Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.
Jasmine was halfway through her embroidery when the harem returned from their dance lessons. They trickled in like little hens, still light on their toes with wind in their hair. She'd missed so many dance lessons she lost count; spending time with the Sultan didn't allow for much else.
She'd sewn a waterfall this time. Or a stretch of blue ribbon, depending on the eye. It was a bit crooked in the middle and the base looked like clouds instead of steam, but she supposed it would be more evident once she finished the rocks.
"What a funny blue man!" said a harem girl after seeing her work. Jasmine bit her cheek and resolved she should've stuck to reading.
Halfway into the leisure hours, a guard entered the room and went straight for Amir, his hand wrapped in thick linen cloth peppered with red blotches. After a short, whispered exchange, the two left in a hurry. Jasmine leaned into Mirit.
"Did you see his hand?"
Everyone saw, it seemed, and everyone was whispering about it, but only Jasmine knew what entailed when Amir left the room: another war meeting was underway.
Jasmine set her embroidery aside. "I'll be back."
Mirit reluctantly took the materials, likely aware it wouldn't do any good to stop her. Familiar generals were seen hurrying down the hallways, not so unlike the harem girls after their lesson. If this was as pressing as it appeared, there was no way this was a meeting Jasmine could miss.
Once the coast was clear, Jasmine made her dash into the secret room, gathering up her skirts to hightail up the stairs. But once she reached the top, she noticed the secret room was already occupied. Light from the lattice window caught the silver in Jafar's stoned rings. "Wrong door, princess?"
Jasmine cautiously continued inside. "Shouldn't you be down there?"
"In due time."
It shouldn't have been surprising to see him. This was, after all, his room. The room he'd infiltrated his whole life as the vizier. Still, it didn't make sense why he needed to confine himself there if he had the powers to blend himself into the surroundings.
Unless, of course…he was there to ensure she wouldn't be.
"Why is that man's hand bleeding?" she asked him.
"No stimulating reason. Intervened in a spout between an Agrabah citizen and an overseas immigrant. An uglier tale in words."
"Then the citizen should be jailed at once."
His lips spread. "And you should be back with the other women."
The delicacy of his statement made her blood boil. "This was my city once. I deserve to know what's—" His laugh grated her all the more. "So I'm good enough to warm your bed but not listen to matters that concern the country?"
"Once concerned you," he corrected her. "Not anymore."
He stood and started past her, his robes taking up most of the floor. Jasmine followed. "You've listened to my council before. Don't pretend you haven't. I'm as good as any of those red-blooded buffoons you call your captains."
Jafar swiveled. "Just as passionate—yes. But what use do I have for more people spouting nonsense in my council?"
"I don't speak nonsense!" Her tone came indignant. "I speak for the people."
"How generous of you," he said, then continued towards the door.
"You can't keep me from it. I belong in there. More than any other man—"
Jafar reached for the door. Her lungs filled with air. "If you ever want me to love you—you will let me in that room."
His hand dropped and so did her stomach. Where had that come from? She didn't mean that. There was no earthly possibility of such a thing happening. Jafar seemed to think the same with how quickly he turned to face her, his eyes dark with disbelief.
"Love?" he said.
Jasmine exhaled slower for fear she might take it back. No matter how egregious and untrue it was, it still did an effective job grabbing his attention, and she'd be a fool to let the opportunity slip away.
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin. "Love."
His eyes never looked so intense. They were churning. Emotion after emotion—emotions she couldn't place but she knew they terrified her. His expression finally went flat. "You could never."
"It would make things easier, wouldn't it?" Jasmine found her feet, dropping a stair. "No more spiteful words. No more questions and schemes. No more thoughts of the man that used to be my husband." She stared at him pointedly. "But to do that, you can't keep me silenced."
The intensity returned. "I don't need your love," he said, almost venomously. "I need a brain. A critical mind that can weigh options. Weigh sense." He took a stair up. "Someone cunning. Intelligent. Fierce." Another stair. "Without testimonies soaked in insufferable emotion. Are you that person?"
"I am."
"Then prove it."
He swiveled away again before she could respond, walking down, down, until he swung open the chamber door. He paused then, waited. Jasmine stood transfixed on the back of his turban.
Finally, he turned again and gestured her to pass.
Convincing Jafar to let her participate was one thing. It was another to convince the rest of his men.
Jasmine received no shortage of stares as she followed Jafar inside, although most stayed tight-lipped about it since she appeared to be accompanying him. "My Sultan," said the reporting general. "Is she supposed to…?"
"She stays," said Jafar, and no further comment was made.
Jasmine found an awkward spot to stand between two generals with a miniscule view of the war map. Just because the men had parted for Jafar didn't mean she got the same treatment.
The reporting general set a stone on the map. "This morning our captain here—" he gestured to the bleeding man, "saw to a disturbance in the east district. A fruit vendor was raided by a family of immigrants claiming the owner was upselling the prices. These fruits were reportedly distributions from the palace."
Jasmine's brow furrowed. This was a low class move, especially for people of Agrabah. Who were they to take gifts from the palace and use them to mistreat others?
Another general with a black-and-grey beard raised his armored fist. "Ten flogs to the immigrants and be done with it."
"Floggings aren't effective," said the reporting general. "Immigrant violence has surged since our Sultan's rule. It must be the cause of citizens exploiting our Sultan's services and weaponizing them against those not of Agrabah."
