Disclaimer:Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.
It hadn't felt at all like Jasmine expected.
The thought of dying used to terrify her after her mother was murdered. She imagined the pain and the fear and the helplessness of taking her last breath, but in the moment, there was no time to process what was coming. The soldier stood above her, drove his sword into her abdomen, and that was that. There was pain, she remembered. And then she felt weightless, like everything within her was being released, and then she felt nothing at all.
Jasmine slowly opened her eyes. The gold-bronze ceiling above her was distorted and blurry. Colors started to form—pinks and greens. Something was moving. A woman dressed in white—a maid—was rushing towards her, moving as if she were submerged underwater.
"My princess?" she was saying. "My princess?"
Jasmine blinked once. Her eyelids felt heavy. With effort, she drew in a small breath through her nose.
She could breathe.
She was alive.
Jasmine scrambled to sit up, all feeling returning to her body. Her hands flew to her abdomen to find the wound, but there was no pain, no blood, and no incision at all.
"My princess?"
Jasmine looked at the woman fully, her eyes round with shock. "Am I…?" She paused to clear her incredibly dry throat. "What happened?"
"You're safe now," said the maid.
"Safe?"
That didn't seem right. There was a war. Agrabah was under attack. People were dying. She was…
Jasmine looked down at herself. She was wearing the same clothes she wore for battle: the black top and harem pants. The only thing missing was her breastplate. Even her hair was still in the same braid, although most of it had come loose and ran in thick strands down her shoulders.
She looked up at her surroundings and felt her entire body stiffen. She was in her chambers, exactly how it was arranged before the war. The tapestries, the vases, the books, the maps, the furniture—everything, even down to the last acacia flower—was somehow restored.
Jasmine let out a shaky breath. "Shirabad," she said quickly. "My people—"
"Hush now, princess. There is nothing to fear now."
Jasmine looked at the maid again, this time studying her face. Of all the handmaids she had encountered growing up in the palace, she had never seen this woman in her life. "I don't know you."
The maid bowed her head. "I was appointed by the Sultan to be your handmaiden."
"The Sultan?" said Jasmine.
"Yes, princess."
"But I'm…"
The maid reached for her. "He waits for you in the Great Hall. He told me to prepare you." She unbraided the rest of Jasmine's hair and ran a comb through it. Jasmine could do nothing but sit there and try to make sense of everything.
She was the Sultan. She was the Sultan.
Wasn't she?
Jasmine turned her head and stilled when she saw the lamp sitting on her drawer.
No.
Jasmine dodged the maid's comb and clambered off the bed. She grabbed the lamp and rubbed it but nothing happened. The lamp wasn't even warm. Whimpering, Jasmine opened the cap to look inside. Again—nothing. No trace of magic. No trace of Jafar. Just an empty, ordinary black lamp.
"My princess—"
She whirled around, just in time to see her maid vanishing into the air as a tall figure stood in her place. Jasmine gasped and dropped the lamp, her heart pounding ruthlessly against her chest. Jafar stood in the red robes he'd donned as her genie, his gold snake staff woven into his long, ringed fingers. No smoke or ghostly magic accompanied him. From the light outside, Jasmine caught a glimpse of his wrist and could see that his chains were gone.
"Speechless, I see. A fine quality in a woman."
Jasmine forced herself to breathe, to stay calm as she watched Jafar move about her room and peruse its contents. "I'm glad to see you've slept, princess. You seemed awfully tired when making your third wish."
He'd tampered with it, she realized. She didn't know how or why but one thing was clear. He succeeded.
"How?" she whispered.
"In order to save your life, my intervention was required. As was your signature."
"You can't do that."
"Would you rather be dead?" he turned back to her. "You should be on your knees in gratitude. I've restored order to how it should be. Agrabah is safe. Shirabad is a pile of rubble. And I…am the Sultan."
The scenery shifted. Suddenly Jasmine was standing with him on the highest balcony of the palace, the cold wind hitting her face as shadows danced over her head. Looking up, she saw a line held by two towers with hundreds of red flags billowing and flapping. Jasmine frowned, finding the way the flags were shaped strange until she realized—
Not flags. Capes. Red capes.
