Gone, Part V

It was time, the Sultan decided. Time to heal the anguish of his heart.

No greater crime had ever been committed, no vice so full of malevolence and immorality, no torture as great as the one he had been forced to bear. He was a victim in the plot, innocent and unfortunate, but one who bore the pain with amazing resistance and calm. He ignored the severed beating of his heart strings and the onslaught of tears which threatened to spill onto the grand marble floors. His head trembled with the depraved blood that attempted resuscitation, and his face burned in highlighted humiliation as the royal vizier told him of the plot. How could he have been so blind?

He had loved her dearly, more than he would have ever admitted to anyone but her. She was his desert rose, his nightingale—when he dreamt of angels or fairies or goddess, he dreamt of her. He had been so unlucky to have remained unmarried for such a long period of time that when he at last found her he had been exonerated by his kingdom and council. The people praised the virtues of the couple: the sultan's benevolence and the sultana's strengths. They complimented each other in more ways than one; whereas he was too old, she was too young; whereas he was too compassionate, she was too unkind; whereas he was too gullible and too unquestioning, she was too guarded and too vindictive.

But the sheer arrogance of the tryst, the haughty conceit that filled the pair with such condescension! To assume that such meetings and such affection would not be noticed by the sharp eyes and hungry curiosity of the court! That not one of the dozen noble families living within the palace would see or hear or deduce the passionate transgressions in the open garden was utter idiocy.

The Sultan was not fool, and not a man to be taken so lightly. Surely the two must have understood the possibility, the potential, the promise of his wrath, given the depth of their indiscretion? He was a decent man, a generous ruler, and sympathetic friend, but to commit such offense was no mere lapse in judgment. They knew the full extent of their wrongdoing and what was worse—they continued to perpetrate the passionate crime again and again and again!

As he listened to the royal vizier describe to discovery of the plot, and the evidence which undeniably linked the two together, the Sultan had already made up his mind. It was not the time to show mercy or leniency, despite his compromising nature. They would not be granted clemency or compassion. They were the wrongdoers, the evil plotters, the dangerous villains. They robbed from him, and betrayed him, and laughed at him right under his nose, a nose so accustomed to weeding out the liars and traitors of his kingdom that it failed to observe the smell of rebellion within his own household.

As the sun soaked through the honeycombed ceilings of the palace and emitted ethereal light through the trellised windows, the royal vizier finished his pronouncement and eyed the Sultan warily. He, also, was no fool, and knew that this moment would define the Sultan's reign, and in so doing define his own purpose. He planted the seeds for the very idea, watered it and pruned it, until its twisted vines of lies and pain tugged sorely at the ruler's heart.

He focused on the Sultan's face more insistently than ever before, searching the poor man's eyes and lips for any anger or resentment. But the Sultan looked at the floor, and then at the sun streaming into the chamber, and then at the small pool of water that flowed into the throne room from the courtyard. And with this vision he made his decision.

"Bring them forth, Maghreb. Bring the entire court. But reveal nothing."

The sorcerer and trusted councilman nodded heartily, glad to escape the wrath that he hoped was imminent in the face of this betrayal. Would the ruler but realize the universal truths that Maghreb himself already attested to! No one should be trusted and no one should be held close to the heart, given the weakness and susceptibility of that organ, not to mention its necessity for ministration. He turned sharply on his heel and exited the chamber, a devilish smile playing on his lips as he imagined the scene to come.

The Sultan rose from his throne, disgust dwelling deep within the pits of his stomach. Angrily he kicked at the round vases which adorned the sides of the square room, and they toppled over with a resounding crash. He could see the curious looks this noise garnered from just beyond the gardens outside the chamber door, but the faces he did not see nor their presence did he register. Shallow breaths overtook him and felt his pulse racing wildly, as though contorted into impossible arrangements. He was not a quiet man by any means, but he had learned to control his anger when necessary. Decorum and tradition dictated that he calm, lest the servants and his council come running from the citadel outing.

Lost in a stupor, the Sultan could only stare reflexively at the fountain waters, which tidied and pooled in the small recession of stone. Beyond the irregularly placed marble columns laced with filigree laid the Sultan's favorite structure: the fountain of the lions. His eyes traced the fine figures of the twelve roaring creatures surrounding the plain stone basin, and the courage and strength they evoked made him shudder and steel so that he looked away, determined. He would be the roaring lion, strong and resilient to the tremors of the human heart. He would be the slayer of evil, the conquistador of sin. The water would wash away all of the troubles in the world, and he would not rest until such was observed.