"The people of Agrabah are the chosen," said another. "Beloved by our Sultan. Why should a family of foreign beggars get the same treatment?"
"Arm the vendors, then!" added the bearded general.
Jasmine scoffed. As if that would do any good. Truly, that general had the worst takes.
"What say you, my Sultan?"
The men quieted and looked to Jafar at the head of the map. "If we eliminate the number of immigrants," he spoke smoothly, "then it should eliminate the violence in lieu."
The men barked their agreements, praising the idea as if it were a god's words. Jasmine bit her lip. Banning all immigrants went against everything Agrabah stood for—everything her father and her line stood for—but she knew her first words in the war chamber couldn't be words that fought Jafar. Still, he could count that she'd revisit the matter again when they were alone.
"Anything else?" said another.
"Word from Pascua." The reporting general placed the stone on Dhyana's country and Jasmine perked up. "Since the queen's death, the land has gone to disarray. The land-workers have stopped keeping their fields. The Pascuan council has abandoned their posts and fled the country."
The generals jeered as if they wouldn't do the same thing in their positions. "I say it is time for a new permanent successor to be installed."
Suddenly, the black-and-grey bearded general rose from his seat. "I can lead Pascua, my Sultan."
"You?"
The word left Jasmine's lips louder than she intended, garnering every pair of eyes in the room. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but the damage was done. All of them—including Jafar—were expecting an explanation. She cleared her throat. "The people of Pascua have always been faithful to their royal line," she explained, her tone clipped yet strong. "And it's stayed that way for generations. Only a person of their blood can rule."
"How hard can it be ruling farmers and fruit pickers?" snickered the general, earning other snickers as well.
Jasmine's eyes narrowed. "I imagine hard given you don't seem to know a thing about their culture."
"Who let this woman in here?" he bellowed. The council loudened with laughter and Jasmine felt her head spinning from the ridiculousness of it all. Were these men so dense that they didn't know how to not speak over each other, especially over matters that concerned the country?
Jafar's scepter met the ground, quieting everyone at once. When Jasmine looked up, he was staring straight at her. "Then who do you propose should rule?"
Again, the eyes returned to her. Jasmine swallowed but kept her spine straight. "Dhyana and the king…they have no children, no heirs." She glanced around. "But they have a nephew."
"The boy?" said Jafar.
"The boy is of age."
More laughter came and Jasmine wished she some divine power to mute them all. Being in this room in-person was infuriating. It was almost preferable to be tucked away in the secret chamber.
"I'd like to see that scrawny lad up against my spear!"
"I'll let my sister fight him!"
"Get her out of here!"
Strong hands gripped her forearms and Jasmine realized the generals at her sides were dragging her towards the door. "Hey! I'm allowed to be in here!" Through the sea of men, Jafar watched but didn't intervene. Jasmine thrashed and thrashed. "Your Sultan let me in here, I'll have you know!"
"May we remove her, my Sultan?"
The generals holding her stopped and waited too. Jasmine shot him a pleading look. Jafar did not return it. "I will hear you," he told her, "when you give me a decent proposition."
The dragging resumed and the most Jasmine could get out was a "hey!" before the chamber doors shut loud and final in front of her nose.
Jasmine waited at the palace gates in the blistering Agrabah sun, tapping her foot all the whole. Many times Mirit offered her a parasol but Jasmine declined it. The heat only fueled her resolve and she needed it fueled.
A carriage pulling green and yellow flags soon came wandering up the road, giving Jasmine the freedom to exhale.
"How is this a good idea?" asked Mirit, still sweating underneath her parasol.
Jasmine just smiled. Deep down, she wasn't sure it was a good idea at all, but she'd placed all her eggs in this basket and she'd be damned if she didn't see it through.
Once the carriage stopped, a young man's head popped out—more boy than man—with dark curly hair poking out of a burlap-threaded hat. Soldiers opened the carriage door and the boy stumbled out like a wounded bird that had flown too far from its nest.
Jasmine smiled warmly. "You must be Artharv."
Wide, skittish eyes met hers and did not relax even when found his manners and bowed. "You…" he cleared his throat, trying to muster some semblance of bravery. "You summoned me, princess?"
She hadn't considered it before, but the poor thing was likely terrified entering this land, home to the world's most dangerous sorcerer who'd slaughtered his royal aunt and uncle. She had to remember the rest of the world didn't see Jafar in the same light. He was a downright terror to the common-folk.
Holding out her hand, Jasmine did her best to appear comforting. "Come," she said. "You must be hungry."
The boy ate his dinner in a similar fashion: taking small, miniature bites that required all his effort to swallow. Perhaps the spices were too hot or the flavor too strong, but Jasmine knew a terrified boy when she saw one.
"You don't have to eat it," she said. "I can arrange for something else."
Artharv hardly moved. "I'm fine."
Across the room, Jasmine caught Mirit's doubtful face. Jasmine leaned forward in her seat, trying a new method. "I didn't like shakshuka either until I was eleven." A smile played at her lips. "I fought it tooth and nail—"
"Why am I here?"
The edge in his voice was unmistakable, something he'd been trying to battle down since he arrived. Jasmine leaned back, realizing she needed to switch up her delivery. "I heard what happened to your family. And I wanted to send my condolences. I wanted to meet you and see you were well comforted."