Shirabad capes.
"What…" she started, but the scene changed again—throwing her and Jafar back into her chambers. She gripped her bedpost for stability, repressing the urge to vomit. Jafar simply waited from the other end of the decorated rug.
Slowly, she looked up at him. "The people will never follow you."
"The people build statues for me as we speak," said Jafar. "Can the same be said about you?"
"I did everything in my power to—"
"And you failed. You let Shirabad slaughter your men. You let them poison your father. Your husband."
Jasmine's anger suddenly ebbed to fear. "Aladdin…"
"I'm afraid Aladdin has taken a little trip. And I doubt he'll return so fast without his carpet."
"Bring him back," she demanded. "Now."
His lips thinned, smiling that smile that always made her want to throttle him. "Are you really in a position to demand things of me?"
"Bring him back, Jafar. I am the true Sultan of Agrabah—"
"No." His voice changed, instantly darker and more serious. "You're a little girl that's been coddled all your life, told that you could be anything when you haven't the slightest clue how to run a kingdom and would rather see people massacred than admit it." He was coming towards her and despite her pride, she felt herself shrink. "You think your beauty and kind heart makes you deserving of such a title? That countries would bow at your feet like your little hand maidens and servants?"
"No," she got out hoarsely.
He was so close, forcing her to look away. "If your mother could see what you've done," he continued. "If she could see her daughter…the reason behind so many Agrabah deaths, even her own father's—"
"No!" she nearly screamed. She tried jerking herself away but realized she couldn't. Her feet were nailed to the floor and she couldn't move at all.
His magic, she thought. His damned stupid magic. "Let me go."
Jafar was still so close and Jasmine did everything in her power not to panic—the same panic that had welled up in her when he'd broken out of prison and made his first wish. Always he had tested his boundaries when it came to ridiculing her, but as the vizier he was bound to obey her father. When he was free of that, however, she remembered how he didn't so much as hesitate to assert his power. It was the first time she felt afraid of him.
"Do you have somewhere to be?" he asked her, condescending as ever.
"Yes, in fact. I need to find my husband." She tried moving again to no avail. "I'm done playing this game. Let me go. Now."
He snickered at her tone. "Always so passionate, aren't you? Always thinking your words can keep me in my place. But I'm afraid any authority you might have had has run its course. There are no more clever street rats, no more genies. So, princess." He stepped closer. "What use are you to me now?"
Jasmine's heart started to race again, loud and uncomfortable. He was toying with her, she knew. She remembered all too well what had transpired after he'd banished Aladdin the last time, how she was stuck in the most horrible position she could have imagined. Only now was it even more egregious that Aladdin was so far away, so beyond her reach, and that Jasmine was bound to her spot with him in her bedroom. The bed frame was touching her thigh and it made her stomach flip.
"Well?" he said.
Jasmine mustered up all the courage to look him in the eye despite their proximity. If this was her fate, so be it—but she would not bow to cowardice. She would fight him every step of the way and he would never have the satisfaction of knowing she went down easily.
"I will not be your bride," she spoke clear and firm.
Jafar held her stare. Seconds rolled by, the tension unbearable, until fortunately he broke away, walking back across the rug. "Without your father here to humiliate, I fail to see the point in such a thing myself." He faced her again. "You see, I could have any woman. I come summon one right now, even. Someone with the wit to know her place."
He made a zagging motion with his finger and indeed, a woman was summoned out of thin air. Jasmine stared at her. She looked as real as ever and she was gorgeous. Her hair was long and shiny, and her eyes were the color of spring water. "How could you possibly compare?"
Jasmine bit down on her cheek, remembering that an insult from him was far better than any compliment. The insults she could handle.
"I'm relieved," she said, looking away.
Jafar ran a hand through the woman, making her dissolve into nothing. "So again, what do you have to offer me?"
Jasmine said nothing. No good answers came to mind: there was no use trying to bargain with him for control of Agrabah. Jafar was never a fair man. He played to win—and to win meant to win everything. He was far too savvy for her to trick him the way he'd tricked her. Any option he would likely consider—killing her, bedding her, even demoting her to a servant—was utterly abhorrent for her to voice.