The soothing melody of the water stole his attention, and he rounded again on the fountain. It stood majestically in front of the many pavilions amidst an array of colors and scents that rose from the flower garden lining the four marble runways. From each of these runways flowed the water, into the four quadrants of the palace. He walked to the fountain and sat down upon its edge. The glimmer of light reflecting from the pool made him squint, and it was then he noticed the inscription beneath the rim of the basin. The Sultan touched his fingers to the words lightly, brushing his fingertips like feathers across the carving.

"...Such a translucent basin, sculpted pearl!

Argentic ripples are added on it by the quiet dew

And its liquid silver goes over the daisies, melted, and even purer.

Hard and soft are so close, that it would be hard to distinguish

liquid and solid, marble and water. Which one is running?

Don't you see how water overflows the borders

and the warned drains are here against it?

They are like the lover who in vain

tries to hide his tears from his beloved..."

It took less than an hour's time before the royal court filled the throne room. The Sultan sat wearily on his throne, but each time a member of the court entered his shoulders stiffened and his eyes saw blood. He refused to even look at his council. They lined the walls of the room, offering the sultan an unobstructed view of garden. A few exchanged social remarks on the fine craftsmanship of the newly renovated courtyard, and on the grandeur of the fountain, but they also edged away from the pool that flowed at their feet, afraid.

At last, the sultan's beautiful new wife entered the open chamber, crossing the courtyard and fountain in front of her husband proudly, haughtily. Married for barely a year, the sultan worshipped her every movement, and despite her young age he treasured her advice and counsel. And in her step, the men could see this: she knew how much influence she held and yet she did not overtly abuse it. She was still fair and still empathetic, but stronger than her husband and more resolute.

The council bowed respectfully, but each man kept his own eyes trained on her. She was a rare sight to behold: in a kingdom where dark ravenous locks and light skin were the pillars of beauty, the sultana possessed long tresses of bronze, highlighted with streaks of gold. Her olive skin glistened in the heat of the early morning, and her fiery opal eyes surveyed the room with vivacity. Her crimson gown drifted listlessly across the decadent stone floor, the hem barely touching the water's edge before the silk soaked up the stream.

The sultana bowed gently before her husband and took her place at his left side. Like the sultan, she stood proudly but with a hint of subtle softness and control which the ruler lacked in his current agitated state. Facing the courtyard and the council that surrounded them, she lightly grazed her hand against the hand of the sultan, the brief touch sending electricity down his spine. Still, he could not look at her.

"I trust that everything fares well, husband? You were missing from breakfast this morning." Her voice dripped with sweetness, as unlike his cold demeanor as the moon differed from the night—and yet how similar the two were in their nature, as the moon and sun both light the sky in their respective phases.

"I was busy running the kingdom, my desert rose. Maghreb had many insightful discoveries he wished to impart upon me. But do not think me callous for such. I would never miss a meeting with you."

He shook her hand free, and she immediately held it in front of herself. His wife appeared unusually chastised, but said nothing. Her face had fallen, and she exchanged a sideways glance with one of the nobles of the council. He, too, looked worried but had no words to speak. The room finally fell silent when the royal vizier took his place on the Sultan's right side. Maghreb stood arrogantly, and the court shrunk in his presence, every man fearful to catch the sorcerer's eye. They knew which snake sputtered secrets to their ruler, and each man prayed that the royal vizier, in his seemingly infinite knowledge of the court and the kingdom, did not outcast them in front of the others.

The royal vizier cleared his throat, and motioned for the council to bow in the direction of the sun, citing allegiance to the sultan. Still he sat mournfully, lost in thought. Shahyrar normally observed every tradition, every custom, and his actions puzzled the court and his wife. But their curiosity grew even further when the Sultan stood before they were able to rise; anger and resentment welled inside of him like magma.

"Faithful consortium! I stand before you a new man. A man with strength and power; a man with courage and wisdom; a man who means to remake his image in the reflection of shadow." Voice shaking with rage, his eyes locked with every member of the council, and their fear escalated in the presence of his fury. "You who have been with me long know that I am a kind and gentle king, one who strives to serve this kingdom with humility and respect. But there are some among you I can never respect again, now that they have laughed and spat in my face, trampling upon my generosity and making me appear as though a fool!"

