Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.
The rain came and went as it often did in Agrabah. Jasmine rested her cheek against the window, watching the red sun set aflame the adobe buildings and their bricked roofs. She searched the streets for Zariah, wondering where she was, wondering if she was safe and basking in her newfound freedom. It had been six days since her departure.
Back on the embroidered cushions, the remaining harem girls sewed their tapestries, discussing art and clothes and male lovers from the past. When they grew quiet but not inaudible, Jasmine knew they were talking about her again.
"Why does the Sultan keep her?" one whispered.
"Shush," said another. "Don't you know who she is?"
"I'm just curious. If the Sultan wanted her, why does he never take her to his bed?"
"She is too willful," said a third voice.
"Why would he want an unwilling woman?"
"She's lucky to be alive. That he keeps her alive."
Jasmine adjusted her position and the women fell silent. Not long after, the doors to the dayroom opened and closed. It was the girl that frequently sat at Jafar's right, the favorite. Her face was screwed in tight as if reining back a smile. "Salaam," she bid, joining her companions.
"Salaam," said another. "Well. How was he?"
Jasmine grimaced, wishing she could pour hot wax into her ears.
"A woman never discloses the secrets of what happens in the Sultan's chambers."
"You always say this."
"Then wait your turn, dear one. If you're so fortunate."
"Where were you two last night?"
To that, Jasmine did strain her ears to listen. The nights following Zariah's departure, Jafar no longer dined with the harem. The girls would dine together but he was always absent, as were one or two of the girls. Not that Jasmine complained. After nearly passing out thinking he would choose her after she argued Zariah's case, it was a welcome change to not see his face.
And yet she couldn't help but be curious. What ever kept the harem's beloved Sultan so busy?
The favorite smiled modestly. "The Sultan requested a private audience with me for dinner. He is very talkative," she appraised. "Talks of war, diplomacy. I find it all fascinating."
Jasmine frowned. Jafar talked diplomacy with her—his whore?
"But is he a good lover?" one pressed.
The harem girls leaned in excitedly. The favorite opened her mouth, reveling in the attention. "I must say!"
"Enlighten us!"
"Please! You know him best."
The girl smiled wryly. "He is certainly…adequate in spirit."
Jasmine wanted to shrivel up and die. She immediately met eyes with her handmaid across the room who gave a small shrug. She could practically hear her words from before. Women of the harem have faced worse circumstances.
With that, Jasmine stood up and crossed the room. The harem girls quieted and stared as she passed, but Jasmine didn't care. She needed to get out of there. Jasmine held out her hand to stop her maid from following. "I'll only be a moment."
"I'll accompany you."
"No. Stay."
Jasmine pulled the heavy door shut behind her and relished the silence that followed.
Midday shards of sunlight danced across the hallway floors as Jasmine made her way through. She didn't know where she was going, only that the more distance she put between herself and everyone else brought her the closest thing resembling peace.
How was she going to manage this? Tricking Jafar into warming up to her was a beast of a task. Not only would she have to accept him getting close to her, but that was all assuming Jafar didn't have the intellect to catch on to what she was doing and humiliate her further. Surely there had to be another way that didn't shatter any dignity she had left.
But she knew there was no other option.
Jasmine closed her eyes, fighting the impulse to shudder. As terrible as it would be, the harem girl was proof that it worked; a girl who likely lived her whole life in the streets was now being confided in matters Jasmine could only dream of knowing and all because she was willing to be his night companion. The answer was right in front of her and yet the cost was unfathomable. Her father hadn't prepared her for this. Sit up straight? Yes. Take criticism? Of course. Be strong in the face of danger? Certainly. But debasing oneself to one's enemy for the slim chance of obtaining power? Absolutely not.
And this was Jafar of all people. There was a reason they never got along; both she and him were notoriously hardheaded, refusing to ever cave to the other. She remembered the sheer bliss of the times she proved him wrong when he was the vizier. It ran deep within them both; neither wanted to lose. To lose was a fate worse than death.
And yet her people needed her.
There were voices of men ahead, snapping Jasmine out of her reverie. She hurried to where the hallways met and peered around the corner, seeing a group of them entering what used to be the royal war chamber. Hakim and his guards used to frequent it since the best map of the country resided there. She caught the murmur of more voices inside before the doors closed. It shocked her that it was in use and had value anymore.
"You."
Jasmine turned, none too pleased to see Jafar's young captain—Amir, or whatever his name was—coming from her original direction. She pursued her lips. It was no secret she harbored ill feelings for him after the way he went grabbed Zariah.
"Why are you not with the others?" he said, his voice unnecessarily stern.
"I was taking a walk."
"Your walk has ended. Join the others. Sultan's orders."
Jasmine wasn't going to relent so easily. He wouldn't have dared to speak to her in such a way if she were still the Sultan. She gestured towards the war room. "What's going on in there?"
"Matters that don't concern you," he said pointedly.
"I should be consulted for political concerns. I was the Sultan before. Or don't you remember?"
"The true Sultan does not consult women in matters of war." He was losing his patience. "Return to the dayroom this instant or I will have you escorted back."
Jasmine met his narrowed eyes with her own. Finally, she decided it was best to hold her tongue. She bowed her head as she was trained, acquiescing to fight another day. "As you wish. I will return."
"See that you do."
Amir strode past her and followed the other men into the room. Jasmine didn't move a muscle, keeping her eyes trained on the door long after it closed on her. He may have been the captain, but he knew nothing about the palace and its hidden rooms. More importantly—the room above the war chamber that was used to ensure loyalty by the very vizier the young captain worshipped.
Jasmine checked both ways and dashed to the opening of the secret room.
It was like she remembered. The room was dark and small—the air dense. Jasmine first stumbled upon it when she was ten. Ever since, it had been the only way she could spy on the generals and learn about Agrabah politics in peace, things she couldn't get from books alone. A small lattice window overlooked the war chamber, unsuspecting as ever amongst the other decorative elements in the war room. She kept herself out of the small light, just as she had as a child to remain undetectable.
Through the window's lattice leaves and vines, a group of captains and soldiers surrounded the map, pointing to various marked areas. Jafar was at the end of the table, his back to her, but angled enough for her to see his profile. His ringed fingers touched his chin, his eyes locked in deep concentration as he studied the map.
