Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.
The crewman suppressed a yawn as the ship neared the port of Shirabad. He and his crewmates had made this journey a thousand times before, a typical trade between spices and silks. The routine was simple: they would dock; help the Shirabad soldiers board; give them fifteen crates of pepper and cardamom; receive fifteen crates of assam, tussar, and mysore silks; and sail back to Agrabah before dusk. Normally the ship made two trips to Shirabad in one week, but the new Sultan was an industrious woman, so they now made the journey four days a week. The crewman didn't mind. It doubled his pay, after all.
He suddenly heard the whine of boots on wood behind him. "To your stations!" said the first mate.
The crewman started grabbing fistfuls of rope and helped his crewmates raise the sails. Another crewman spat into the ocean and turned to him. "Wife making anything good for dinner?"
The crewman nodded. "Baklava."
"Praise Allah."
Shouts and commands peppered the air until the ship was safely docked. Crates were carried and slid across the hull, ready to be given to foreign hands. The crewman peered over the side and saw a group of fifteen Shirabad soldiers waiting on the docks—twice as many as usual. It was normally not a problem for seven soldiers to carry two crates themselves, but the crewman shrugged it off, figuring it could've been new protocol to handle the crates more carefully.
The other crewman scratched his chin. "Is it just me or are they missing some stock?"
The crewman frowned. He didn't notice that before. The fifteen soldiers stood without a single silk crate in sight. Perhaps there was a delay.
Emerging from the cabin, the captain of the Agrabah trade ship strode in weighted-boots across the deck to overlook the exchange. He was an intimidating man, built like an ox with piercing eyes and a thick black beard. The crewman had never seen him irate in all the years he worked for him, but he'd heard stories and he pitied whoever told the captain he wasn't going to get his silks.
"Drop the gangplank!" said the first mate.
The crew did as instructed and threw the board down at the soldiers' feet. The carriers started down with their crates and stacked them in three neat rows: the way it was always done. A brisk wind fluttered across the ship and the crewman closed his eyes, thinking of his wife cooking over the kettle and the warm wafting scent of honey and cinnamon at home.
The carriers made their way back up the gangplank one by one. The Shirabad soldiers, crateless, followed them up in their plated armor and leather knife belts—another oddity. The soldiers never armed themselves in a trade exchange.
The first mate mirrored the crewman's concern as the soldiers piled across the deck. "The order was for fifteen silk crates," he told them.
One of the soldiers stepped forward, his red cape billowing behind him like smoke. He reached into his belt and brandished a small, glinted dagger.
"All hail the she-Sultan," he said, smiling.
And then he lodged the knife deep into the first mate's neck.
In a matter of seconds, chaos ensued. The soldiers drew their knives and disbanded like a pack of wolves on the crew. Horrified, the crewman searched past the blurring bodies for a way out—an escape amidst the screaming, bleeding men.
Up on the deck, a Shirabad soldier had the captain pinned against the side of the ship, his dagger dangling above the captain's already bleeding forehead. But the captain held his own, his brute strength somehow restraining the soldier's knived hand. With an inhuman scream, the captain threw the soldier off of him and he rolled over the railing, plummeting straight into the ocean.
The crewman turned to do the same, climbing up the closest handrail. He felt like he was about to puke—his heart was beating so fast. He inhaled—
He couldn't.
He tried again, tried to inhale—
He couldn't.
From the back of his throat, pain bloomed like a flower. He reached up to his neck and felt something sharp, something metal.
He couldn't breathe.
Pain.
The crewman fell face first into the ocean, a dagger buried in his throat.
Jasmine paced the Great Hall in an exquisite silver robe, one that trailed after her for several yards. Candlelight from red-glassed lanterns pooled across the polished floors and steps, creating a red glow throughout the ornate room. One of her hands slipped up to her face, cradling it, while she kept her eyes closed and took a long breath through her nose. After a moment, she exhaled and turned to the visitors.
"It's not possible," she told them.
Two men stood at the base of the steps: Hakim and the captain of a trade ship, standing as erect as he could in his soaked silks and armor, his forehead still bleeding from a cut. Despite the captain's formidable mass, his eyes were wide and desperate, the eyes of a man who had just seen death.