The sultan moved slowly across the length of the room, standing before the councilman nearest to the entry, nearest to the water. His hands folded behind his back, he glared at the man in suspicion. "You, brother Abencerrage. You have served me well these many years. You are a devoted and dedicated member of my council, are you not?"

The older man looked away from the sultan's eyes, and his nails bit into his palms in fear. "Yes, my lord. The most devoted and most dedicated."

The sultan smiled cruelly, and the man visibly shuddered, so unfamiliar with an angry sultan that he did not know the words to appease the leader. Sultan Shahyrar turned to face the man straight, and he leered beneath his downward gaze.

"The most devoted and most dedicated, you say. The most vile and most despicable, I say." Laughing humorlessly, the sultan moved forward in the line to address the next man. "And you also, Brother Abencerrage. You and your father and brother and cousins number many on my court. Are any of you to be trusted?"

The still youthful man, new to politics, spoke the first thing that came to mind. "We of the Abencerrage family are the most trustworthy, sire. As trustworthy as any politician can be."

Sultan Shahyrar eyed the man skeptically. "Perhaps that is the problem I face, then? I may be better off disposing of the whole lot of you." Shrugging lightly, the sultan made his way to the front of the room, not noticing the worried glances that the many brothers of the Abencerrage family exchanged beneath burrowed brows.

Reaching his throne again, the sultan sat down peacefully. But his eyes bore the rage of a storm. "Stand before me now, Brother Ibn Abencerrage."

The youngest man on the council looked fearfully at his many relations and allies around him, eyes wide and hands shaking. He had not been on the council long, but his time thus far had been peaceful and composed. The two brothers on either side of him nudged him forward, and he stumbled out of line, nervously glancing at his family before he stood before the sultan.

"How do you fare, Brother?" The Sultan appeared to have held in his contempt for the man before, and now unleashed his venomous state without reservation. "Has your term been just and fair? Have I not offered you great standing as a trusted advisor and close friend?"

The younger man gazed briefly at the sultana before speaking, who nodded imperceptibly. All witnessed the exchange, including the sultan.

"You have, my-y lord. Y-you have been nothing but kind to me."

Sultan Shahyrar bowed his head back, staring coldly at the young man through narrowed eyes. "Then I wonder if it was my kindness which caused your betrayal."

Ibn faltered. "Sire?"

"Answer me plainly. Why have you been meeting secretly in my courtyard in the dead of night, entering into my private chambers, and sleeping with my own wife?"

The silence rang loudly in the ears of each man as this announcement was made. Only the sultana, in alarm, let out a low, painful cry from her husband's side. The young man who stood in the middle of the room fell to both knees and shook his head back and forth, forth and back so that his mind swam with memories, both honest and treacherous. But he had no words to defend himself against such an accusation.

"It is true then? You have been meeting secretly in front of the willow tree each night after midnight?"

Ibn shook his head, but tears began to well in his eyes as panic set in. He could not look the sultan in the eye.

"And you have been meeting in the sultana's private chambers, and my own, to exchange affections?"

Ibn Abencerrage now began to shake uncontrollably, out of fear for himself before the wrath of his king.

"And you have been lying to me each and everyday, as your father and brothers and cousins have lied for you?"

Ibn was young and foolish, and having committed such betrayals in passion he knew not how to reconcile his sin. His predicament was unsalvageable, but he recognized his true loyalty. "They have nothing to do with this! They know nothing!"

"LIES!" The sultan bellowed, finally standing up before the throne. As Ibn shook in fear before him, the sultan shook in fury. His arms rose powerfully from his sides and the rich robes he wore made him appear as an incensed snake. "They knew of your actions and they lied to cover your sins!"

The young man looked directly at the sultana now, and opened his mouth to say something tearfully. But the sultana cut him off. She suddenly emerged from her shadowed corner and fell before her husband's feet in repentance.