"We invade east," a general was saying, pushing a unit forward with a long wooden rod. "The walls are adobe. They should be easy to tear down. Head straight to the heart of the city. Find the prince there."
Jasmine leaned forward, trying to determine the area they were referring too. In relation to where Agrabah was on the map, Jasmine realized it all too quickly. Her heart sank.
Pascua.
"The king will not be pleased if we come slaughtering people," another man reasoned.
"He made his choice by refusing to kneel. My Sultan?"
The room quieted and looked at him expectantly. Jafar said nothing, still as stone, until finally he let his hand fall away.
"An invasion is wasteful. If his refusal continues, I will go there myself and make an example out of him."
Jasmine exhaled, horrified. Not Pascua. She considered the king and his wife some of her dearest friends. Their land was rich with agriculture and the people were kind and hardworking. They didn't even have a militia force. How could he even talk about destroying such a place?
And yet a part of her was amazed that they seemed to be the only people in the world willing to stand up to him.
"Must he know this already?" said the general.
"Only a fool wouldn't," said another man.
"I'll polish the axe."
Several of the men snickered at the comment. Jasmine ground her teeth together, enraged at their nerve. Pascua was a land of farmers and merchants and gatherers. What made them any better than Shirabad to talk of slaughtering them so nonchalantly?
"Dismissed," said Jafar.
The men piled out of the room in pairs, leaving only Jafar and Amir. Jasmine wished her stare had the power to burn them alive.
Amir cleared his throat. "Shall I send word to Pascua?"
Jafar gave his approval. Once Amir followed the men out, Jasmine watched Jafar slowly walk around the table, studying the contents more closely. When he turned the edge, she could've sworn she saw his eyes flash up towards the lattice window.
Jasmine collected her dress and left the secret room in a huff, not caring if he heard her.
"Eyes on the princess, girls. Look at the way she turns."
Jasmine made her final swivel, catching every envious glare for a brief second before she bowed low and graceful. The dance instructor clapped first, prompting the rest of the harem girls to follow suit. The more compassionate ones complimented her out loud, saying she made it look easy. Jasmine thanked them and joined them off to the side to rest.
"Instructor," said one. "May I ask…when will we dance for him?"
The instructor snorted. "At this rate? In fifty years, if Allah is kind."
"But won't we dance at the harvest festival?"
Jasmine and the other harem girls from Agrabah perked up. They were all too familiar with the tradition. Jasmine didn't retain her rule long enough to host the festival. She had so many plans for it. The festival would take place outside of the palace that year, amongst her people. She anticipated fireworks and exotic foods and dances all throughout the night. Dances with her husband, like when he first began to entrance her in his prince disguise.
"Will there even be a festival this year?"
The instructor sighed. "I don't know, loves. Now." She clapped her staff against the floor. "Up, up! We start again."
The girls collectively groaned and made their way back to the dance floor. Jasmine sat out, lost in thought. It was a reasonable question. It was indeed nearing the time for such arrangements to be made, but if Jafar willed it with his abilities—it could be done instantaneously. If anything, it was a good excuse to speak to him and convince him not to attack Pascua.
More people depended on her now—not just Agrabah.
She made her decision.
Jasmine left the dayroom the next afternoon in a similar manner. She left without speaking to anyone, told her handmaid to stay put, and ventured out in the same direction. Jafar did not dine with them the night before. That meant her best guess to finding him was where she last saw him.
Sure enough, she caught a general leaving the same war chamber. Jafar was never one for leaving the military plans to others; he'd always wanted his foot in the door. Jasmine ran her hands down the bodice of her dress—a dark green with ornate beads and silver bones, drew in a deep breath, and finally mustered the strength to approach the chamber door.
Her knock was delicate, polite. The door swung open wide, revealing several men who went speechless at her presence. She looked past them at Jafar standing at the far end of the map.
"May I have a word with the Sultan?" she inquired.
No one spoke a word. One by one they turned to look at him. Jafar nodded once, the air about him suddenly different—suddenly more amused and infuriating. All the men took their leave, trying to keep their heads down as they passed her. Amir was the only one who didn't hide his disdain for her interrupting their war meeting. Jasmine returned his look with a flat smile.
The door shut and a chill fell over her.
"Princess," he addressed, smoothly crossing his arms.
Jasmine stepped forward and crossed her arms as well, all confidence and diplomacy. "The harem was talking about the harvest festival. I wanted to see if you were hosting it this year, especially now that it is nearing the end of summer."
Jafar's lip curled as he sauntered around the map. "I never liked that affair."
"But as the Sultan," Jasmine argued, "it would be wise to provide some entertainment to your subjects, given that finances should no longer be an issue."
Jafar looked up at her again. There was tension already—it was suffocating. His lip uncurled and twisted back into his signature sneer. "I must have forgotten that I'm in the presence of a ruling expert."
"I heard what you were saying about Pascua."
"Did you."
"I know their people." Jasmine took another step forward. "Fear doesn't work on them. They are loyal and stubborn and they wouldn't follow you if you snuffed out every last person of their royal line. They have been a neutral warzone for thousands of years." She took a breath. "The only way they will bow to you is if they love you—and if you want their love, you need me."
"Is that so."
"Yes," she said. "I spent weeks there once I became Sultan, garnering their respect. You and I both know why the prince isn't loyal to you."
"You think I care about his loyalty?" said Jafar. "His love?"
Jasmine felt the anger rising in her. "I thought you would be above more bloodshed. Or were the thousands you killed from Shirabad not enough?"
She wished that would be it, that would be what would draw reason out of him. And even if it didn't work, a part of her hoped it would at least unsettle him. Instead, he sauntered closer to her spot beside the map, smiling as if he had something up his sleeve.
"If I recall, I'm not the only one standing here who participated in their deaths."
Jasmine felt a dagger in her abdomen. The words cut so effectively, so smoothly that she didn't even have the time to mask her emotions. Suddenly she felt ill, just as she did whenever the image of the dying Shirabad soldier bloomed in her memory.
"Yes, princess," he said. "Genies always keep an eye on their masters."
Jasmine regained herself as best she could. "Then you know the context," she bit out.
"The child died anyway in the next blast. You might have kept your reputation pristine and saved yourself nights of torture had you withheld the knife. It's a terrible way to die, in the neck—"
"Don't."