"I swear it, my Sultan," he said. "I swear it on my life. The men who ambushed us were soldiers of Shirabad."
Jasmine couldn't believe it. Ever since she heard the tale of the trade post incident, it felt impossible for her to process. The man seemed to be telling the truth—he was standing there in the Great Hall in the middle of the night with an obvious head wound, and Jasmine had always prided herself in trusting her people—but how could something so heinous and unseemly about an ally country be true? There had to be some misunderstanding.
The man saw the look on her face and stepped forward, pleading. "You must believe me—"
"Our alliance with Shirabad is nearly a century long," said Jasmine. "If these were men of Shirabad, why would they attack us now?"
Hakim glanced at the man from his position beside him, seemingly just as speechless about the situation as she was. The man shook his head, finding it difficult to form words.
Jasmine didn't relent. "Explain this to me, captain."
"They…" the man hesitated. "They called you the she-Sultan as they slaughtered my crewmen. They sang it. Openly."
A spike of anger ran through her, but she kept her face composed and regal.
"Are you suggesting that Shirabad men attacked your ship because I am a woman?"
The man stared back, unwavering. "And I lost my crew because of it."
"Hakim." Jasmine directed her attention to the guardsman, knowing she could always trust his judgement. He straightened upon attention. "Do you trust the captain's narrative?"
Hakim nodded. "I do, my Sultan."
"And do you find his reasons for such an attack valid?"
He paused but nodded again. "The reports I received confirm that one of our spice ships remains abandoned in the Shirabad harbor."
"Reconfirm it." Jasmine started up the Great Hall steps, her silver robe following her. "Send guards to Shirabad and have them search the ship for bodies. Have the news brought to me by nightfall tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" said the man.
Jasmine turned around. "Your account needs to be confirmed, captain, before we pursue a response."
The man looked affronted. "I just confirmed it to you—I was there! We must plan an act of defense for the sake of our traders and merchants at sea—!"
"And go to war?" she finished.
"My Sultan," he said, "they slaughtered my men in the cruelest ways. The things I saw…the way they died…" He gestured to Hakim. "Your captain can tell you I had no bearing against Shirabad my whole life, but something must be done and done now."
Jasmine could see the man was on the verge of tears—this tall, intimidating, black-bearded, bleeding man. She knew he was frustrated too, that his emotions were clouding all protocol to respect his sultan and obey orders. She couldn't punish him for this. The man had obviously been traumatized and had gone through some ordeal. The least she could do was respect that truth.
"You were very brave, captain," she finally said. "I'm glad you're alive."
The man visibly relaxed. Jasmine looked to Hakim. "Ensure this man gets treatment and food for his family as a reward for his courage and sacrifice."
Hakim inclined his head. Jasmine lifted her chin. "As for this affair, all matters of retaliation will be decided tomorrow."
"But—"
"Have I made myself clear?"
Her tone quieted the man. He grimaced, bowed his head, and pressed his fist to his breastplate.
"My Sultan," he said.
"My Sultan," Hakim said.
"Eat, Jasmine."
Jasmine looked up from her plate and across the table at her father, the former Sultan, who was on his second tabbouleh salad. She had been stroking her spiced cuisine into a nice flat surface, as if she could smooth away her troubled thoughts in a similar fashion. Twenty-two men were found on the Agrabah trade ship—stabbed and hacked and dismembered. She felt nauseous sitting there, surrounded by her family with food and servants while all those families mourned their brothers, sons, and husbands.
"You know I can't, Baba."
"Starving yourself won't help Agrabah now," said her father.
Aladdin sat quietly on her left, chewing his flatbread covered in eggplant. He had tried his best to be helpful ever since Jasmine got the news of the casualties, but he had little to say to comfort her other than the expected normalcies. Jasmine didn't fault him for it, though. How could anyone comfort her upon discovering that her people suffered such terrible deaths?
Aladdin returned her glance with a faint smile. Jasmine put down her fork.