"Nothing?" said Jafar, lifting his eyebrows. "Pity. I suppose you might find the dungeons to your liking, then."
Jasmine stared back at him, hate filling every inch of her. "It sounds preferable to fucking imaginary illusions."
Her response amused him and she hated it—hated how he got under her skin so easily.
"Send my regards to the rats," he told her, and then with one swift slam of his scepter, she was transported out of her chambers.
She landed directly into a dungeon cell. Three walls of granite rock surrounded her while the fourth was barred in thick, rusted metal. Dented chains and shackles limped against the far walls. No furniture. No bed. Only a window, though small, up where the wall met the roof—also barred off and impossible to reach. It cast a small fan of sunlight across the floor, a lone flare in an otherwise dark cell. The smell of straw was pungent.
After standing, Jasmine rushed the bars—hoping there was a chance they hadn't been locked yet. The metal answered hard and unforgiving on her soft palms. She screamed in frustration.
Then, gathering herself up in her arms on the floor, Jasmine let herself surrender to her anguish. How in the world was she going to save Agrabah from Jafar in a place like this? In a world where he had his powers back—where she was helpless to stop him?
It was her fault, was all she could think. Everything—all of it—was her fault.
"I'm sorry, Baba," she whispered out into the empty silence.
After the contract for her third wish was signed, Jafar remembered the feather: the way it drifted and floated out of her bloodstained fingers, no longer bound by some magical force keeping it upright. When it finally hit the ground beside her, his torso was consumed in bright, red light.
First, it was his left chain. It clinked open and fell away in a scatter of gold dust. Then the right followed. Soft wind rustled against his newly exposed wrists. The light lowered him to the ground, no longer imprisoned, and the black lamp at his feet tipped over, now a useless chunk of brass.
He laughed.
There was no helping it. It had worked. After only a year of imprisonment when he anticipated centuries—he was free from his restraints for good. New power hummed within him. Not the cosmic, god-like power he was used to—but something more personal, more dangerous. Power without a leash.
Jafar spread his palms wide and let himself elevate into the air. Something was approaching the palace, something fast. Through the dust and walls, Jafar made out another fireball rapidly descending towards the palace, launched elsewhere from a Shirabad catapult. Jafar inhaled through his nose before hoisting his hand out towards the fireball. It stopped and hovered midair, obedient to its unseen master.
Then, Jafar brought his hands together—a great clap—and the world went white.
It took only seconds. Seconds, like the princess wanted when seeking him out. Seconds for the entirety of the Shirabad country to collapse into destruction. Seconds for the slaughtering of Agrabah citizens to stop. Seconds for all the remaining Shirabad soldiers to be lined up in front of him. Seconds for them to all be dead at his feet.
When it came to rebuilding, Jafar's first focus was on the outer walls. Dutifully, the rock and stone stacked on top of itself, filling in extraneous cracks due to war and old age. The markets came next. Pillaged vendors and carts were refilled with goods: the jewels glistened and the fruits were ripe and full of color. Remnants of brick and wood were swept back into their original structures of homes and towers and shops.
The palace came last.
Jafar hovered within its remains, his eyes closed and his palms out. Glass and marble and threads went flying in every direction but none so much as scraped his skin. In seconds, the palace too had been restored to its original design without a trace of the horror that had transpired moments before. Every dead body was removed and placed methodically in the burial grounds of Agrabah, out where Jafar had greatly extended the fields to make room. Genie or no genie, he had no power to bring the deceased civilians back to life.
But he didn't stop there.
He was the Sultan now. It didn't hurt to refine the palace details to his preference. He went about each room, adding something new and eliminating any relics that the former Sultans had favored. He finished with animating a long metal snake in the head fountain, a symbol of his new reign.
Jafar opened his eyes.
Beneath a newly installed stained-glass window, the princess was still on her back. Her heartbeat thudded once, weakly, and then barely returned. Perhaps she was trying to escape him while she could, Jafar mused. Unfortunately, that was simply not in the cards. He had bigger plans for her and it would be terribly ungrateful of him to let the girl responsible for freeing him die on his watch.