It came out as a plea, a purely instinctive reaction. His eyebrows loosened, seemingly pleased he struck so deep a nerve. Jasmine gathered herself. She would not fall apart in front of him. To fall apart meant she would lose—and to lose to him, as always, was a fate worse than death.
"Perhaps now," he said, leaning back, "you'll look at my situation with more sympathy."
Jasmine stood firm. "I would have never wiped out an entire city of men, women, and children."
"Men, women, and children who fed and nurtured the soldiers that would go to battle and slaughter your people. Anything less than what they were given would have been spineless, undeserved mercy."
"They would have stopped if you'd only shown—"
"You don't know them."
"And you don't know Pascua," she said back. "Don't you dare hurt them, Jafar. They're good people. Far better than us. And I will not stand here and have you ruin the one land that deserves peace from the likes of you."
Jafar was unfazed by her heated words. His footsteps echoed throughout the chamber as he drew near, his eyes dark and intense.
"How will you stop me?" he asked her.
Jasmine swallowed as his shadow fell over her. Even still, she willed herself not to be a coward and slink away, although everything about him screamed at her to run. While he always retained that self-satisfied air about him that made her want to hurt him, at this proximity—she also remembered how dangerous he was. His eyes were so dark. Black. Voids.
"How?" he said again.
Jasmine couldn't barely breathe. "I'll… convince you."
He smiled, not believing her words any more than she did. He drew his hands behind his back.
"Then go on, princess. Convince me."
Jasmine stared up at him, the helplessness of everything enveloping her whole. He was so evil. So twisted. He couldn't be human—it wasn't possible. And most of all, it was so unbelievably unfair that she just wanted to scream and scream.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
Jafar freed a hand and found a loose hair of hers. His finger grazed her forehead and it took all of her strength not to flinch. More joined. They skated down the side of her eyebrow, down her cheekbone. His eyes were no longer voids. They burned. They were alive.
"Surely you are not so naïve," he said.
Jasmine couldn't take it anymore. She freed herself by putting several yards of distance between them, clutching her forearms as if she were naked and vulnerable. He snickered behind her.
"You're more predictable than a common bedtime story. And that is why you will never be Sultan. Your pride disables you. You limit how far you'll go for the things you want. You know what it will take—but you aren't willing to walk that distance."
Tears pricked at her eyes. She wanted to stop him and say something back, but there was a rock in her throat and she couldn't risk what would happen if she tried to speak with it there. She stayed put, unwilling to face him.
After some time passed, she heard him speak. "Amir."
The door opened. Footsteps. "My Sultan?"
"Have Ushila join me in my private study."
"Yes, my Sultan."
The door reopened and closed. She tensed up when she heard Jafar's footsteps, but fortunately it didn't sound like they were heading in her direction.
"I'm feeling celebratory," he said before stepping out.
The storm returned that night. Rain and thunder resumed sporadically, assaulting the palace walls and roofs, and then past midnight—ceased. Jafar rested against the ornate panel of his bedframe, listening to the stilling rain and the rustling of Ushila's kameez being donned once more. She was well trained in the routine and knew when it was time for her to leave. He was never one to let his lovers stay the night.
She turned to him once she was completely dressed and curtsied. "Good night, my Sultan."
Jafar inclined his head. A moment later, she was gone.
He stood up from the bed, his robes materializing back over his arms and chest as he came upon the balcony. It was large and spacious, twice the size of his chambers from before. Rainwater trickled off the cushioned seats and elm-crafted tables. The Sultan's personal servants used to spend days drying everything after the storms hit, regardless of if the Sultan made it a habit of sitting out there. But for him, things weren't so complicated. Jafar swept a hand across the balcony and the furniture was instantaneously dry.
Child's play.
Everything was simpler. Easy. Mindless. At times he longed for the grit of his old life, the years he spent researching the whereabouts of the Cave of Wonders, the mental wrestling with the Sultan to get his way. Now such things could be accomplished without any effort whatsoever.
Everything, even the best things in life, had its cost.
And yet he still found himself enraged at those who refused to pledge their alliance. They were few and far between, but they were there. He went through too much in order to achieve power; he would not be refused now as the most powerful sorcerer in the world. The fact Pascua was so militarily inept was even more of an insult. They had never been a threat in all of the years he was the vizier. Their compliance should have been obvious. Mindless. Child's play.
But he knew why. She had bewitched them.
He imagined it was easy for them to love her. Her ignorance didn't lead to hundreds of their deaths. And if what she said was true, she probably sent them all kinds of resources to initiate trade. Any foolish man—royal or peasant—would find her mesmerizing. To go from an innocuous confidante as the Agrabah Sultan to one of power and competence was a natural reaction from Pascua. Their feelings trumped their judgement. They wouldn't understand danger if a sword was held at their necks. A land of small-minded fools.
Her coming to their defense didn't surprise him, but her seeking him out on her own did. Her method had always been to lay low, to wrap herself in a blanket of banality and hope he'd forget about her. Alas, he was not so easily distracted. Perhaps after the adrenaline of making herself available to protect the young harem girl, she thought she was ready to abandon her old ways. It was all too easy to prove her wrong.
"Jafar..."
Jafar stilled. Not again.
After a long pause, he eventually turned to face the manifestations of his mind. The princess stood a few yards away, her bedtime robes bright and violet, her face inviting.
Not the princess—an illusion of her. Nothing more.
This happened often. Just as he was incredibly attuned to his magic, the magic was equally attuned to him. In some ways, it knew him better than he knew himself. Whenever his mind lingered on her too long in the privacy of his chambers, he would summon an illusion of her without knowing, without consciously creating it. And every time, it would speak his name.
Jafar inhaled sharply as he closed the distance. The illusion looked up at him, smiling prettily, so unlike any look he had ever received from the one it was created after. Her brown eyes sparkled, gleamed. Waited patiently for instruction. A puppet ready to please.
On the exhale, the illusion disintegrated in front of him.
The emptiness it left behind made him restless. He could feel it in his blood, his veins—how his control was starting to wane. Each day that passed, his absolute power became more and more indifferent to him. But the things he wanted and didn't have yet, well…they just kept getting more and more alluring.
She'd asked him before why he was doing this.
The better question was why was she?
Jasmine stared at the tapestry on the other side of her room as her handmaid filed her nails. She had that tapestry for as long as she could remember. Three blue canaries diving down from green-threaded leaves and branches. Free to fly wherever they wished.