"I just don't understand," she said. "We've been allies for a century. And that alliance was renewed when you married Mother. How could they turn on us now?"
"My dear, you are the first woman sultan." Her father reached for his chalice and drank. "The rest of the world does not know of your qualifications as we do."
"But to slaughter innocent traders of Agrabah…"
Jasmine felt a tap at her arm. She looked to see two furry arms offering her a purple date, accompanied with a questioning chirp.
She smiled. "No thanks, Abu."
The monkey wolfed the date down and swung himself back onto Aladdin's shoulders. Jasmine heard Aladdin clear his throat, likely feeling obligated to contribute something. "I assume Hakim has propositioned war?"
"As he should," said her father.
She sighed. "Baba—"
"If I knew, Jasmine, that you were unable to handle the responsibilities of being sultan, I would not have changed the law. My dear." He stared at her in earnest, clamping his hand above hers. "Being the Sultan doesn't always mean keeping the peace. It means protecting the people. Always. And if anyone, even Shirabad threatens the safety of Agrabah…you must do what it right for them."
Jasmine swallowed down the lump in her throat, the one that was growing and growing and cutting off her air supply. Even with all the stories she read, the battles she learned—she never expected to make such a decision herself. Her father had lived his entire life without having to authorize a single war expedition; it didn't seem fair that she had to do so at all, and so soon into her rule as the Sultan of Agrabah. Lives were to be lost in this decision. Agrabah lives. Wasn't the spilt blood on the Shirabad harbor enough?
"War cannot be the only answer," she said back.
Her father's retort was cut off by his fit of coughs. Jasmine leaned forward and pushed him his chalice. "Drink your water, Baba."
"I don't know much about war," said Aladdin, still chewing. "But I can see why'd you'd hesitate. What if the captain was wrong? What if the killers were only wearing Shirabad clothes?"
Jasmine poked at her cuisine and shrugged. "The captain swore on his life."
"Doesn't mean he lied," said Aladdin. "Maybe he was just misinformed."
Her father was still coughing. "Either way—" another cough, "—there is a—threat—against—"
"Baba?" Jasmine frowned.
His gripped the table and coughed and coughed into his fist. Jasmine tentatively stood and made her way over to hand him his chalice, but her father seemed unable to stop. Every cough sounded more and more like a desperate gasp for air—
Her father suddenly looked up at her, his face red and blotched. Jasmine stilled as her father's lips brimmed with blood. She dropped the chalice.
"Baba!"
Her father began to choke.
Jasmine screamed. The former Sultan hit the floor, blood spilling down into his beard and garment. He clutched at his throat, his gemstone rings glinting in the light.
Another small cough came from her left. Disoriented, she turned.
Aladdin gently touched his lip, touching the blood that ran down his nose like a red ribbon. He looked up at her, his eyes large and innocent.
"Jas—" he whispered.
"Guards!" she screamed. "Guards!"
The minaret bell rung one last time into the night, and then all was still. Fog hugged the seashores and docks, and the moon hung high and white and gibbous. Jasmine stood at the highest balcony of the palace, clutching her furred cloak to her chest against the cold, although it offered her little warmth. Nothing could warm her now.
A light wind hit her face, making her tears feel like ice against her skin. She could still feel the ringing of the bells in her body, wandering back and forth as if she were a hollow, lifeless crate. The silence it left behind was even louder, even more suffocating.
Her father hadn't survived the poisoning. He died there on the floor next to the breakfast table, surrounded by guards and healers that were useless to help him. Others performed an operation on Aladdin that succeeded in saving his life temporarily, but he still hadn't woken from his deep sleep since his confinement to the palace infirmary. Aladdin's youth, they told her, was the only thing that had slowed the poison.
Jasmine barely moved from the balcony since the incident. She felt so numb that the brisk wind was almost welcoming, a reminder that she could still feel something. She let her hair run free as she listened to the church bells ring for her dead father, as she watched the harbor workers chain up its ports to visitors, as she escaped the grief and worry for her husband stories beneath her feet.