Once he came to stand above her, he leaned down and extended his hand to her torso. Immediately, the bleeding ceased and her wound stitched itself back up, leaving only her smooth brown skin. Dust and soot slid off her body like dry sand, and the cuts that ran down her arms and legs disappeared. She suddenly drew in a sharp breath, filling her lungs with air, and then relaxed into sleep.
When she woke, he decided, he would deal with her.
For now, he would focus on the fortunate civilians that had fled Agrabah before the battle started. It was only fitting that they return home to meet their new Sultan. And among them, he realized, was a certain street rat that needed healing from a terrible poison.
How could he—the merciful, kind Sultan he was—not lend a helping hand?
In the span of one week, Jafar was named ruler of all kingdoms.
Word spread fast of the sorcerer Sultan and how he had singlehandedly saved Agrabah, rebuilt a thriving city from a battlefield, and killed thousands of an enemy country with a simple snap of his fingers. Kings and queens throughout the land moved hastily to extend their alliance with the magician, fearing the fate of Shirabad should they do no less. Within days, armies had marched the deserts to swear fealty to their new ruler, carrying lavish gifts and jewels and chests of gold. Jafar stepped out of his palace and was met by several of the highest lords on their knees.
"Anything for you, my Sultan," they said. "Ask anything of us and it will be yours."
Jafar accepted their endorsements but declined the offer to accept total domination. He had little interest in ruling foreign fish ports and snow towns. So long as the monarchs swore loyalty to him, he decreed, they were permitted to continue ruling their respective kingdoms.
It was Agrabah he wanted.
Like the neighboring countries, the surviving civilians were quick to show their support. Many were fearful at first. They had been loyal to the princess when she was in charge and the abrupt shift of power made them uneasy—especially to the former vizier, now sorcerer. As they returned to their homes and saw the magnitude of his unbridled power, however, they gradually stopped asking about their female Sultan.
Men of all backgrounds—traders, dancers, businessmen—came to his doors and offered to take arms as guardsmen. They wanted to support him, to show their gratitude to the leader that had saved them all. Jafar took his time selecting the ones most loyal and most aligned with his ruling methodology. They were far more obedient and willing to carry out orders than any soldier of Hakim's. When Jafar was away, the captains would spend hours of their time at the war table, figuring out how to use his resources to amplify the industry to its fullest potential.
On the seventh day, they started building a statue of him in the town square.
Jafar supplied them with mounds of stone and utensils and watched with triumph. It would be far easier for him to just summon a statue himself, but there was something more satisfying about watching them spend hours and hours of their time to sing his praises. It was a process that he savored without the intervention of magic.
On the eighth day, he was approached by a father.
Jafar had been standing on the balcony overlooking the statue when the man came running in. "My Sultan, my Sultan!" he was saying, and was instantly blocked by five of his guardsmen. "I must give you my deepest gratitude for saving my family. You don't know how much this means—" Jafar inclined his head but gave no response. The man reached out and Jafar realized he was holding some sort of pink silk. "Please do me the honor, great Sultan, of accepting my eldest daughter as your wife."
The guards took the cue to remove the man from the building, where his shouts of gratitude echoed throughout the hallways and stairwell. Although silent, the gears in Jafar's mind started to turn. That had been something he'd been missing since his rule: female companionship. It was only fitting that he should enjoy all the spoils of war.
He focused back on the statue and the same outlook came to mind. He could summon a woman in the blink of an eye and refine her to his exact tastes, but where was the satisfaction in that? It was far more appealing to have a real woman at his side, someone that wanted to be there like his guardsmen and monarchs and civilians.
That night, Jafar called upon one of his captains—a strong young man with broad shoulders to the throne room.
"Your name," said Jafar.
"Amir, my Sultan."
"Yes. Amir. Would you say, Amir, that you have an eye for beauty?"
The captain paused briefly. "I believe so, my Sultan."
"Good." Jafar stood and materialized his snake staff underneath his palm. "You will be doing some traveling, Amir. A grand search across Agrabah for the most beautiful young women. I intend to make a harem."