Artharv squirmed in his seat, not at all comforted. Jasmine paused, considering that if she wanted Artharv to do what she wanted, she would have to be honest with him sooner or later.
"As it so happens…" she started, "your kingdom is in need of a new ruler. And I think you'd be a good candidate."
"Me?" he yelped.
"You don't agree?"
"I…I work the stables." Artharv's eyes shot around. "I brush the horses' hair. I've only even been to the palace a few times—"
"Yes, Artharv—but you have a good heart. And that's what's needed to be a great leader."
"But if I displease…him…"
"You're under my protection," Jasmine assured.
Immediately, Artharv stood and made his way to the doors. Jasmine flew up after him, using all her body weight to keep the door shut. "It's frightening—I know. But please." Jasmine's tone turned desperate. "Pascua needs you. And if they don't have you, they'll give your country someone from here, someone far more terrible. And I care about your people too much to let that happen."
Artharv's lip trembled. "I just…I don't think I could…"
"I will guide you," she said. "Please let me guide you."
Worlds of thoughts crossed between them as they stayed put. She didn't know what to do if he left. She didn't want to imagine the repercussions. The men's laughter. Jafar finding her unworthy. The boy may have been young and immature—but she could form him into what he needed to become. He just needed to trust her.
After a long while, Artharv released the door. Something had changed in his expression; it was now hard as stone. With a deep breath, Artharv turned and sat back down at his seat, and ate every morsel of the shakshuka.
The princess was distracted. And it irked him.
Sure, he'd grown used to her usual distractions; the ones she so solidly put in place to convince herself she was anywhere but beneath him. But she rarely disappeared into herself for this long. She was concentrating. Scheming. Too concentrated to be doing anything but thinking of other things. Or other men.
Jafar drove himself to the hilt, eliciting a gasp from her. She blinked, her wide brown eyes returning to his, her attention—fittingly—directed back on him. He snaked a hand around her neck as he went on, bringing her closer and closer to him with every stroke. She felt a wonder around him and he would rather die than let her rob him of—
"I need to leave the palace," she said breathlessly.
Jafar paused mid-stroke. "Leave?" he griped.
"Just for an afternoon. I want to show Artharv how to interact with the people."
So that was where her mind had drifted to. He stifled a growl. This was the last place he wanted to think about Pascua—lest of all some peasant.
The princess lifted herself onto her elbows, her breath mingling with his. "We'll stay close."
Jafar gripped the back of her knees, yanking her forward until she'd collapsed onto her back, her dark hair fanning around her like a painting. He leaned forward. "This endeavor of yours is futile, princess. That boy isn't built to rule."
Now her face hardened. Using all her weight, the princess rolled them over, pinning him in place. The sly woman. She was apt enough to know that he wouldn't move her in this position, especially now that she tempted him with a delectable new angle. She sat up, the moonlight catching the curve of her waist, her ample breasts, and her strong hips holding him down.
"You wanted a Pascua loyal to you," she said—far more collected than he was at the moment. "You'll get that from Artharv. All he needs is guidance, and I need the tools to give it to him."
And she needed to move. He deepened his nails into the soft flesh of her hips to encourage her, but her expression was firmly set. She wasn't moving an inch until she got an answer. His mind was in a fog.
"Is your life so terrible here that you must chase politics?" he finally said.
The princess held her tongue—for once. He knew she was bullheaded enough to think her life there was indeed terrible, although he hadn't the slightest clue why. All the women of his harem were properly cared for. He'd even given her special attention and avoided bedding the others. He'd given her everything but the title Sultan. And it still wasn't enough.
Jafar traced his fingers down her navel. "Perhaps a part of you fears that if I don't see you in my war chamber…if there is nothing to distinguish you from the others…" His gaze flickered up. "Then I will discard you."
"No," she said, too quickly and too self-assured.
"No?"
Then the temptress moved, rolling herself forward on him. In one slow drag, his blood turned to fire. She smiled.
"Let us go outside," she said again.
Jafar compromised to permitting her and Artharv to the courtyard within the palace gates. A small victory for Jasmine, but a victory nevertheless.
She watched from a windswept balcony as the guards set up rungs of tables and brought in big bushels of crops and bread. Word was already spreading about the food giveaway at the palace. Agrabah citizens gathered at the gates holding sacks.
Jasmine checked her appearance one last time in her chamber's oblong mirror, smoothing down the mauve satin fabric. When she opened her door, Artharv was waiting. Mirit had seen to his clothes: a silk-lined suit with appropriate shoes and hair that was washed and parted nobly. He looked every part the ruler Pascua so desperately needed.
"You look nice."
Artharv flushed, a little too boyishly. "Thank you." He swallowed. "Princess Jasmine."
If she didn't know any better, she'd say she was breaking down the boy's barriers. He seemed more at ease with her now—certainly more so than their first encounter. The reading material she'd given him to study was read and studied without complaint. The ruling lessons were trying but corrected by her when necessary. And though he was shy during the few meals they got to share, he seemed comfortable enough to speak.
Jasmine smiled wide. "Ready?"
Artharv nodded, and the two of them descended to the palace courtyard. The gates opened soon after and Jasmine and Artharv bagged bread and vegetables side-by-side. "You must always show the people you love them," she said. "If you love them, they trust you. They're the ones that make the kingdom great. Not us."
Artharv nodded along as he handed the people bags. Despite his awkward demeanor, he received numerous bright replies.
"Thank you!"