"Please, my lord! Have mercy, have mercy!" She began to weep, and she clung desperately to his robes. "We did not know—"

"That you would be discovered?! That I would learn of your betrayal? What of our son, Rose? What have you done to him?" The sultan leaned down, taking his wife's hands in his and pulling her face upwards. Her tears continued to spill before him and she trembled on her knees. In eyes that once held love and devotion, she now found hatred and contempt. "You dare to sin in my palace, in my kingdom, before Allah? Then you shall not be judged by me in this lifetime. You will be a sinner in the hands of an angry god." He slapped her across the face, and she fell backwards, into her lover's embrace. Ibn struggled to hold her close and he whispered prayers into her ear, rubbing her back as she sobbed. Her tormented cries pierced the normal tranquility of the palace, and echoed sharply against the arabesques cradled within the dome ceiling. She turned toward the sultan in her cries, and spat out cruelty.

"You are an old man! A senile and foolish old man! I could never love you the way I love Ibn! Never."

The sultan cried out in rage, and balled his fists against his side. His vehemence overwhelmed him, and he swung out at the couple again, knocking them both on their backs. But they held onto each other in distress. The council stepped forward to intercede, each man angry at the ruler or the couple in turn. Only the royal vizier stood firm in his place, silencing their calls and stopping their movements with a low and simple spell. The sultana continued to cry even as the royal vizier issued a call to the guards that reached the farthest corners of the palace. He placed a gentle hand on the sultan and spoke to him in hushed tones.

"Patience, my liege. Your hands will not be bloodied in their sin." The sultan could only stare at the couple and their embrace, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth free of the saliva that had spat forth in his anger. He looked over his shoulder at Maghreb and shook his hand free.

The palace guards entered, shocked to find the council frozen behind an invisible line, silently shouting and waving their fists, while the sultan stood enraged before the lovers. They quickly captured the sultana and the young man, holding them before the sultan while awaiting orders. Both looked fearfully at the ruler, his decision resting upon their lives or their deaths. The council fell silent and still without Maghreb's spell to force them.

Sultan Shahyrar looked around his chamber and counted the number of Abencerrage men within the lines. He sighed inwardly, the extent of the betrayal surfacing in his eyes as beads on an abacus. He turned to the guards but addressed the entire room.

"Do not let any member of the Abencerrage family from this chamber. Bring Ibn and my wife next to me."

The guards stood sentry at the entrance to the room and outside of it, still offering the sultan a plain view of the fountain and courtyard while two officers took the struggling lovers and separated them, hastening them to their corner. Maghreb moved further into the shadows behind the throne, dark eyes glistening in the shallow light. Every attention was paid to the sultan now. Some men were fearful and others inwardly exhilarated at the defeat of their political rivals.

Sultan Shahyrar sat down wearily, rubbing his temples before placing his hands together, as in prayer. Looking past the concave ceiling and into the heavens, he silently asked for forgiveness and strength. And to this the royal vizier answered him.

"You must, my liege. It is the only way." The sultan nodded blearily and motioned for the guards lining the walls to bring the Abencerrage brothers forward. Ibn cried out for his family, but it was already too late.

"Slit the throat of each Abencerrage man and let the blood drain into the pool." The guards moved furiously at the uproar from the council, but the roars were merely yells of pain and sorrow. The council could do nothing, and no man tried to save the poor noble kin as the guards quickly subdued their two dozen relations. The sultan turned toward Ibn and his wife, and there was no compassion in his face.

"You, Ibn, will watch your family be slaughtered as you have butchered my soul." The young man wept harder and emitted a low cry, full of anguish. The sultan then turned toward his once-true love. "And you, my wife, shall watch as your lover's blood mingles with the water, as I will watch your blood and your life drain from your body." The couple struggled against their captors, but could do little more than melt against each other. "You have forced me to this point. It is your fault that so many die and that your own lives end."

As the bloody massacre began within the chamber, the sultan stepped outside of the room, passing the first Abencerrage brother as the guards cut viciously into his neck. The blood stained the white marble floor of the chamber and quickly mingled with the water, the pressure from the fountain forcing the water red as it rushed back to its source. It stained the lips of the twelve lions crimson.