"Yes, my Sultan."
A middle-aged woman in dark robes stepped out from behind the captain. Jafar knew her as the best brothel keeper in Agrabah. "She will accompany you," said Jafar. "I have given her a device to transport you both to the next district without the delay of travel. You will find thirty of the best women and bring them back to the palace. I will choose ten for the harem myself."
"Yes, my Sultan," said the captain. "How long do we have?"
"By tomorrow night, I expect to make my selections."
The captain bowed his head and pressed his fist to his breastplate. Just as him and the brothel keeper started out, a thought occurred to Jafar. "And Amir."
The captain swiveled obediently. Jafar simply smiled.
"Don't forget the princess in my dungeon."
"Get up."
The harshness in the guard's voice was what woke her. Jasmine blinked and pushed herself off the rock wall, letting the warmth she'd spent hours accumulating escape into the cold air. It had to be late afternoon based on how the light hit the floor of her cell, although the days seemed to blur together after the seventh day.
Jasmine couldn't remember the last time she'd gone more the two days without a bath. Every hour, she felt more and more disgusting. Her skin was itchy, her nails were filled with dirt, and her hair—twisted into a self-made braid to keep out of her face when she cried—was oily and unclean. The feeling of being unclean at all was tortuous, almost as tortuous as her thoughts of Aladdin and her father and the Shirabad soldier she'd killed in the midst of battle.
The guard fumbled with the lock for a few moments before swinging open the barred door. He wasted no time lumbering into her cell and grabbing her forearm. Jasmine struggled to remain upright as he dragged her out and down the dungeon hallways. "Where are you taking me?"
"Sultan's orders."
"What does he want?"
The guard didn't answer.
She'd been hoping to avoid this for as long as she could. She knew if she called for him, he'd appear, ready to listen to what use she could make of herself to him. Instead she spent hours in her cell trying to formulate a plan, some way she could reclaim control of Agrabah again—and she didn't want to call him down until such an idea was hatched and rehearsed in her head.
The light blinded her eyes as the guard walked her into the palace and in the direction of her chambers. Once he opened her door, she was shoved inside.
"Clean yourself. They will help you. I will retrieve you at sunset."
They? Jasmine thought as the door was slammed behind her.
Sure enough, she looked up to see two handmaids with their heads bowed. One was the handmaid from earlier, the one who had brushed her hair and told her the city was safe. The other was an older woman with small beady eyes and a timeworn, wrinkled face. Jasmine exhaled, wishing more than ever that it had been Dalia there waiting for her.
"What's happening?" she asked them, trying to keep her voice calm.
The older woman lifted her head. "The Sultan is creating a harem tonight. He requested that you be a part of the selection."
Jasmine instantly felt her stomach tighten. "What?"
"I've drawn your bath, princess," said the younger handmaid, "to help you prepare—"
"No." Jasmine shot out her hand protectively, stopping the handmaid from coming further. Her breath quickened and she suddenly grew very nauseous. "No. Absolutely not."
Both handmaids said nothing as Jasmine stumbled off to her bedroom, trying to put as much distance between herself and them as possible.
A harem?
A sickening shiver fell over her. How dare Jafar disrupt the sanctity of royal Agrabah tradition. He didn't even have the decency to limit his predilections to one consort.
To her disgust, Jasmine saw an unfamiliar dress already laid out on her bed. It was dark red, bordered with elaborate gold trim and beads down the bodice and collarbone. At the waist, the full skirt was unleashed in thick pleated waves, only interrupted by gold embroidery at the feet. Beside it sat several gold accessories: earrings, a necklace, and bracelets. Jasmine hesitantly touched a bracelet meant to be worn from her wrist to her elbow. It was coiled up in circles and the texture was strangely scaly. Only then did Jasmine realize it was a snake replicate.
She pulled back her hand as if the bracelet had burned her.
He couldn't be serious.
Footsteps came. "Princess, your bath is getting cold—"
"No."
"Princess?"
Jasmine turned to them and softened her voice. "I'm sorry—but I'm not wearing that. I'm not going."
Both women looked at one another, perplexed. "But you must," said the younger one. "The guard will be coming back."