The elderly handmaid noticed her quietness and decided to spark up conversation. "Have you heard, princess? The vizier announced there will be a harvest festival. He will be hosting it here in the palace in a fortnight. Nobles and lords from all over the country will be attending."
Jasmine said nothing. The handmaid frowned. "I thought you liked the harvest festivals."
"I did once."
"This one should be even better with the vizier's powers. And it's a great opportunity for you, princess. You are a gifted dancer. I anticipate you'll have no trouble catching his attention."
"I don't want his attention."
The maid looked up again. Jasmine met her stare.
"I can't do it."
"What do you mean?"
"What you said before. Seduce him. Flatter him. Rule with him. I can't do it. I hate him too much." Jasmine turned her attention to her lap, focusing on the small flowers on her gown. "Jafar has taken a liking to one of the harem girls. I will wait until he is enamored with her and makes her his queen. And then I'll use her to convince him to set me free. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to send me away."
The maid dropped Jasmine's hand. "You're not serious."
"This is serious to me," she said back. "I want to see my husband again."
"You underestimate the vizier's attachment to you."
"It's desire—nothing more. And he desires all of them too."
The maid was rendered silent. After some time, she took Jasmine's hand again, shaking her head as she examined her nails. "And your people?"
Jasmine wilted. "Maybe they're better with him. I lost the city. Thousands died under me. People were starving and I didn't know. He has the power now to take care of everyone. And he's right." She swallowed thickly. "I don't have the strength to give myself to him. Even then—I'm not sure anything would change. He already knows."
"And Pascua?"
Jasmine swallowed again, feeling her throat start to close up. The maid's stare was burning a hole in the side of her face, but it wasn't enough to jolt her out of her own desolation. All Jasmine wanted was to make it stop. She would die for the chance to get out of her situation. Every part of her wanted to lay down and give up.
"Do you remember the siege?" asked the maid. "Before the catapults went off?"
"I try not to remember."
"I remember. I saw you out on the deck. You were standing beside your guards helping families evacuate. You were wearing that gold plate. You took my hand and helped me onto that flying carpet and you comforted my husband when he told you he had a fear of heights. You could have fled with us, but you didn't. You were there."
"And the ones that didn't get away were massacred—"
"But you were there," stressed the maid. "You had no magic, no large army. Would the vizier do the same? Would he have stayed when all was lost?"
The words cut Jasmine to the bone. She finally faced her maid again, her body trembling. They both knew the answer. But it was undeserved. It was so undeserved—
The maid dropped the file and gripped Jasmine's hands. "You're different than him," she said. "You care, princess. Do not let this man take what is rightfully yours. It was given to you by your father. You can't let this go. You must be Sultan. You must."
Jasmine's eyes filled with tears. This time she couldn't hold it back. The maid leaned forward and wrapped her in an embrace. Jasmine had no restraint left in her to keep it bottled in. She embraced the maid back fiercely.
"I'm so afraid…" she said into her shoulder.
The maid deepened her grip. "It is time, princess."
They stayed like that for hours—Jasmine locked in her embrace, pouring out her fears and shame and guilt all into the crook of her maid's neck. The maid did nothing but hold her and draw circles on her back. When Jasmine finally calmed, the maid bid her goodnight and shut the bedchamber doors with the promise that she would be on the other side if she needed anything.
Jasmine sat up, clawing her fingers down her tear-ridden cheeks. With effort, she rose from the bed and went to her mirror, staring at the face within. She had aged so much in so little time. Her face—once lovely and lively was now a portrait of trauma. She had seen war. Bodies. Killings. Her father lying dead, his mouth full of blood. She'd faced death herself. Lost her crown. Was forced to become a slave to her worst enemy.
Why was she even pretending she was still that same girl—the girl who wore several dresses a day and read her books and sought adventure at every turn? She died that day with her father. She was a completely different person.
Then who was staring back at her?
Jasmine dropped her hands, her face hardening.
She was different now. So be it. She would strip away everything from her old life—all her past beliefs, her past worries, her pride—and become so unrecognizable that not even Jafar would know what to expect from her. And he would eat his own condescending words.
For the first time, Jasmine didn't look at herself and lament the girl she no longer saw. She greeted the new one instead, the one ready to do what it took, born out of the ashes of torment and misery.
Her maid was right.
She would become the Sultan again.
And if not, she would die trying.
"Good work today, girls."
The harem gathered their dance shoes and bid the instructor goodbye as they filed out of the dayroom. Jasmine lingered behind, watching the instructor sway and shimmer her way around the room to pick up her supplies. It became clear at once what Jasmine had to do.
"Madam," she said.
The instructor stopped and turned around. "Yes?"
"Will you teach me that?"
"What?" said the instructor. She replicated her swaying. "This?"
"Yes," said Jasmine. "I want to perform something special at the harvest festival."
The instructor looked her up and down, seemingly perplexed why her favorite pupil would suddenly be interested in performing a solo dance. But if she had any questions on the matter, she kept them to herself. She nodded to Jasmine.
"Put your shoes back on."
The elderly handmaid balanced two cups of oolong tea out to Jasmine on her balcony. Jasmine pushed her book aside and took a small sip. The tea singed her lip.
"My apologies," said the maid.
"No. It was my fault."
The maid joined her at the table. "There is talk amongst the maids," she was saying. "Your dance instructor is quite impressed with you."
"I have a bigger problem," said Jasmine.
The maid put down her tea, her wrinkled face an invitation. Jasmine sighed. "I don't know how I'll be able to…with him."
"You were married, were you not?"
"Yes. But that's Aladdin. With Jafar…I can't even stand to let him touch my hair."
The maid understood. She stood from her chair. "Come."
Jasmine reluctantly followed her back into her bedroom. The maid gestured towards the bed. "Lie down. Close your eyes."
Jasmine did as she was told. Once she was settled comfortably in the cushions, she felt her maid's hands coil into the long tresses of her hair.
"What are you doing?" asked Jasmine.
"Imagine my hands are his."
It was a strange request, but Jasmine went along with it. At first it was difficult. The maid's paper-thin hands were nowhere near the weight and size of Jafar's. Eventually, however, she was able to overlook the deviations. The next time the maid stroked her hair from the crown of her head, an image of his black eyes flashed in her mind and she flinched away.
