately for him, the wait wouldn't have to stretch on for thousands of years.
He would be free soon. Very soon.
From the tales and scrolls he studied as the vizier, genies weren't typically discovered until centuries had passed, until another ambitious human decided to make the conquest. By the time he expected to be roused, the street rat and his princess would've been skeletons in their tombs long before he could infract any sort of vengeance.
And yet the moment came not even a year after his imprisonment, the moment he felt her delicate little hands on his lamp, desperate for his help.
Fate was far, far too kind.
He always knew she'd be an incompetent sultan if given the chance; such a title was no place for a woman. Seeing her realize it as she was helpless to plunge Agrabah into war and destruction brought him a satisfaction he hadn't felt since he first tasted magic, and he imagined that pleasure would only grow once he twisted her final wish to set him free.
But for now, he would wait patiently for her return, like a good servant would for its master.
More explosions.
More crashing.
Such a pity. The sounds of war gave him little solace, especially since it was Shirabad on the attack. Nothing would please him more than to pluck the lives of each and every one of those red-caped miscreants, to watch them writhe and scream the way they once watched him. Every second the princess ignored him was another second he was chained to the lamp, powerless to stop Shirabad. How could he rule Agrabah if all its living subjects were dead in the end?
Not much later, he heard a great crash and felt pressure on the lamp—pressure that couldn't possibly belong to human hands. The brass around him shuddered and toppled in different directions until it stilled completely.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Human hands or not, pressure was pressure. And he was obligated to obey.
With a great surge of energy, Jafar summoned himself out.
Black smoke cleared to reveal…more smoke. The pungent scent of death filled his nostrils and for the first time ever in the grand palace, he did not immediately recognize his surroundings. It occurred to him finally that he was standing on several fallen ceilings; he recognized the gold, squared architecture in chunks and pieces beneath his robes. He looked up and saw the night sky—something that shouldn't have been visible from his place on the third story or so. No one in sight was alive; bodies laid charred in spitting flames while ash and glass blanketed the floors.
Such a pity.
Jafar stepped around a split open bookshelf with scorched seams and pages to pick up his lamp—still black and unblemished. Iago flew over his head, his squawking like laughter throughout the ruptured palace.
Just as Jafar started forward, he heard footsteps behind him—five of them, he reckoned—that trampled loud and lumbered. Sounds he knew all too well.
He stopped.
So did the footsteps.
Jafar turned around to face, yes—five Shirabad soldiers with their spears out and ready. He could tell that his appearance baffled them: who was this strange man wearing robes that seemed to be on fire? Moreover, what was such a strange man doing unscathed in the middle of a war zone? It had to be some last ditch trick from Agrabah forces.
The closest soldier, the one with bloodshot eyes raised his spear.
Jafar smirked.
The soldier never got the chance. He let it clatter to the floor as he was suddenly hoisted up in the air by an unseen force, his head thrown backwards.
Jafar felt his power burn like liquid lava in his veins: aroused and excited. The soldier cried out and gasped, unable to find the strength to free himself even in his dashing armor and cape. The others backed away, horrified, and one even stumbled back and fled. Jafar watched his work with utter fascination, intoxicated by the sensation of watching a man of Shirabad in such a powerless state. If he could only sneak his power up to his neck and make it snap…
Unfortunately, genies had limitations when it came to human life. He couldn't kill the soldier outright. But that didn't mean there wasn't a little gray area.
Jafar focused on the others until they joined their companion above. With glee, he turned his attention to the closest opening in the wall where the ocean lay deep and rushing several stories below. He stood there calmly as the soldiers were hovered against their will over the ruined floors and out into open air. He relished their pleas a few moments longer before abruptly loosening his grip. Splashes soon followed and he knew it would be the last sound they'd ever make. Their breastplate armor alone equaled the weight of boulders.
Satisfied, Jafar turned back towards the smoky depths of the palace.
Now then.
Where was his beloved master?