Jasmine sat down on the bed and folded her arms.
"He wants me clean and polished like a whore? He can end my life instead."
Night descended over Agrabah.
The selection was held in the throne room. Men and women from all over the country hugged the walls wearing their best clothes and jewelry, filling the room with exotic colors. In the middle stood thirty young women dressed in beautiful saris and veils, divided neatly in three long lines.
Jafar kept his face stoic as he watched the scene unfold. He sat in his conjured throne—something tall and ornate that matched the throne room's intricate décor. His fingers rested on the gaping mouth of a viper—his arm rests—while he kept one foot rested on the matching stool. He'd replaced his red attire with new black robes and a black turban, a stark contrast to the exuberant hues of his would-be suitors.
The young captain, Amir, stepped up beside his throne once he'd finished arranging the women in place. "There they are, my Sultan."
"All but one," said Jafar.
Amir looked them over. "Yes," he admitted.
Jafar had not forgotten. The night wouldn't be nearly as entertaining if not for the arrival of one certain guest and he was prepared to make all of Agrabah wait until she appeared.
Shortly after, the doors opened. Several of the guests cleared the way for two guards struggling to drag along the princess, who was quite obviously making their task a nightmare. She dug her little Moroccan heels into the floor as a means of resistance, but she was no match for the hefty build of both guardsmen put together. They finally lined her up next to the farthest woman on the left where she shook off their grips—reluctantly accepting defeat.
Jafar couldn't help but sneer. He noticed that no one had succeeded in dressing her in the red gown he'd provided, or even bathed her for that matter. She was wearing the same ripped black garments from her time at war, clearly an attempt to sabotage her chances at being chosen. It was rare for him to ever see her in such a state of disarray; always she had been groomed and pampered and immaculate. What a sight she was now next to all those women wearing dresses and makeup. She stuck out like a sore thumb.
Iago chortled gleefully behind him on the perch, echoing his sentiment.
"Now, my Sultan," said Amir, "they are all here."
Jafar stood from his throne and the women bowed their heads, except Jasmine—who was looking away. Behind them, the guests and families of the women whispered amongst themselves, asking one another if this new arrival was indeed the female Sultan who'd disappeared. Perhaps, some said. It couldn't be, some said.
Jafar sauntered down the stairs and stepped in front of the first young woman. She was small and wiry, with flowers in her hair and a beaded headscarf. Pretty enough to take into his bed when he was the vizier but not as the Sultan. He moved on to the second. Also pretty, but lacking something. The third he liked—her figure, her face, her almond eyes. He gestured her out and she stepped forward, differentiating herself from the others. He continued on. The fourth, no. The fifth, too tall. The sixth, no. The seventh—
He gradually made his way through all three lines, picking out the women he was most attracted to. The captain and the brothel keeper had done well overall, although several of the foreign women they'd chosen were simply not his preference. They did, however, find some alluring Agrabah beauties—and those were the ones that made up the majority of his harem lineup. Nine of the thirty stood apart from the others by the time Jafar came upon the last few in the third row.
He could see Jasmine stiffen as he grew closer, her eyes narrowed and focused on the ground. After dismissing the remaining few, Jafar stepped in front of the woman next to Jasmine. She was shy—that much was obvious by her stance, but her face was visually appealing and her eyes were a bright exotic green. Jafar gestured her out as well: his tenth pick.
He only needed ten for his harem. The selection process was complete.
Jafar noticed Jasmine recoil when he stepped to her anyway. When she lifted her head and met his stare, her brown eyes burned with hate. He took his time noting every detail of her face—particularly her flaws. Her hair sat in a tangled, dismantled braid while a faint layer of dirt fell across her cheeks and nose. And yet despite her uncomely appearance, she still held up her chin as if she were the ruler of Agrabah.
Jafar felt a stirring in his chest again, the same feeling that crept up every time he looked at her. Perhaps he expected it to be different, that he would change his mind now that she was in a deplorable state, but alas, it was no use. Even someone with his powers could not remove the man from the sorcerer.
He relished her appalled scream as he named her his eleventh pick.
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