She eventually heard booted-footsteps climbing up the stairs behind her, but she didn't turn. If it was another assassin there to finish the job, she wouldn't put up a fight.
But it was just Hakim. "My Sultan. I have news."
Jasmine remained still. "Did you find them?" she murmured, her voice hoarse from crying.
"Yes. We caught both assassins just outside the gates. They are in the dungeons now."
Jasmine blinked. More tears. Ice against ice.
"Were they from Shirabad?" she asked.
"Yes, my Sultan."
And that was it. That was the confirmation she needed.
Jasmine stared out past the fog, out at the miles and miles of dark desert that lay beyond her kingdom. Men would die in that desert, she realized. Armies would march across that sand. They would fight in that sand. They would die in that sand.
She cleared her throat. "Prepare your army and the fleet. Suspend all further communication with Shirabad."
No questions followed and she knew Hakim understood. She heard him start towards the stairs.
"Hakim."
The boots stopped. She turned, letting Hakim see the wretchedness of her face. He returned her stare with utmost concern, as if he was willing to die for her right then and there. She turned back towards the desert, into the dark abyss of sand on the horizon.
"Execute the prisoners," she said softly.
Dalia could feel the change in Agrabah the moment she stepped foot off the boat.
At that hour, Agrabah was normally a busy place, filled with traders, musicians, and street performers. People were haggling and bargaining and arguing with one another all day and night. The energy itself was a living, breathing entity.
And now…silence. Just silence.
She took her husband's hand and made her way down the wooden port, shocked by the atmosphere. The harbor—once bustling with incoming trade ships and merchants—was now abandoned of all activity. Ships sat chained at their ports, their sails sifting lifelessly in the wind. Even the skies were bare: not a single seagull flew overhead. The lone longshoreman looked up at them as they passed and grimly said: "Welcome to Agrabah."
They were escorted to the palace by a squad of guards. Dalia pulled back the curtain of the carriage and overlooked a nearby marketplace. That one in particular had always been crammed; there was hardly enough room for all the vendors selling food and beads and fine silks. Now, there were only half a dozen at most, with little to no customers in sight. The windows of homes were shut and locked up overhead.
Her husband joined her at the window and made a disapproving noise. "Some industrious city, huh?"
"Oh, hush," she scolded. "You know what happened here."
She wished she could have been there when it happened, that she was there for Jasmine. How terrifying it must have been to watch both her father and husband poisoned—the poison meant for her. In all the years Dalia had lived with Jasmine in the palace, she had never seen an assassination attempt on anyone of the royal family. Agrabah was simply not the place where such things happened.
After they passed the palace walls, Dalia caught sight of Jasmine standing at the top of the steps with her hands interlocked. She wore a long black gown that ran down her arms and down past her feet. Her hair was braided and let loose at the base, while a silver head pendant held it all in place at her forehead. She looked ethereal and empty all at the same time.
Dalia did her best to hurry up the stairs to her. They immediately embraced and Dalia was struck by how fragile Jasmine felt in her arms, like a small bird with broken wings. "Oh, my love. I'm so sorry."
Jasmine nodded against her cheek, and Dalia stepped back and gripped her hands. Jasmine's eyes had deep grey circles beneath them—the stress of holding together a kingdom while on the verge of internal collapse. The new woman Sultan—once so lively and kind—had been robbed of her light in the cruelest way.
"I'm so glad you're safe," said Dalia.
Jasmine gave her a faint smile, though it clearly required effort. "You're bigger," she said, motioning down.
"Every day." Dalia laid a protective hand over her stomach. The child would be due in a few months' time. Lindy, if it was a girl. Barro, for a boy.
Her husband came up behind her and gave Jasmine an equally amicable greeting. He wrapped his arm around Dalia's shoulders, holding her close.
"How's Aladdin?" he had to ask.
Jasmine's expression fell. Dalia drew in a sharp breath, suddenly worried she hadn't received the most recent news. Last she heard, Aladdin had been poisoned but survived miraculously. Perhaps he hadn't recovered after all.
"He's…better," Jasmine finally said.
"Praise Allah!" said Dalia. "Can we go see him?"