Jasmine lurched back in horror, unable to believe what she just did.
The soldier's screams were quieting now that his throat was filling with blood. He had stopped clawing for the knife in his neck and was on his knees and hands. Jasmine couldn't stop the tears gathering in her eyes. It all happened so fast. He had the child backed up against a wall and Jasmine had only seconds to decide what to do. He was covered head to toe in armor; there was no place for a knife to infiltrate. His neck was the only thing bared.
He slumped to his stomach, motionless.
She killed him.
Jasmine couldn't stop trembling. She felt sick, evil. The feeling of the knife piercing his skin would forever haunt her, as would the sound he made when it sunk.
The child stared up at her, her face wreaked with emotion. Jasmine blinked back fervently.
They needed to get out of there.
Jasmine reached for her. "Come with me."
The child didn't hesitate.
Jasmine hurried them down the fractured remains of the palace, leaving the dead soldier behind. All she forced herself to focus on was the child: she had to protect the child. Jasmine led her by her shoulders and held her sleeve against the girl's mouth to ward off some smoke. The girl gripped Jasmine's hand as tight as she would a railing over a cliff, but Jasmine didn't mind the pain.
Voices could be heard in front of them. Jasmine quickly averted them in a different direction; they couldn't run into anymore Shirabad soldiers. Not only did Jasmine no longer have Hakim's knife, but she didn't know if she could withstand killing another man in such a short span of time.
"It's okay," Jasmine whispered, her teeth clattering. "You're so brave. Just hold on."
But they weren't so fortunate.
Two men appeared through the smoke—two Shirabad soldiers hunting for survivors. Jasmine froze in place, terrified, while the child whimpered in her arms. Unlike the last soldier, these two were facing them directly, leaving no possibility of slipping by unseen. At the sight of her, both soldiers drew their swords. Jasmine felt her heart beating uncomfortably fast. These men weren't in the business of sparing women and children: they had orders to kill every civilian they came across.
Jasmine slowly curled her fingers around the child's arm.
Then, with all the strength she could muster, she threw herself and the child into a sprint the other way. She could hear the shouts of the men behind her and their boots following.
Jasmine did most of the running. The child—the poor child—could barely keep up against two seasoned, full-grown warriors, so Jasmine threw her over her shoulder despite the pain in her upper torso. Her breaths came quick and ragged, her lungs weighed down by smoke and exhaustion, but still she forced herself to run, to sprint for her and the child's life—
Running was only half the battle. There were so many obstacles in her path, forcing her to clamber over bodies and furniture and flames that still hadn't been put out. Knees up, she chanted to herself. Keep going. Keep going.
Jasmine looked up and saw a corner ahead—a perfect hiding spot. She jumped over a charred railing, her last obstacle.
Her left foot didn't make it over.
Ground rushed up to meet her.
No!
Jasmine fell face first, losing her grip on the child in mid-air. Sharp pain glittered up and down her arms and forehead, and Jasmine opened her eyes to see she had landed in a pool of glass. Lifting her head, she saw the child had fortunately landed away from her and wasn't too hurt. The child stood and began running over to help her.
But the soldiers. It was too late for that.
Still on her stomach, Jasmine smacked the girl's hand away. "Go!" she said. The girl didn't budge. Jasmine smacked it harder. "Go!"
Finally, the girl took off.
Jasmine grit her teeth as her hand fished for the closest weapon she could manage: half a wooden bedpost. As she staggered to her feet again, she turned to face the soldiers and weakly held it up like she would a spear. Trained soldier or pampered sultan—she wouldn't let them take her down without a fight.
One of them cackled. Jasmine felt her blood boil and swung first, aiming to at least catch them off guard. It made a hallow ding as it hit the right soldier's helmet, but his cry was more annoyed than pained. The other advanced and Jasmine swung the opposite way, meeting only air. The soldier laughed fully.
"Such spirit," he mused, "and for what?"