The maid smiled sadly. "We'll practice," she assured her. "Once you get past this—you'll be unstoppable."
Jasmine nodded stiffly and returned to her original spot on the bed.
"Do it again."
By the time they decided to stop, her oolong tea had long grown cold.
Jasmine spun with her arms above her, cutting one final time through the heavy air. Foot forward. Then back. She swung herself forward and around, the light from every direction flashing by until she dropped low in a breathless halt. Wind gently blew through the sheer veil around her calves.
"How was it?" asked Jasmine.
The instructor's face was bothered. She strode up to Jasmine's statuesque form and gripped Jasmine's hips. "You are too stiff here." She pushed them to the left and the right. "Needs to be more fluid. Like water."
Jasmine's cheeks reddened. Sensual belly-dancing wasn't her specialty.
"This is just so unlike what I was taught."
The instructor's eyes crinkled as she stood back up. She thrust her staff against the floor.
"Again!"
"You're doing better."
The handmaid's fingers trailed gently through her hair. Jasmine smiled to herself, pleased to hear the confirmation out loud. "I imagine they're Aladdin's hands."
The fingers were suddenly gone. "No."
"No?" said Jasmine, her eyes flashing open.
"No, child." The maid sat beside her on the bed. "The vizier will know. The moment your eyes open, you will become paralyzed with fear. When you look at the vizier—do not see your husband, nor any other. See him. Only him. See him as a man you love."
"I most certainly do not love him."
"So you pretend."
"I don't know if I have it in me."
"You do. It is far easier to bed a man you love than a man you hate, is it not?"
Jasmine pressed her lips together.
The maid shrugged. "Women of the harem have faced worse—"
"Don't say it."
Despite her bleak circumstances, Jasmine and the maid shared the closest thing to a laugh. She remembered when her and Dalia would share stories and laugh well into the night, and how regularly disappointed her father was by the hour they slept in to. Jasmine's smile dropped, the memory of Dalia and her absence returning Jasmine to cold reality.
Jasmine watched him from the secret room overlooking the war chambers.
She sat out of the line of light always, listening to their talks of politics and the economy and every now and again Pascua, but that was information to be saved and stored for later. Instead she focused on him—just him. His movement, his stance, his voice, his gestures. She took it all in. She never had before; she'd made it a skill to avoid looking at him all her life, wanting to escape his leering eyes. And now she studied him like one of her books. Her stealth had improved. Some days she believed he never had the slightest clue she was there at all.
Her motive was clear: she had to find something redeemable about him, something that would make him bearable to her. Perhaps not something she loved as her maid advised—that was asking too much. But something she liked.
She followed his walk around the map, his men parting for him. He wasn't impressed with his generals' concepts for foreign invasions. They were trying so hard to please him, to show him they were worthy subordinates, but she could tell it wasn't good enough. Nothing was ever good enough for Jafar. He thought everyone was beneath him.
With one swish of his hand, all the pieces on the board toppled over—ruining the war plan.
He did that often. He was a loose cannon when frustrated. The snap would come abruptly out of thin air, sometimes unprovoked, and everyone would turn to stone. He'd always remained reserved when he served her father, but now that he was in charge he didn't have to pretend he was a contained individual. His powers only made it worse. It was so jarring that Jasmine couldn't help but sink into the fact that she despised him more than anything in the world.
Her mission was a waste of time. There was a reason she felt nothing for him during the years they lived alongside one another in the palace—in contrast to meeting Aladdin and falling for him in mere hours. Aladdin understood her struggles. Lived them himself. He had been adventurous and brave and charming with a genuine, kind heart. Everything Jafar wasn't.
Jasmine collected her veils in preparation to leave. She still hated him. Nothing about him appealed to her. And maybe, in some strange way, that would make things easier.
"My Sultan—?"
Jasmine craned her neck back. Through the lattice leaves and vines, she saw Jafar lift his hands, letting the pieces of the board hover well above the generals' heads. They suddenly started to move in a circular motion, faster and faster until their movements created wide shapes. Jasmine looked closer and saw there was other movement in the middle of the storm he'd created—there were figures of people walking, weapons being drawn. He was creating a scene out of the piece boards, keeping his hands lifted.
She couldn't see the scene well from where she was. Instead she kept her eyes on his hands. Long fingers, rings crowning every knuckle. To a passerby gaze, they would belong to someone who never labored a single day, yet there was a slight roughness to them, betraying the illusion. Hands that had worked and fought and aided him to get to a place where they could be mistaken for an aristocrat's. The strength they held was immeasurable; the very hands she'd shrunk away from when he touched her.
Jasmine quickly left the room—rattled by her discovery.
He wasn't kind. He wasn't adventurous. Wasn't relaxed or charming.
But his hands were beautiful.
Midnight. Jasmine was tired. Her muscles felt like Mahalabia and her eyes were heavy, but her exhaustion was a blessing. She was too tired to keep herself rigid as she danced. Instead she flowed freely. Like water.
She dropped to the ground with her head bowed, a reverberating conclusion. When she finally found the strength to lift her head, her dance instructor was smiling.
"Perfect."
The maid's fingers had deepened significantly in her hair since the night they first started. Jasmine was lying on her back, eyes closed, transfixed in the vision that her hands were his. When she was comfortable with her hair being touched, the maid touched her face, her arms. All the while, Jasmine did not stir or turn away.
She wasn't repulsed.
She was nervous.
Two days before the harvest festival, he rejoined the harem for dinner. He sat at his usual place at the head of the table, surrounded by his favorites. The girls were ecstatic. They talked excitedly of the coming festival and the dresses they were going to wear as they passed around the dishes.
Jasmine took a bite of her cuisine, quiet and reserved. Normally she would ignore everyone in this setting, but this time she observed his interaction with the women. They truly seemed enamored with him, in awe of his every word. Every glance sent their way was cherished like nothing else—something they could talk about in the dayroom endlessly. He seemed well aware of his effect. Basked in it, even. He reached for his chalice and took a long drink. Jasmine looked at his hands.
When he put the chalice down, he caught her stare at the other end. Jasmine felt a slight tremor but was surprised to feel it eclipsed by a steeled resolve, giving her the strength to not look away. He frowned slightly, perhaps surprised. Jasmine stared on, daring him to comment, to do something, to humiliate her. She was ready.