Jasmine paused again, grimacing. "Actually, Dalia…do you mind if I talk to your husband in private?"
The Genie made himself comfortable on the yellow-silk cushions in the sultan's study room. The walls were gold and lined with exquisite pottery and sculptures, and a detailed clay model of Agrabah sat high on a mahogany table, exactly the way the former sultan left it. The room was mostly windowless, save for the small narrow stained-glass window that obscured the sunlight outside into greens and oranges. Jasmine stood beside it, overlooking the city while lost in a sea of thoughts.
The Genie decided he should wait for her to speak first. He could only imagine what she needed from him, why she needed to talk to him without an audience. What could the Sultan need of him now—a humble mariner—that she couldn't get from Dalia?
Fortunately, Jasmine did not make him wait long. She turned from the window and offered him a small smile. "I'm glad you two are here. It's been…difficult."
The Genie smiled back. "I know. But don't you worry. Aladdin's a fighter, you know—and I got a feeling. He'll kick that fever's ass."
Jasmine's smile flattened politely. He cursed himself for making jokes when the sultan was clearly in a state of anguish.
"How much have you heard?" she asked him.
"Well…we heard about Aladdin and your father back in the Abbas." The Genie scratched his head. "And then we heard something about Shirabad being behind it. Terrible stuff."
"We've been at war with them for three days." Jasmine slowly crossed the floor to her desk, running her fingers along the polished wood. "They've burned fifty of our ships and killed almost a hundred of our soldiers. Many have been taken as prisoners." She swallowed, hard. "My people quiver in their homes because Shirabad is coming straight for the city next. And all the while…I've had to plan my father's funeral and prepare for Aladdin's because he just won't wake up."
The Genie sat there at a complete loss for words. It felt like all the air had left his chest and he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Jasmine looked at him and inclined her head.
"I didn't want to upset Dalia," she explained softly.
"Jasmine, I…"
He couldn't finish. How could he? All those hours traveling back to Agrabah, and he had no idea that the situation with Shirabad was so dire.
Her eyes went glassy. "I don't know what I can do anymore." She aimlessly shrugged. "I've heard my own guards talk about their wives buying vials of poison for their children so they won't have to face Shirabad when they come…"
She swiveled away, and the Genie heard her trying to repress a sob. "I'm sorry," she told him. "Tears come so easily now."
He stood abruptly. "How can I help you? Tell me."
She took several more breaths, trying to keep her voice composed. "You know I wouldn't ask this unless I had any other option. But…" She turned around. "I need your magic. I need you to use it to protect my people. If the Shirabad prince gets ahold of us… we don't stand a chance."
Her words made the Genie sick to his core. What was even more sickening was the fact that he knew he could not give her what she so desperately wanted.
"Jasmine," he said, "I'm powerless."
Her eyes closed. He continued, "When Aladdin set me free, I returned to the exact state I was in before I became a genie. I can't do anything anymore."
To his surprise, she just nodded. She pulled back her long black sleeves to brush away the tears. "I understand."
"But I'm still here to help in any way that I can," he said. "Dalia too. You won't be facing this alone."
Unfortunately, he could tell his words weren't comforting enough. She continued dabbing at her eyes. "Do you know of anything that could help my people?"
The Genie considered. He remembered his previous masters when he was a prisoner to the lamp, how they talked of other mythical artifacts they wanted to get their hands on after they were done with him. A fountain of youth, they said. A resurrection stone. A gateway to the afterlife. So many gadgets with so little information on where to find them.
"Magic," he finally said.
"Where, though? Where can I find magic?"
He sighed. "I don't know. It's not easy. It can take centuries to uncover."
The same had happened with him. If Aladdin had not picked up his lamp in the Cave of Wonders, he would still be stuck in that lamp, stuck in that brass prison without a chance at life and romance and fatherhood. He shuddered thinking about the possibility.
"You were a genie once," said Jasmine. "Are there not others?"
The Genie looked back at her, realizing he knew the answer after all. His jaw went rigid. "There's only one other genie that I know of," he told her, "and you know him, too."