"Thank you, sir!"
"Can my family get an extra loaf?"
"Uh…yes!" Artharv dug around for the bread. "Just a moment…"
Jasmine did her best to repress her smile. With the right guidance, Artharv seemed to be a natural. She was right all along. The leader of Pascua had to be someone of the Pascuan royal line. The blood of Dhyana and her king.
She took it upon herself to bag the fruits and vegetables. The people she encountered were friendly enough, but their smiles were wan and brief. Maybe too afraid to show appreciation to someone who used to be the Sultan. Except one woman, who leaned close and barely whispered: "Praise Allah he has kept you safe."
Immediately, a guard was upon her. "Back! No one goes nears the girl."
Right. Their little arrangement wasn't exactly private. It was practically crawling with Jafar's palace guards. For all she knew, Jafar himself was among them, overseeing discreetly.
Jasmine said nothing as the woman was hastened away, but she would cherish the woman's words always. Nearby, a family with odd and colorful robes seemed hesitant to join the line and didn't have the social skills to ask for help. Jasmine gestured them over and placed a hand on Artharv's shoulder. "And you must serve all in your borders. No one is left out."
After she filled the immigrants' bag to the brim, the family broke into smiles, praising her in a dialect that she deduced was from the country of Nadir. A young man approached her table next, without a bag in hand. "Two mangos," he told her.
"Two mangos, yes." Jasmine leaned down into the mango bucket. When she straightened up, the man was leaning in rather close.
"Pardon me. My betrothed wishes to speak to you."
Jasmine backed away. Didn't he see what happened with the woman before? She wanted to avoid as many civilian casualties-by-guards as possible. "I'm not allowed to leave this spot."
The man opened his mouth, understanding. He left the line but returned not a minute later. "She told me she'd prefer to meet you by the gates."
For some reason, her heart began to race. She didn't know anyone's betrothed outside the palace. None that she remembered anyway. Jasmine looked behind her, checking if there was a guard in earshot. "Bring her to the front of my line."
With each subsequent bag she filled, she wracked her brain over and over on who it could possibly be. The next time the man returned, he was accompanied by a woman with a face veil over her nose and mouth. She seemed totally foreign to Jasmine—save for her eyes, which were bright and green as seawater.
It hit her. "Zariah?"
A smile reached the girl's eyes. Jasmine couldn't believe it! How many hours had she spent wondering about her friend in the harem? How many nights had she wished she could be in her place? "You're engaged!" she said, spotting the impressively sized betrothal ring on her finger. Whether it was through the young man's income or Zariah's after she left the palace, it was quite obvious she could now afford more expensive things.
Zariah started. "I've thought about you every night, princess—"
A guard's footsteps came loud and lumbering behind her. One quick glance behind proved her worst luck: Jafar's captain, Amir.
Jasmine cleared her throat. "Can I interest you in some fruit?" she asked pleasantly, loud enough for Amir to hear.
Zariah spoke in a hushed tone. "Is he listening?"
Her retort caught in her throat as she heard Amir continue to roam nearby. Thinking quickly, Jasmine grabbed the closest fruit—a papaya—and dropped it in Zariah's bag. Fortunately, Zariah seemed to catch on. "Are you safe?"
Another papaya was dropped in Zariah's bag.
"Are you happy?"
Jasmine looked around, finding a new fruit. She dropped a cantaloupe in the bag instead. It made a heavy thud on the others.
Zariah thought hard. "Have you…been selected yet?"
Another papaya.
Zariah's eyes widened. Jasmine could tell she wanted to ask more details but held back. The girl's brow furrowed in concern. "Is he cruel to you? During?"
Cantaloupe.
Zariah's brow softened. "Does he care for you?"
Jasmine thought about it. Maybe in his own way—but not in the way any sane person would. She eventually reached for a papaya and dropped it in Zariah's bag.
"Do you care for him?"
A jolt ran through Jasmine. As if the cantaloupe was on fire, she reached for it and unceremoniously dropped it in the bag. Zariah leaned around Jasmine and seemed to surmise that she had run out of time. "Thank you for the fruits, princess." She bowed respectfully. "My betrothed and I will sing you praises for your kindness."
They shared one last tender look before Zariah and her betrothed left the line. Jasmine watched with a heavy weight on her heart. What she would give to leave with them, to escape this place and live a normal life away from the tyrant. And yet a part of her was glad to see her friend so at peace and far out of Jafar's clutches. It gave her a small glimmer of solace.
One day, one far away day…that would be her too.
Dinners with the harem were sparse, to say the least. Jasmine couldn't remember when she dined with them in full—especially with Jafar present. The women were mostly seated in their normal spots, so Jasmine did the same and pulled out the seat farthest from Jafar's.
After the courses were passed and cuisines feasted on, Jasmine caught the topic of discussion: the dance teacher.
"She's too tough on us," complained a girl, picking at her rice. "My feet are always hurting."
"You're just not a good listener," said another.
"But I am! She says, tap better! Swish better! Dance like the princess!"
Jasmine swallowed her food with care, surprised by the sudden attention. "She is too kind," said Jasmine demurely.
"She's right, though," said the girl in red across from her. "You are the best dancer among us—no doubt about it. She talks about you at our lessons."
The others nodded in agreement. The girl grinned. "I think she wishes you were a part of our next performance."
Next performance? Already? She really had missed too many lessons.