Jasmine braced herself in position, the bedpost held high. "For Agrabah," she said back.
They didn't find her response quite as humorous. One soldier shot out a hand and gripped the bedpost, and Jasmine cried out, wrestling for control. Finally, she freed it and struck it up at the soldier's helmet, up where his eyes were exposed. The soldier let out a screech.
Before Jasmine could turn to the other, she felt an iron tug on her shoulder as she was thrown to the floor. Her shoulder blades and spine exploded in pain, and the bedpost was suddenly out of her hands, too far away to grasp.
She vaguely made out the second soldier moving above her, his sword raised.
It was over.
Sucking in a breath, Jasmine did the only thing left to do.
She braced herself.
They had already done it by the time he arrived.
Jafar heard them snickering like children from the other end of the hall, so proud with what they'd done. He didn't bother rushing, instead keeping his pace leveled and tranquil. He held out his hand and let his golden snake staff materialize in his fingers as he walked. The soldiers carried on with their conversation, oblivious to the threat coming their way.
"She really got you, eh?"
"Yeah. It's fucking bleeding."
"We'll just wait here, eh? The battle's over anyway." A metal clink. "Say…look at her breastplate. You don't think she could be…?"
"No."
"No?"
"She didn't fight like a sultan."
A snort. "Were you expecting a good fight? I haven't seen any of the women wearing a plate like this." There was a pause. "Didn't they say something about her being beautiful?"
"Might as well take her head, then."
"Think so?"
"Remember? The prince said a hundred coins to the man who brings him her head."
Jafar started to see their silhouettes through the veil of smoke—their muscled, armored bodies—one sitting, one standing, with her body sprawled at their feet. Both of them quieted, finally hearing the slow rhythmic clap of his staff approaching. The one sitting scrambled to his feet.
"Who's there?"
Jafar wordlessly walked into view, the smoke clearing and clearing with each step. Even with all the confidence the soldiers garnered slaughtering women and children all night, Jafar was pleased to feel a bit of unease within them, a flicker of fear as they stared at him.
One cleared his throat. "Stand down—"
His own scream cut him off as he and his partner were suddenly thrust through the wall behind them and out into a free fall where ocean and cliffs awaited. The rest of the wall crumbled and followed them down.
Jafar turned his attention to the ground.
Jasmine was lying on her back, her eyes closed and her tensed wrinkles lost to unconsciousness. Her braid made a black noose around her neck while her bloodstained hands rested on the side of her torso, the place she'd been stabbed. Her heartbeat was faint and uneven, but audible to him nonetheless. She didn't have much time.
Jafar knelt down beside her and took the time to observe her face in such a calm, helpless state. Even so close to death, even beneath the blood and dust, she was beguiling. He gently reached out and ran the back of his finger down her cheek.
"No more games, princess," he murmured down to her. "Now…you will free me."
Jafar released his staff and the gold disintegrated into a smooth, lily-white contract. A feather took shape in Jasmine's bloodstained fingers, ready to write her signature and return him to the exact state he was in before becoming a genie:
The most powerful sorcerer in the world.
"I, Jasmine," he said, "being of sound body and mind declare that my final wish is to be saved from certain death…by setting the genie free."
…I can make you rich…rich enough to impress a princess…
…make you rich…rich enough to impress a princess…
…rich enough to impress a princess…
…impress a princess…
…a princess…
…princess…
Aladdin threw himself forward, gasping for air as if he had been underwater.
Light. Nice and bright.
Too bright.
He blinked frequently, trying to force his eyes to adjust. His surroundings slowly swam into view: a shelf, a table, a window. Flowers in pots. Books on shelves. He closed his fingers around a soft linen blanket beneath him and made out the small floral designs—the infirmary beds. Infirmary?
He was in the infirmary?
Aladdin steadily lifted his hand to his head and felt for any bandages or blemishes. He didn't feel anything; in fact, he felt perfectly well.
Why was he in the infirmary?