Jasmine frowned. After a moment, she stepped back—finally understanding.
"No," she said.
The Genie shrugged helplessly. "I threw him back in the Cave of Wonders, so I know where he is at least."
She returned to the stained-glass window, her back to him. "Jafar wouldn't help us."
"You think I wanted to help all the grubby hands that rubbed my lamp?" He shook his head. "Genies don't get that choice. You rub the lamp—you're the master and he's the slave."
Jasmine didn't speak. Her mind seemed to be a thousand miles away, and the Genie couldn't blame her. It had only been a year since the crazed, power-hungry vizier was tricked and flung out far into the desert. The Genie remembered that brief moment in time when the vizier had power, had the potential to wreak havoc on the world. And given Jasmine's history with the man, it didn't surprise him that she would hesitate to uncover a possibly very vengeful man.
But the Genie remembered his thousands of years in the service and how powerless he actually was. Jafar would have no choice but to obey Jasmine if she found the lamp, no matter the bad blood between them.
At the window, he heard Jasmine take in a deep breath.
"And he must grant me three wishes," she said idly.
"All three wishes," he said back.
Jasmine removed herself from the window, the horror and bitterness ebbing from her face. She smiled faintly. "I've kept you long enough. Thank you again for your council."
"Not at all," he said, standing again. "It'll be okay, Jasmine. We're here for you."
She nodded politely, his signal to be dismissed. He headed back down the hallway and wondered how in the world he was going to relay this information to his very emotional, pregnant wife. It wasn't going to be easy, but at least he had helped the sultan in some way.
At least he hoped.
In the dim light, Jasmine made her way to Aladdin's bedside in the infirmary, the air thick with the scent of candle wax and eucalyptus. Aladdin was in the same position she left him: on his back with his arms at his sides. Beneath the wet rags, his skin was pasty and bone-white. She reached out and touched his hand, and his skin burned.
Would he approve of her options if he were awake, she wondered. Likely not. Anything would be preferable to rousing the beast from his lamp. She still remembered the tornado born from Jafar's fingers that day, how it fished them from the sky and had them tumbling back towards the palace. She remembered being lifted from the ground, hovering in the sky like a puppet while the smoke enveloped him, spitting red sparks, and him monstrously rising out of the flames—
No. Aladdin wouldn't approve.
Jasmine sat down and gently stroked his face. He made no response.
She felt nauseous at the thought of him never waking up again—Aladdin—her sun, her happiness, her life. She'd lost so many people already that she simply couldn't live without him. She would surely shatter completely.
Besides, the stakes transcended Aladdin now. Her people were also on the line. Thousands and thousands of Agrabah citizens, all facing slavery and slaughter at the hands of Shirabad if she did nothing. Her father said it himself before he died: she was the Sultan now and she had to protect them at all cost.
Jasmine slowly leaned over Aladdin and kissed his cheek, hoping somehow within his tortured illness that he'd felt it. I have to do this, she reasoned to him in her head. I have to save you and my people. I'm sorry. Forgive me.
With that, she let go of his hand and left the infirmary.
Hakim came later to her chambers for instruction. She explained that she had found a way to save the people of Agrabah, and to do so required taking a trip. Until she returned, Hakim would be in charge of all militia plans and would be the acting-Sultan during her absence. He pressed her again and again on what the details were to this grand plan, but she decided against telling him, knowing she couldn't have another person try and talk her out of it when she herself was already on the verge of dismantling it. The Genie agreed to travel with her and a few guards at daybreak, knowing he could lead her to the right location. Dalia would stay at the palace under her protection.
Jasmine dismissed her handmaidens early into the night, leaving her to draw the curtains of her bedchamber herself. Before she closed the last one, she looked out towards the desert beyond—the same endless abyss she had stared at for hours on the highest balcony. It had felt so vast and cold in the dark, void of all life. And yet looking at it now felt different, like there was a presence out there, lurking somewhere in the sand. Something alive that pulsed and called out to her and whispered her name…
She abruptly closed the curtain, ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine.
No, she told herself.
This time, she would not let him get under her skin.
X