"Your twirls were very impressive." Jasmine—unlike Jafar—didn't like praise if it wasn't earned. It wasn't the harem girls' fault that they weren't born in the palace and taught the steps at age two. "Of a royal," she added.
The girl looked down, her cheeks twinged as red as her robes. "Thank you."
These women were sweet—Jasmine realized with a pang. Too sweet to be under the thumb of someone like Jafar. Multiple times the girls had shown her compassion and kindness when they didn't have to, even during the times she wasn't a pleasant person to be around. Despite their circumstances, Jasmine was grateful for them.
The other end of the table was quiet. Or at least inaudible. Jafar hardly spoke. Hardly looked up. Ushila was seated at his right, a vision in green and silver, but she seemed to mirror his disposition and said nothing either. Jasmine grew unsettled. If he wasn't speaking—then he had something on his mind. Something unpredictable.
Once the servants had cleared the table of dishes, Amir came to stand beside Jafar. "One of you will accompany the Sultan back to his chambers."
Jasmine repressed a scoff. This again? Wasn't it common knowledge who would be accompanying him by this point?
Unless…
Jafar looked up, scouring the table, scouring each face. A knot of dread formed in her stomach.
Unless…
"You," said Jafar, his tone light.
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the girl across from her. The one in red.
The girl blinked. "Me, my Sultan?"
"Yes."
Awkwardly, the girl stood. Jasmine watched—her heart accelerating, her blood going scalding hot.
Jafar stood as well. Eventually, the girl met him at the end of the table. They turned together. They walked away together, each step a long, drawn out second. Eventually, they disappeared together too. The door shut and the sound reverberated down to her bones.
Jasmine's throat had gone desert dry. She tried to swallow, and it was so very, very hard…
The other girls were staring.
"There the Sultan goes again…"
"First, Ushila. Now, Princess Jasmine…"
"How can I become the favorite next?"
"Prayer helps, dear one. That's what I do."
Jasmine's gaze trickled past the others to Ushila at the other end, whose eyes were drowning Jasmine, drowning her with pity.
"This is all I could find, princess."
Mirit dropped the massive volume on Jasmine's desk, piling it on top of an already growing stack of books and maps. Jasmine opened the first page. "This isn't it."
Mirit exhaled, none too happily. "Then where would you have me look?"
"Jafar's tower, perhaps. Tell the guards I sent you."
Moonlight seeped across the wooden floors, grazing even the crimson carpet with golden whorls in the center of Jasmine's room. Her eyes burned with fatigue, but the adrenaline burned too, so she continued to scrape through page after page—seeking the answer that would let her break surface and breathe.
"Why must you tackle these tasks so late?" came Mirit's voice. "You need to get your rest."
"Because a madman has my country, Mirit, and the only way I can make things right for my people is to have him overthrown."
Too harsh, Jasmine realized—too harsh of a tone for a maid that just wanted to get some sleep. Still, Jasmine didn't let herself feel the subsequent guilt. Keep reading, she told herself. Keep reading, keep searching, keep going.
Mirit's gentle hand landed on her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about the dinner?"
Just the thought made her want to heave. There wasn't anything to discuss. All those talks about enticing him, ruling with him were null and void. None of it mattered anymore. If she was just another decoration he could pick up or put down at will—then she needed a new plan. A new way to destroy him.
"Princess?"
"The dinner was great." Jasmine stood up, twisting out of Mirit's grasp. "A perfect reminder about the cause at hand. I've been distracted for too long and I need to focus on my true purpose again. Saving my people."
Mirit's smile was sad and painful, something Jasmine couldn't stand.
"What?" said Jasmine, defensively. "As of this moment in time—he's the Sultan. He's in charge. He wanted an entire harem of women instead of one and he's gotten exactly that." She put her hands on her hips. Then dropped them. "He never promised me fidelity. Fidelity? Jafar?" She barked out a laugh. "I don't think so. And it doesn't matter one bit. Why should it matter? I am thrilled his attention isn't on me for once. Now I can be what I always was to him—his prisoner. His prisoner who, by the way, has an amazing husband…"
Jasmine went on longer, but by the time she ran out of breath, she couldn't recall what she had babbled on about.
"I'll search one last time," said Mirit after a long while.
"Thank you," said Jasmine.
After Mirit left, a knock came at her door, sending Jasmine's heart up to her throat. Who could possibly be awake at this hour? It couldn't be Jafar. He wouldn't—
Jasmine swung open the door to a stiff-standing guard. "Your Pascuan boy was found in the camel stables."
"Doing what?" she demanded.
"I…don't know."
A warm desert wind invaded the lower story of the palace, down where the stables were kept. Jasmine never visited the stables much. Going to such a place was not fit for a princess; the smells alone would ruin her perfumes. Besides that, her servants and handmaids always assured her that there was no shortage of hands there to tend to the animals.
Across a sea of brown furs and sleeping camels, Jasmine saw Artharv kneeling beside the lone standing one: an impressively strong animal with its foot draped across Artharv's knee. As Jasmine grew closer, Artharv heard the crackling of hay and stumbled to his feet.
"Oh—princess—!"
"At ease," she said, amused by his posture. The boy let out a nervous laugh.
"I was, uh…" He looked back. "This fellow needed his toenail trimmed. Just the one. I think he was in some pain…"
"I see."