Aladdin looked out the window. It had to be around mid-afternoon. The skies were cloudless, the birds chirped in the distance, and the sun gleamed off the crystal gold domes of neighboring towers. It seemed to be a typical beautiful day in Agrabah.
Aladdin curled his knees over the bed towards the ground. The moment he made contact with it, everything came rushing back to him.
Breakfast. Salads and flatbreads. Jasmine's father choking. Her screaming. His own throat—suddenly closing up—suddenly unable to breathe—
Aladdin reached for his neck. He took in a breath. He exhaled.
Nothing was different.
His mind began to race.
What happened while he was asleep? What about Jasmine's father? Were they poisoned? Was everyone alive? Was Agrabah under attack—?
Aladdin lurched himself off the bed and up the stairs.
"Jasmine!" he called out. "Jasmine!"
Strangely, the hallways were vacant of guards. How odd. There were never less than three guards that manned this particular section of the palace. Aladdin cautiously made his way down the otherwise untouched hallway—the exquisite pottery, the detailed tapestries fluttering in the wind. They couldn't possibly be under attack. There was no sign of any tampering.
"Jasmine?"
No answer.
Aladdin picked up his pace to a trot. There had to be servants on the third floor—he was sure of it.
With a grunt, he pushed open the large marble door to the next story. Aladdin dropped his hand and stared down the next hallway in obvious confusion. Still no guards.
"Hello?" he called again.
No one answered.
As Aladdin made his way down, he heard a strange, muffled screeching coming from the other end of the hall. He stopped where he was to listen better, to catch every bit of the strange sound.
It took him only a second to recognize.
"Abu…?"
The monkey's strained chirping continued.
"Abu?" Aladdin said louder, starting to run again.
He made his way through several different walkways, trying to follow the echoing of Abu's faraway cries. Every corner he turned, there was no one around. Something wasn't right and it was making him sick to his core.
Aladdin finally came upon the main courtyard where the birds soared above him. He looked out into the streets of Agrabah and saw the miniscule movement of traders and merchants at work. Frowning, he scratched at his head. It seemed all was well in the city. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…
He turned.
The air abruptly left his chest.
Inside the courtyard's fountain laid a large, golden-grey metallic snake statue coiled up with ruby red slits for eyes. It was designed masterfully—the layers of its body weaved together in a perfect formation. Aladdin had only seen this statue in the courtyard once before, back when…
Back when…
Abu's screeching chirped loud and clear from the throne room.
Aladdin didn't spare another moment.
Abu was found hovering in the middle of the room, up in the air by several feet. His furry limbs were devoured in a strange purple light, holding him hostage. At the sight of Aladdin, his screeches intensified.
"I got you, buddy," said Aladdin, extending his arms as high as he could. Although he was able to reach Abu's feet, the light made it impossible for him to grasp. Aladdin looked up as Abu screeched louder, his large beady eyes focusing on something behind him.
"Welcome back, Aladdin."
The voice made him freeze. He suddenly found it difficult to move, to breathe.
It couldn't be.
It was impossible.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he forced himself to turn.
Jafar casually stepped out from the darkest shadows of the throne room, his robes and turban a bright regal red. He stood as tall as Aladdin remembered and his eyes were as dark and intense.
"You," Aladdin said.
Jafar's lips thinned. "I'm afraid you slept through your own de-coronation." He waved his hand and Abu disintegrated from the air. "But don't take it too personally. Not all thieves were meant to be statesmen."
And he had his powers back.
Aladdin shook his head, stepping backwards. "I must be dreaming."
Jafar smirked. "And perhaps you would be, had you not done me the honor of getting poisoned."
Questions filled and filled Aladdin's mind, but he had trouble forming them on his tongue. There was no logical way Jafar could have escaped his imprisonment. He was there when Jafar became a genie, when he was thrown back into the Cave of Wonders. Who could have possibly freed Jafar—and in such a short amount of time?