Finally, victoriously, he looked away first, seemingly unnerved by whatever he saw in her eyes. She repressed a smile as she took another bite of her cuisine.
It was a small victory.
There were many more to be had.
The night of the harvest festival, Jasmine's courage had run its course. She willed herself to stay still as her maids powdered her cheeks and rouged her lips, but the trembling came anyway. Her harem pants and fitted top were dark red with gold detailing. The worst of it was the cut below her top—baring her midriff. She'd protested against it, having gone her whole life without baring herself in a public setting, but her instructor insisted it had to be done for the dance. Jasmine drowned herself in her red veil—one more thick than sheer—which revealed only her silhouette through its ornate gold beads and jewels.
Her elderly maid made her stand and pushed aside her veil to wrap her sarong around her waist. She saw the look in Jasmine's eyes and joined their foreheads together.
"Breathe," she murmured. "It will be just as you practiced."
Jasmine inhaled sharply, taking her advice. "What if I mess up?"
"You won't."
"I will."
The maid leaned back. "Remember why you're doing this."
Jasmine nodded, the duty of it all rescuing her from emotional ruin. While the maid opened the door for her, Jasmine hurried back over to her drawer. She pulled out the one thing that could comfort her and give her strength.
Her mother's bracelet.
Jasmine slipped in on as if she were sheathing a weapon.
The courtyard hummed with conversation and the lights from the festival were visible from the balcony of his chambers. Guests from all over the country were in their best attire, bright and colorful and dignified. Feasts could be found all over, consisting of meats and rice and sugar canes and spices. Musicians played their instruments—violins, ouds, drums—with fervor.
Jafar stepped into the light wearing a black and gold cloak. The guests fell quiet, staring at the supreme leader of the country with reverence. Amir broke from the line of soldiers monitoring the festivities.
"Your Sultan," he announced.
"My Sultan," said everyone.
Jafar lifted his chin at the sight of bowing heads. For an event he never particularly liked, he was certainly warming to the new arrangements. The music resumed and Jafar made his way to the Sultan's 'festival' throne, a seat bedecked in silk cushions. The moment he sat down he was immediately swarmed by several city leaders ready to reinstate their loyalty to him.
They took his hands and thanked him for his generosity and the honor of being invited. Jafar listened, plainly pleased. They needed to grovel. They were but ants underneath his foot. He knew it would always be an unparalleled feeling to have these world leaders submit so freely, clutching their miniscule pointless lives like beggars. Anything less would be grounds for destroying them on the spot in front of all his foreign and domestic guests.
And that atmosphere persisted; a stark contrast to previous harvests. The Sultan before favored making a spectacle of everything—saturating the courtyard with lights and animals and flamboyant performers. Now it was more demure. No one drowned themselves in ale. No one spoke too loudly or in any matter that would draw attention. All of them felt the weight of his absolute rule.
Well. All those bright enough did, anyway.
"Ja," Prince Anders was saying, his throat enclosed in fine furs. "I like what you've done with the place."
"Do you," said Jafar.
"In Skånland, they were worried for me," the prince went on. "They say, 'Anders! You know who is the new Sultan? That vizier from Agrabah.' But I say, 'no, no! Don't worry.'" His voice grew high. "Me and the vizier are friends."
"Interesting." Jafar brought a chalice to his lips. "I don't seem to remember our kinship."
"Oh, ja! You helped me with the princess."
Jafar smiled and took a drink. "Of course. Tell me, Anders. What would Skånland do if you were to die tonight?"
The conversation garnered unsettled eyes. Only Anders laughed. "Die? I will not die," he boasted. "I am very young. And handsome. I will not die for a very long, long time."
"But death takes those who are young as well. What would they do without you?"
Anders thought to himself. "Um…well. I don't know."
"Think about it. You'll find I have less patience for your buffoonery than the last Sultan."
The prince was still trying to register his meaning by the time Jafar manually teleported him elsewhere.
Shortly after, his harem joined the festival. They were the true exotic birds, catching every eye in the vicinity. In contrast to his black and gold, they were of all kinds—blues and greens and reds, jewelry dangling from their ears and hanging from their necks. Their dance instructor—a shrub little woman accompanied them, leading them out in the space before him.
"My Sultan," she said, bowing. "Your harem has prepared a dance for you."
Jafar inclined his head for them to proceed. The instructor rushed to the musicians while the girls took their places around the dance floor. The music started at once and they were off. The bright colors of their frocks flew by, a sight to behold. Hips shook in union. Wrists revolved. Steps forward and back. Some of the girls were clearly more experienced dancers than others, but the effort from all of them was undeniable. Ushila caught his eye and smiled as she swiveled.
Jafar looked past her.
He found the princess in the back, her clothes an alluring red. Unlike the others, she wore a red face veil, concealing everything but her eyes. It was interesting choice, but not unpredictable. She likely wanted to prevent as many guests from figuring out her identity as possible. And yet she stood out—as always. He knew she would take to the dancing more easily than the rest and the way she moved in comparison proved him right. The men watching her were enraptured. His fingers skimmed the head of his snake staff, contemplating hexing the spectators.
Slowly, the music faded and so did the dance. Appreciative claps filled the courtyard. The instructor ran up to him again.
"The harem would like to present you with gifts to symbolize their gratitude for protecting Agrabah."
The girls took turns one by one, presenting him with a tapestry they'd sewn or a work of art that symbolized his greatness. He repressed the urge to scoff. He cared little for things of this nature. What was he supposed to do with them? Hang tapestries of little birds and flowers and leaves around his study? Iago cackled dryly from his perch behind him.
The princess, it seemed, was the only one who knew better. When it was her turn, she held nothing in her hands. It almost disappointed him. He would have liked to get a tapestry from her, preferably one of her street rat's head. The instructor came to the princess's side.
"She would like to show her gratitude through a dance, your grace."
Jafar's eyes snapped to hers. The woman had to be speaking nonsense. And yet when he looked at the princess, she made no movement to disprove her. She truly was prepared to do as the woman said.
"May she perform it now?" asked the instructor.
He felt the eyes of the other harem women gathered at his feet and everyone in the vicinity. As he struggled to contain his disbelief, Iago cackled again. "Perform it! Perform it!"
Jafar slowly nodded.
The princess demurely made her way back to the dance floor. Her heartbeat was betraying her stoicism; it was nearly leaping out of her chest. When she reached her desired spot, she turned back and dropped her head low in what must have been her starting dance pose.