Artharv ruffled the camel's fur, eliciting a low satisfied moan from the creature. Jasmine released a smile. "I didn't think you had camels in Pascua."
"We don't," said Artharv. "We have alpacas. Their nails get long too."
He'd dressed back in his Pascuan clothes, Jasmine noticed—the burlap hat and common vest and pants. He looked noticeably more comfortable. Especially in the service of an animal. He took in a long breath before he faced her again. "I've been thinking about Pascua. If you believe I'm ready…then I'm ready."
"Ready to rule?" said Jasmine.
"Yes," he said. "And serve the Sultan, of course."
She'd be lying if she said she wasn't surprised. Two weeks ago she was begging Artharv to stay. She knew she'd have to make fast work of him but was surprised by the speed in which it was accomplished. She'd actually convinced him. "I'm pleased you've given it some thought."
"I'll make sure everyone's fed," he went on. "I'll make sure my council is fair and just. And I'll create trade with all the other countries."
Jasmine hung onto every word. "And how will you defend your country?"
Artharv paused. "Defend it?" He clicked his jaw. "Well…my trade will reach all corners of the world. I'll be allies with everyone."
Jasmine's face sank. Artharv seemed to notice. "Like you did, princess," he said encouragingly.
Jasmine stepped away, her eyes following the moon dipping past the minaret tower. Suddenly everything felt heavy around her—in her body, too. She placed a hand on the camel, burying her fingers in its soft fur. "Before I was Sultan, I liked to sneak out of the palace," she told him. "My father wouldn't let me out, you see. So I found my own way." She smiled wryly. "I once gave a pair of children some bread outside the palace. Bread from someone else's vendor. I didn't understand how a person could let a child starve over something as mundane as currency."
Artharv listened with interest and Jasmine let her hand fall away. "It wasn't right that they were starving. But it wasn't right to take what wasn't mine. Currency did—and still does—matter. The economy depends on it." She faced him. "You can't make the mistakes I did. If you knew what my naivety cost me…what it cost my people…"
As if her words were a call to action, Artharv straightened tall. "I will do right by Pascua, Princess Jasmine."
Jasmine stared a while, her mind full of thoughts.
"I know you will," she finally settled on.
The camel bristled a bit, perhaps thirsting for the boy's attention. Artharv bent down to retrieve his trimming utensils. "Do you know how to trim a camel's hooves, princess?"
"I don't." She shook off the seriousness. "Show me."
Artharv escorted her to the camel's rear legs, all too excited to be the teacher in their strange dynamic. Jasmine watched him closely, watched the maturity and pride ebb from his eyes and return to their boyish light. He talked about camels, then alpacas, then horses until Jasmine excused herself to bed.
Mirit hadn't yet returned from the libraries. Sighing, Jasmine loosened her hair clips and set them on the dressers to draw a bath. Spending a mere hour in the stables had already done its damage and she desperately needed to rinse off the scent of camel.
After bathing and brushing out her hair, Jasmine took to waiting for Mirit at her desk. Maybe she should've sent a servant to disband her from the mission; it wasn't fair Mirit had to sacrifice sleep for her own selfish pursuits that had nothing to do with her. But if Mirit really had been gone this long, perhaps she had found more than Jasmine was anticipating—which could only be good for the whole of Agrabah.
Jasmine wandered into her bedchamber and noticed—with a jolt—a new volume sitting at her nightstand. She picked it up and flipped through the first few pages. It was the exact book she'd requested.
"Thank you, Mirit," she said aloud.
"My sincerest pleasure."
Jasmine's smile thinned. This time she didn't whip her head around, but instead turned calmly and carefully towards the balcony. He stepped out from behind one of the pillars, holding and examining a pomegranate—one he no doubt plucked from her decoration bowl.
"The third volume," Jafar went on. "The most accurate text in history to outline killing a sorcerer, at your service."
Her jaw clenched at the sight of him. Inhaling sharply, she turned away, focusing back on the book. "I thought you'd be too preoccupied to spy on me."
"Oh, I was. I have a new favorite bedwarmer."
Something sharp pricked at her side but she ignored it. Leave it to him to be cruel for no reason. She listened to his slow footsteps coming up the stairs, up into her chamber. "You are prepared for the war meeting tomorrow?" he said.
"Yes."
"Young Artharv is proving stellar enough to capture my interest?"
Jasmine glanced back, seeing the pomegranate sail through the air and be nimbly caught in his ringed hand. "Are you even planning on letting me speak?" she spoke icily.
"I agreed I would."
"One time."
This time—the pomegranate hung in the air. "One time, yes," he said.
Jasmine pompously turned her back to him. "Fine. You can go now. I'd like to start reading."
"You won't find any solutions to thwarting me there. You'd have a far better chance studying the folktales."
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Why not?" A small thud, likely the pomegranate being put back. "Who would be a better person to converse with than the very person you want to slay?"
Jasmine slammed the book shut. "I said you could go."
And of course, the bastard did no such thing. His eyes narrowed but his lips spread, settling into a sneer. "You're tense, princess."
A lump formed in her throat and she forced herself to swallow. She needed him to go. To leave her life. To never return.
"Your heart races now," he said. "Tell me what upsets you."
The lump was growing. It was a wonder she could even breathe anymore. "As if you've ever cared what upsets me."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He drew up in front of her. "But I'm observant enough to know your venom is rarely without purpose."