The sultan turned as each brother was murdered, their screams cut short as the knife cut through their vocal cords. Blood gushed forward, splattering on each nobleman who watched the massacre, horrified. Ibn and the sultana clung desperately to each other, fearful to even watch the family die at the hands of the guards. Then it was Ibn's turn, and the soldiers forcefully pulled him from his lover's embrace, and her scream as the guards cut halfway through his neck echoed sharply throughout the courtyard. Then it was the sultana's turn, and she cast a beseeching gaze at the sultan standing at the head of the fountain. But he looked at her only coldly, nodding perceptibly to the guards who struggled to slit her throat, the knife cutting across her skin several times before the loss of blood ended her life. Her body fell face-forward into the water, now colored scarlet, and her light hair flowed loosely in the ripples of the waves.

The sultan sat down on the edge of the basin and stared down at his wife's silent figure. Hatred and disgust welled deep within his belly, and his eyes reflected nothing but the red shade of blood. His hand fell from his side, and his fingers grazed another carving in the side of the stone.

The fountain is the Sultan, which smothers with his graces all his subjects and lands, as the water wets the gardens.

It was so very quiet in Agrabah.

The sun's setting had broken the busy tidings of the day, but it did not dispel the intense heat that burned through the miniscule grains of rock like a fiery demon, constantly roaring down upon the city all through the night. The air was stifling thick and chokingly stale so that thieves and villains were not the only ones to don hijabs and turbans to hide their face. There was no wind to cool the skins of tired citizens or wipe away tracks from the desert sand, somewhat disconcerting for the hero who wished to avoid being seen by all.

Nighttime in Agrabah was always peaceful and serene, the bright jeweled stars in the sky illuminating the many facets of the city and palace. Yet the night also worked to mask the deep alleys and crooked districts that housed bandits and beggars alike. It was through these streets that Aladdin navigated, using the shadows and moon as his guide to transverse so far, so quickly. He hid his face in wraps and cloaks, masking his appearance even to his own eyes, let alone the eyes of the prostitutes and pickpockets that roamed the destitute corners of the kingdom.

He bounded over a crumbling wall near the Thieves Den in the Karadat neighborhood, deftly landing on his feet with grace and ease. His warm brown eyes, hidden beneath the shadows of his brow, scanned the streets quickly looking for watchful eyes or ears. It was so very late at night that he could expect trouble from the outlaws of the city, but also so very late that no peaceful citizen or rambunctious guard would disturb his trek. All the better for it, too, since such people would be the first to recognize him. But the hero saw nothing; he walked on, slowly, evenly, drawing no unwanted attention to his presence or person.

Rich fragrances swirled in the dismal heat, odors of leather and incense and roasting meat prickling the sharp senses of the hero. But Aladdin could only smell the scent of jasmine drifting through the night air, and the aroma quickened his pulse and dizzied his mind. He knew he was close now to the palace. A few more walls blocked his way, and he either cleared them with a steady run and great leap or by springing from the walls and ledges, capering up the sides of buildings with the poise of an acrobat.

At last, from his perch on a tall building, Aladdin could see the high rise of the grand barricade guarding the palace, its sun-soaked hue still bright even in the throws of darkness. He saw the tips of the tree branches cradling the top of the wall, desperately trying to overcome the barrier. Next to the wall laid a small pile of crates and barrels, obviously put out by the royal kitchens for the vendors to reclaim. Aladdin shook his head at the obvious breach in security; it would be so easy now to climb over the palace walls that he wondered at the possibility that only he thought of breaking inside.

And so he scaled the height by use of the wooden containers, easily reaching the top of the wall and quickly disappearing from the city's view. He nimbly descended, barely using the tree branches for balance, and landed with a soft thud on the dry grass. There was no one in the garden, and only a fraction of the bright moonlight cascaded on the marble courtyard. Running quickly across the length of the square, he hid amongst the shadows, silently, deftly narrowing in on his destination and moving fastidiously with great stride and purpose. Beneath the balcony he stopped.

He had crossed the entire city and broken into the palace walls in less than an hour's time, but the difficult part in his journey still lay ahead. How would he manage to reach the balcony, some twenty stories up?

But the answer lay in the ring. Aladdin reached into his cloak and pulled the untarnished ring inlaid with an array of rubies and with his fingertips ran circles over the edge, murmuring a wish beneath his breath as he closed his eyes and slipped the ring onto his finger. He was transported, instantly, to the balcony's edge without any flash of light or smoke to mark his passage. It seemed the ring's power work invisibly, intangibly, without the force of the jinni to carry out its order.