There was something different about her as of late. He could sense it. After thoroughly humiliating her in the war chamber, he expected she would continuously slink away from his presence for weeks to come, but in some strange way the encounter hardened her. Once again she was plotting something. He disliked it. He disliked not being able to anticipate her next move. It was his method of navigating the world, not hers.
Jafar leaned back in his seat.
Very well. She wanted to act capriciously—so be it. He would see how long she lasted before she caved from the shame and embarrassed herself in front of all his guests. If there was one thing he knew about her, it was that her hatred for him ran deep and could not be so easily ignored.
At his unspoken command, the torchlight dimmed significantly.
Murmurs flooded the room, including the harem women surrounding him. The princess opened her eyes but did not move from her spot. Her heart was still pounding. It was music to his ears.
The violin started first—small, writhing notes then long, deep ones. Her arms followed, small at first, rolling like waves of a sea. Then the strike of a darbuka drum. Another. With both, her hips fell and rose.
Jafar felt the sudden urge to swallow.
The darbuka drums continued, providing a comfortable, hypnotic rhythm. The princess brushed aside her long red veil, revealing more of her attire—or rather the absence of it around her torso. Jafar tilted his head, drinking in the sight of her skin, smooth and brown, the curve of her navel as her hips swayed side to side, and her half-lidden eyes as she began to lose herself.
It hit him then that whatever was coming, he was not equipped to handle it.
The tempo increased and so did her movements. She took up more of the dance floor, covering it in bounds as she spun and whipped around her long, dark hair. Her entire body moved as one fluid entity, uncontrollably controlled, the music flowing through her and out in the form of leaps and twists. The beat slowed once more and her hips returned to their slow erotic swaying.
She was disappearing further and further within herself, her expression alone starting to contort in anguish. She was far away but her body was there, conveying a story her words could not. Her fingers gripped her shoulders and tore their way down her breasts, her waist, her pelvis—dominated by emotion.
With the upcoming chorus, the princess ripped off her long veil and whipped it around like a cape, earning several awes in the crowd. She was lost in a storm of red but she was both the victim and the creator. Finally, she threw it back behind her, freeing herself of its shelter as she moved confidently and sensually in Jafar's direction.
He was growing hot. Very, very hot.
There was shuffling at his feet, likely the harem girls shifting to make space for her, but he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away. Firelight caught hers as she stared back at him, her revolving hand reaching up to unclip her face veil. She did—an equally fluid movement—and tossed out an arm, letting the veil drop into his lap.
He reached up and grasped her wrist.
Everything changed. Suddenly the musicians were gone, the harem was gone, the guests were gone. Only the two of them were left in the courtyard in the dimmed torchlight. The princess hesitated, her seductress façade suddenly dismantled. She glanced around, noticing the abrupt shift in her surroundings and was unsure how to proceed.
Jafar deepened his grip, pulling her closer. He was not going to let her go now that she had come to him so freely. This was no longer a mere illusion in his chambers.
The princess exhaled, composed herself, and gently brought her hand up to uncurl his fingers off her wrist. Her other hand found the face veil and filled his empty hand with the bundle of soft chiffon, and before he could reinstate his hold, she had shimmied away, continuing her dance even without the music.
Growling under his breath, he reluctantly brought the guests and musicians back, none of them having the slightest clue of the brief intermission. He instead watched her finish the dance with her back towards him, guiding herself softly to the floor. An eruption of violins went off as she joined her knees to the floor in a final low bow.
The audience clapped and clapped, the noise staining his eardrums. The princess bowed appreciatively but kept her back to him as she dropped her head and hurried out of the courtyard.
Jafar's lip curled as he looked down at the crumpled face veil in his hand.
Jasmine slammed her chamber doors shut and leaned back on them, trying to catch her breath. Her handmaid stood from her spot on the chaise lounge, clearly concerned. "What happened?"
Jasmine just stared at her, her heartbeat racing.
"What happened?" said the maid again. "Did you complete your dance?"
Jasmine nodded.
"Then what? What else happened?"
"Later," said Jasmine.
"Can I draw your bath?"
Jasmine acquiesced, staying on the door as she listened to her maid run the water and prepare her soaps and salts. When it was ready, she stripped off her jewelry and clothes, and was more than pleased to feel the burning water envelop her whole.
Walking up to him had not been a part of her routine. She remembered her instructor's slight frown off to the side as she did so. Jasmine lifted her arm out of the bath water to stare at the wrist he'd grabbed. His hand left no marks but she still felt its strength, its suddenness.
Its beauty, added a foreign thought.
"Did that help?" asked the maid, jerking her chin towards Jasmine's mother's bracelet resting on the drawer.
Jasmine nodded. "I think so."
She relayed the events to her maid for the remainder of her bath. After that, her maid dried her hair and dressed her in a bedtime robe without a word. There was nothing left to say. They both knew what was coming.
Jasmine sat on the bed while her maid sat across from her on the loveseat. They shared at one another wordlessly, listening to the harvest festival and the music humming stories below. Sometimes the maid would get up to draw the curtains or push them open when the air between them grew too stifling. Eventually, the music subsided and the festival seemed to conclude, the night going quiet again. Jasmine reached up and felt the back of her head. Her hair was dry.
As Jasmine fought back a yawn, a sharp knock came at the door.
The maid jolted with her. Clearing her throat, the maid stood up and walked leisurely to the next room where the door was. Jasmine stayed where she was, gripping the quilts beneath her. She listened to the door open.
After a short conversation, the maid looked over at her.
"Princess?"
Jasmine shifted in the bed, angling herself to see who was at the door.
It was Amir.
Inhaling, Jasmine willed herself to stand and release the comfort of the quilts.
Jasmine followed Amir down several hallways. She knew this path well; she could follow it with her eyes closed. They didn't stop until they reached the Sultan's chambers on the story above hers. Amir turned to her, his face for once unreadable.
"Go ahead," he told her.
Jasmine obediently walked past him and opened the door. Moonlight from the undrawn curtains blinded her, but she didn't let it slow her down from entering. When she failed to shut the door right away, Amir did it for her.
Silence.
Jasmine meekly made her way to the center of the room, peering into the accompanying rooms for a sign of movement. The ornate furniture, plants, and paintings were undisturbed and unoccupied.