Jasmine whirled away, putting miles of distance between them. Now her vision was blurring and absurdly, she felt the sting of tears coming. No doubt from all the pent up frustration and hate from all these months under his thumb, and nothing else. Jasmine stared at her wall, sitting in her raw unbridled rage before she finally decided to unleash it.
"You can't just—"
Her voice caught in her throat. Jafar's eyes widened—just as intense as ever, those black, soulless eyes that never seemed to blink. Jasmine thought quickly.
"You can't keep me from my husband forever."
His face changed, the anger apparent, and Jasmine felt clean, cathartic victory wash over her. But he didn't squash the emotion; rather, he leaned into it.
"Why not? I'm doing a marvelous job at it."
"But to what end?" Jasmine charged up to him. "I don't need to be here when you already have a harem of ten. If you're going to put me back on the shelf with the rest of your trinkets—you might as well replace me with someone else and let me walk free."
She'd given him too much, she realized. She'd given him exactly what he wanted. His sneer returned in all its glory.
"Does it bother the princess to be discarded?" he said, condescendingly. "Always the prize. Always the jewel…"
"Please."
"Now just another thing of the Sultan's. Think of the shame if I named some common girl the Sultana over the princess—"
"That sounds like a wonderful idea."
"Does it?"
"Because then I'd be with my husband and far away from you."
A thunderous ripple passed between them to the point neither could speak. Her face was wet, she noticed. Something cold slid down her cheek. Before she could brush it away, his hand beat her to it. His touch was maddeningly warm.
"You don't always have to be so headstrong," he murmured soft yet still so condescendingly. "If me taking the girl upsets you—"
"It doesn't."
It wasn't like that. Jasmine recoiled from him, distraught beyond words. It wasn't. It couldn't be. If he wondered why she was upset—it was because he wasn't leaving her alone. For any other reason meant the dinner did affect her. Which meant she cared. Which was a terrifying thought.
His eyes rolled back. "I can feel every emotion…every tremble in your body." He reopened them, a fire simmering in them. "Tell me."
Jasmine bit down hard on her cheek. "Tell you what?"
"The truth you're fleeing from."
Snarling, Jasmine shoved him away with all her might. He barely went back. "You're mad," she spat. "And delusional. And sick. And you don't know what you're talking about—"
Jasmine was losing her grasp on reality. How dare he. How dare he play these sick mind games on her. She didn't ask for this. She didn't ask to be imprisoned, to lose her throne, to spend every growing day without Aladdin. None of this was fair. He had no right being this cruel.
She held up a hand, stopping him from entering her space. "Please." Behind the emotion, there was a plea.
"Tell me," he said—with the same urgency.
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
"Tell m—"
Growling, Jasmine lunged forward and crashed her lips to his—a desperate attempt to muddle his mind. A successful attempt. Not a romantic one, instead full of rage and teeth and everything in between. When she broke away, neither moved apart, but stayed in that strange breathless limbo.
And that's when she realized—in all its awfulness—something had changed.
Even standing so close to him now confirmed it. He'd become familiar to her. Familiar in a way that shouldn't have been possible. How could this man from her past, a man who'd killed and manipulated and betrayed—found his way into her place of comfort? Once she recoiled at his touch. Now she knew it. She'd memorized it. His breath, his musk, the way his body moved on hers. She'd gone down this path with him for a reason, of course—a noble cause—but she never expected it to feel normal to her. Comfortable.
And she thought she'd mastered him. That her plan had come to fruition. After all their shared nights, after the hot springs, she thought she'd captured his interest indefinitely. She'd expected him, a monster, to share the morals of her, a human being. And she'd been a fool for it.
"I didn't bed her."
Jasmine looked up at him, still registering his meaning. "What?"
"That girl. I didn't bed her."
That…
"You…"
She didn't know what to say. She couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Could barely even breathe.
He smiled.
"You were playing games?"
His smile widened. "Papaya," he simply said.
She was so mad she could hardly see. She didn't realize she was falling, too, until she felt his anchored grip on her waist, holding her steady. And those same hands pulling her to him. Holding her. Caressing her face.
"You…" She struggled for words. "You…absolute…"
His mouth was on hers. Numb and shaking, she stayed still even as she felt herself go back, back into the soft plush quilts. He was opening her gown. Night air hit her naked skin, sending goosebumps down her flesh. He was moving above her, his body a furnace. His mouth trailed down her neck, between her breasts, down her abdomen, down…
Her breath hitched.
She'd never hated someone so much.
Her hands went to his hair first, with intent to push him away, but slackened the deeper he pressed into her. With quickening breaths, Jasmine arched into him, finding something intoxicating and ravenous through all the hate. It was terrifying—this part of her. This part of her that bent for him, that nearly craved his touch.
Why did she care?
Why did she care?
Jafar's fingers deepened into her thighs, setting her entire body aflame, making her tremble and writhe. He was working faster now. Far too fast for her to keep up. Jasmine threw back her head, muffling her cries with the heel of her hand.
Maybe she did care. Maybe jealousy had coiled in her gut when he called for the other girl. But just as she knew she was Agrabah's rightful Sultan, she knew she was safe from any meaningful emotion towards him.
She could scream. She could cry. She could say his name.
And it wouldn't matter one bit.
In his war chamber, she was still speechless.