Jasmine, he remembered. "Where is she?"
"Who?"
"My wife."
Jafar's smirk widened. There was something horrible in his expression—something devious that tied Aladdin's stomach in knots.
"Safe," said Jafar.
"Is she?"
Aladdin watched as Jafar held out his hand and let his snake staff curl beneath his fingers. He idly examined its intricate details, paying Aladdin no mind.
"You've done well in my absence, street rat," he said. "I'll admit, you… surprised me. Much cleverer than I gave you credit for. But a ruler?" He glanced back at Aladdin. "You see, time has a way of restoring things to its natural order. I am the Sultan. You return to your thievery in the streets. And your wife returns to what she was born to do. Serve the true Sultan."
Growling, Aladdin lunged forward, but he was instantly immobilized by the same purple light that imprisoned Abu.
"Let her go," he bit out.
"And why should I?"
"You don't need her. Take Agrabah—I don't care. Just let her go."
Jafar smiled wickedly.
"No."
"It's me you want. Kill me. Just don't hurt her."
"I have no interest in killing you." Jafar circled Aladdin's spot on the palace floor. "There are some fates worse than death, street rat. Far, far worse. And unfortunately for you, I know your particular type of torture."
With another wave of his hand, an image of Jasmine materialized in the air in front of Aladdin. She was asleep on her side, seemingly at peace and comfortable. Aladdin felt the urge to reach out and touch her despite knowing it was one of Jafar's illusions.
"You love her. You would do anything for her."
Aladdin swallowed.
"Even if it meant crossing a thousand oceans, a thousand deserts," Jafar continued, "for a thousand years, you would do it. If you knew she was here, you would just keep coming back. And so you shall, once I banish you a second time."
The image dissolved. Aladdin stared up at Jafar hatefully.
"Do it," he said.
"You think I'm giving you a chance," Jafar mused. "Tell me. How do you propose to defeat the most powerful sorcerer in the world without a genie? How do you think you'll save her? Let's not be so optimistic, street rat." He removed something small in his robes and tossed it at Aladdin's head. "You're either the most powerful man in the room or you're nothing. And this time, I am that powerful man."
Aladdin winced and opened his eyes to see what hit him.
Tassels. Purple wool. Yellow string.
Carpet.
"No…" he whispered.
"Return to Agrabah, Aladdin. Dig your way back if you must. I imagine I'll be seeing you every few years, each more desperate to defeat me than the last. Perhaps the next time you return, you'll see that your wife belongs to another—"
"No! No…please."
Aladdin hung his head, ashamed that he was out of tricks and had to beg his enemy for mercy. But he had no other choice. He couldn't bear the thought of Jasmine having to…especially with him so far away, unable to help her—
"Please," he said again. "She is my wife."
Jafar was clearly relishing his desperation. Aladdin watched him walk towards the window, not at all concerned that he was giving him his back. His robe was long and striped with vibrant gold lines. "Do you think you're the first man to find her beautiful? The first street rat to come from nothing, to climb his way to the top and see this girl…"
Aladdin found the silence that followed unbearable. "But you don't love her," he said.
Jafar didn't move from the window for a few more excruciatingly long moments. Finally, he rotated back, and Aladdin was disturbed to see his eyes strangely glazed over—unsympathetic and detached.
"And that is why you are weak," said Jafar.
White lights suddenly quickened beneath Aladdin's waist. He tried one last time to use all his strength to free himself, but to no avail. Gritting his teeth, he stared at Jafar with utmost loathing.
"I won't forget this," Aladdin declared. "I swear—I'll make you pay."
Jafar merely inclined his head.
"I look forward to it."
The lights hiked up to Aladdin's neck, blurring the sight of the throne room. As they continued to devour him whole—he heard Jafar's voice clearly through the storm.
"Oh, and Aladdin? Don't forget your monkey."
Just as a ball of fur hit him directly in the face, the whole world went white and everything that was once around him vanished.
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