She was alone.
Jasmine released a long breath. It was a small relief, however brief the solitude would be. She took the time to examine the surroundings, specifically what Jafar had changed. When her mother had been alive, she had filled the Sultan's room with flowers—acacias, dahlias, irises—and matching portraits and decorations. Her father didn't like them but he loved his wife, so the flower imagery stayed long after she died. Jasmine let her father keep this room even after she came to power, preferring the tastes of the room she'd grown up in. She planned to replicate the look up here after he lived a full life and passed away of old age. Aladdin wouldn't have cared less about the interior design.
Jafar seemed to have retained the regality of it but stripped away all the decorative knick-knacks. Jasmine wasn't surprised. Of course he would rid himself of anything joyful or fun. Even as the vizier, she'd notice it was more his style to have clean slates to help himself think. Or in his case, concoct evil plans. Jasmine ran her fingers over a bare nightstand that had once held her father's clay pot of desert roses.
Jasmine caught her reflection in the nearby mirror. She was wearing her blue and grey nightgown with her hair down and unencumbered by any pins or jewels. She touched her wrist and remembered with a pang that she'd forgot to put her mother's bracelet back on. Of all the times to have it, she needed her support more than ever and felt helpless without it. Every second that went by was another second closer to Jafar's return.
Jasmine crossed her arms and ventured out to the balcony. She needed to calm herself. Perhaps she could channel her mother another way. Jasmine looked up at the moon, a bright chandelier in the sky. The phantom strumming of an oud filled her ears.
"When the shadows unfold…" she softly sang, "when the sun hides its gold…"
Her voice was barely a whisper, sailing out into the night air. She went on and on, the song breathing life into her.
"Desert Moon, wild and free…will you burn, just for me…?"
"You're quite the performer, aren't you?"
Jasmine nearly snapped her neck turning around. Jafar stood at the opening of the balcony, still wearing the black and gold robes from the festival. His turban was also black with two gold feathers poking out of a large, blackened jewel. She idly wondered how long he'd been standing there watching her sing, his face twisted in his ever insufferable sneer.
Jasmine bit back her retorts and bowed her head. "My Sultan."
He continued to stare as she straightened up. "My Sultan," he repeated, patronizingly. "You're up to something."
Jasmine raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. "I'm following orders. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"And what would your dear Aladdin say to that, I wonder. That you willingly followed my orders."
She couldn't think about him now. She couldn't afford to. "Aladdin isn't here."
Jafar also raised his eyebrows. "So you've forgotten your beloved street rat already," he said, turning back into the room. "What a pity."
Jasmine dug her fingernails into the balcony edge. Staying out there was wise. That would give her more time to stall and prevent what she was there for. But she wasn't a coward anymore—she refused to be. She pushed herself off and followed him inside.
"You know I haven't," she told him.
Jafar removed his turban, letting it disintegrate into the air. Jasmine examined the short cropped hair in its place. He turned back to face her, a plain smile carved on his lips.
"And yet here you are," he said.
"By your request," said Jasmine. "Unless Amir brought the wrong girl."
His smile grew. "As I said earlier… surely you are not so naïve."
They stayed like that for a while, silent and taking one another in. Jasmine's eyes narrowed. "What's stopped you? You could have done this at any point in time before, but you haven't. Maybe your power has limits." She paused, considering. "Or maybe you're afraid of what I'll find."
His rings came off next. He took them off one by one, letting them also disintegrate.
"Don't test me."
Jasmine lifted her chin. "Why not? The reason I'm here is because I test you."
If it was the truth, he didn't deny it. He sauntered towards her, his eyes just as black and piercing as she remembered. She kept herself nailed to the floor, both out of pride and nerves, and kept her stature straight as he began to circle her.
Then she felt his hand.
It started at her forearm, skimming over her nightgown, and slowly trailed up to her shoulder and her neck. She steeled herself, reminding herself that this was just as she rehearsed. His fingers were larger, stronger, and rougher than the maid's—just as she'd imagined and anticipated.
They reached the crook of her neck, enveloping her collarbone and her nearby pulse. They lingered there until they grasped the back of her neck, giving it a deep kneading. Jasmine swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut.
His other hand was in her hair. She felt him take a strand, clipping it between his fingers and dragging it down the entire length before letting it slip away. It returned, sweeping from her upper chest up to her throat. Jasmine instinctively opened her eyes. It would be so easy for him to suffocate her, to break her neck. A pit was building in her stomach.
The other hand on her neck fisted itself in her hair, giving it a firm tug until Jasmine's head fell back into the rest of him. She met his eyes—those dark, dark pits—as his face grew close, his warm breath enveloping the space between them. Her stomach was dropping, falling at an unimaginable height. Even when she felt the graze of his upper lip on hers, she couldn't find the resolve to let herself go.
It was too much. She strode forward, out of his grasp.
"Just as I suspected," said Jafar, an edge of ridicule in his tone. "Understand this, princess. You're either the most powerful one in the room or you're nothing. There is no in between."
Jasmine clutched the bedframe, holding herself steady. Memories rushed at her from all walks of life: her maid insisting that she deserved to be Sultan; her father coughing repeatedly; Aladdin's cold, fevered body; her people screaming in fear and for their lives; the Pascua king's grateful bow when she gave him a basket of spices; her mother singing 'Desert Moon' as she brushed her hair with a comb.
The most powerful one or nothing.
Jasmine turned around, seeing Jafar looking away, focused on something else. She took a breath in. Released it just as quietly.
The most powerful one or nothing.
Without another word, Jasmine reached down, untied the knot holding her robe together, and let it slip off her shoulders and down to the floor.
As if sensing it—Jafar whipped his head back.
It was the first time she'd ever seen him genuinely surprised.
Jasmine stepped forward, the wind cold against her exposed body, but she didn't care. Seeing him startled gave her unrelenting courage, an enamored realization that she had done this—she had caused that lapse in his seemingly infrangible character. She drew up in front of him and he could only stare back, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might snap. She languorously lifted her own hand up to his face, grazing his cheekbone, his beard.
Jasmine stared into his eyes. They did burn, but they weren't black or pits or voids.
They were brown.
The most powerful one or nothing.
Jasmine smiled slightly. "And which one are you?" she asked him.
Before he could answer, Jasmine gripped the collar of his robes and brought his face down to hers.
X