A breath in, a breath out. A turn to the left, a turn to the right. Jasmine could spot no imperfections in the mirror. Every piece of jewelry sat prim and proper. Every strand of hair was meticulously curled or threaded into a braid. When she turned around to face Mirit, she relished the feel of her gold-and-turquoise harem pants after so many months of dresses.
"Well?" she said, picking up her scrolls to complete the look. "Do I look like a councilman?"
Mirit chuckled. "A pretty one."
Jasmine lifted her chin. Once a compliment like that would've worried her; she didn't want anything to distract the generals from taking her seriously. Now she embraced it. She didn't have to look like a man to be treated like one.
This was it. Her one shot of proving to Jafar that she belonged in his council. For all she knew, he'd made up his mind about the outcome long ago, but she would do everything in her power to make the decision difficult.
She'd spent her morning in books—studying every Pascuan descendant that could be found in Agrabah's palace libraries. It was one thing to be worried about fighting for her place, and quite another to not be totally married to her decision. Even now, she was stuck between the two. Two ideas quarrelling for succession.
"Ready?" said Mirit, standing up.
Jasmine reluctantly nodded.
Down the hallway, Jasmine caught sight of the harem women entering the common room, their handmaids dutifully a step behind. She straightened her spine as she passed the room, not even sparring a glance. No more common rooms, she told herself. Not after today.
Men were trickling into the war chamber too, clunking along in their weighted boots and armored plates in case the chamber broke out into all-out war. Only one man kept the door open for her. Unmistakable, mangled hands. Red and veiny.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Ranvir gave a stiff nod and ventured inside. The room was already brimming with the men from before. The reporting general, she recognized. The others that snickered at her. The one with the black-and-grey beard. Jasmine clutched her scrolls to her chest and kept her gaze stern and focused on the map.
Eventually came Jafar's grand exit and everyone's subsequent bows and acknowledgments. Jasmine followed in same, watching him take his place at the head of the map. The reporting general stepped forward. "Before we discuss domestic issues, the Sultan has asked that the princess be permitted to speak on the future of Pascua."
All eyes turned to her, including Jafar's. Just hours before—black with desire, now inquisitive. Jasmine set her scrolls on the map and cleared her throat, mustering her strongest voice. "After much consideration, I think the country of Pascua should be someone of their culture. Someone with Pascuan background and upbringing."
A snicker sounded behind her. Whispers, too. Jafar did nothing to stop them; the intent obvious. She'd have to push through the jests herself.
"The man that should rule Pascua, in my opinion…"
She exhaled. She decided.
"Rodan Shuuru."
Now the room livened. She could hear the confusion around her, the questions of who this unnamed person was. Even Jafar's eyebrows lifted.
"Not Artharv?" he said.
"Rodan is a Pascuan nobleman." Jasmine made quick work. "Born and raised in the country with roots from the Uthman Empire. Both his father and grandfather served, so he's well acquainted with warfare. Ever since the Pascuan council abandoned their posts, he is the only man of noble birth trying to keep the country together." She took a breath. "He's demonstrated great qualities for a leader and has already sworn allegiance to the Agrabah Sultanship."
Her adrenaline was racing despite the lack of interruptions. She looked directly at Jafar.
"Artharv, although young, has great potential to be a councilman someday if he chooses. But despite his royal bloodline... I fear his youth and nativity about the world wouldn't serve his country as well as it would with someone of maturity and experience."
A beat of silence, and then eruption. Several of the generals were shouting, some about the man not being someone of Agrabah, some about the man being a nobody at all. Jasmine braced herself against the storm. "I've spoken to the man myself!" she started. "He is very personable—"
"Enough."
And the room returned to silence.
With a graceful sweep of his hand, he summoned images of Rodan from thin air, images that moved and caught Rodan's conversations back in Pascua. Jafar studied them a long while before the images dissipated. "Rodan Shuuru," he said, considering.
Everyone watched. Waited. Jafar met her eyes again, a strange lift in his features. Jasmine's heart raced. Could it be that he was impressed?
"The Pascuan leadership will go to Rodan Shuuru."
Everyone looked too stunned to speak—Jasmine, most of all. She let a small breath escape her, a small noise too.
She'd done it.
She'd convinced him.
And she'd saved Pascua.
The noise and bustle around her suddenly died down, and when Jasmine returned to her senses, she noticed that the generals around her were literally frozen in place by magic, still and unmoving, with only Jafar able to move about the room freely. He continued to stare.
"You're learning," he said.
Jasmine's chest swelled. "I've learned," she corrected him.
"You will learn more." He summoned books out of thin air, letting them sail across the map and drop on her scrolls. "Read these. My men have not found a suitable solution, but you might. I want a solution proposed by the next meeting."
Her chest was swelling more and more. She thought she'd feel relief with this outcome. Instead she felt suffocated by emotion to the point she was afraid to even speak.
It had been so long.
Jafar's eyebrows flew up. "Are you not going to thank your Sultan for this honor?"
Jasmine opened her mouth but nothing came out. This time, Jafar seemed to understand since he made no further snide remark, no jest that this was the first time she'd ever held her tongue in his presence. Instead, she just calmly gathered up the books and let them weigh comfortably against her chest, a deep pride taking root within. In the wake of his acceptance, she was…speechless.
Now that she thought about it, she could've used a day in the common room to talk about her feelings with the other women. To twirl around at a dance lesson for a day. To fill her head with gossip. To pick up her embroidery and finish it so that it didn't so resemble a blue man.
X