For the first time that night, Aladdin's heart pounded heavily against his chest and light perspiration lined his upper lip and temple, having nothing to do with the heat of the night. He was nervous now, fearful even, of what lay ahead that he remained on the edge of the balustrade for an indefinite amount of time, peering through the sheer curtains that moved softly in the absence of wind. The hero raised his arms to balance his step, and when he saw no movement from within the room he breathed deeply and whispered her name to the darkness.

"Jasmine."

Nothing stirred from within or outside of the room. His heart, rather than relaxing, seemed to skip beats now. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment that haunted his dreams and tore open his heart every day and every night for the last four years. He would finally get to see his love, his life and feel her skin and her hair and know that she was more than just a memory, but a real woman, flesh and blood. His woman. But he could not reveal himself to her, even in the darkness.

Aladdin hesitantly stepped down onto the marble flooring of the balcony, and slowly, as if in a dream still, he walked to the shiftless honey colored curtains and latticed frames that partitioned the open air and indoor chambers. With only the bright light of the moon to guide him, he reached the division with ease and stared intently inside, but could not discern furniture, let alone a figure sleeping; the luminosity outside and the shadows within worked against his vision. Sighing slightly, Aladdin counted to three, coupled his hands together and slowly drew them apart to reveal the bedroom inside.

He stepped through the gossamer curtain and waited until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It seemed like hours, days, weeks—no, years—before he was able to perceive the shape and outline of the room, and immediately his eyes fell upon the central drapes that wrapped around the princess's sleeping chaise. Silk hangings sectioned off the room, and several assorted rugs, each with embroidered gold and silver coils, covered the floor along with dozens of cushions and chairs. The furniture was painted with gold and many of the perfumes and lotions that lined the chiffonier were hand crafted bottles with gold filigree. There was more illumination here than actual light, as the shallow beams of the moon caused the gold and silver articles to glow. Aladdin could see the oval picture frame in which Jasmine had placed his image, although he did not observe his or any likeness inside.

His line of sight directed at the furniture, Aladdin immediately tensed upon seeing a shadowy movement next to Jasmine's bed. He dropped to a fighting stance, his knees and his arms bent in action as he glared at the being that stood beyond the bureau. He crept closer to the table, and witnessed the creature grow larger in his vision until he could not see the whole of the thing. Not until he was nearly in front of the cushioned chair did he realize that the shadow he stalked belonged to himself, echoed in the mirror, and he silently laughed in foolishness.

Aladdin reached up and pulled away the hooded cloth that covered his face and nape, revealing his nose, mouth, chin, and hair. He looked hard at his reflection in the dim light. He was changed, that much he could tell; but never having had a mirror in his hovel or bedroom at the palace, Aladdin could not say which of his features had warped the most. He placed his knuckles down against the cool glass top of the table and bent closer to the mirror. His eyebrows had grown thinner in the four years that he had been away, as had his lips. His skin was deeply tanned from countless days in the sun, but it had lost its healthy glow, and he looked almost ashen. His eyes told of the most toil; their warm chocolate color remained, but they looked tired and lined with more age than Aladdin could attest to. He had harsh lines around his eyelids and there were heavy bags above his cheekbones that confirmed too many worries and not enough sleep.

Aladdin shook his head at the sight, troubled at how weary he appeared. The rebel army, already disposed to mutiny and revolt, would not be commanded by a man who looked the better part of a beggar. The hero mentally chided himself for such failings, and resolved to get more sleep before the next battle, some two days away.

The photo on the table looked up cheerfully at him and Aladdin grasped its edges to bring it closer to his face. He was younger when the picture was taken by Genie, who had attempted thrice to explain the detailed functions of what he called a 'camera' before he had lost the street rat's interest and just taken the shot. But in the lighting, Aladdin could see only starker differences between the man in the mirror and the man in the frame. He could not recall his hair being so straight, nor his cheekbones being so high. His eyes looked darker in the image than Aladdin had seen in the mirror's reflection, so much darker that they appeared to be blackened out completely.

Aladdin felt the picture frame fall from his fingertips as he realized with horror that the man in the photo was not him.

The glass shattered immediately upon contact with the hard granite floor, and its pieces splayed over the rugs and cushions, tearing the photo in two. The hero backed away from it, alarmed at its noise and its revelation, until he knocked straight into the bed of his sleeping Princess. She stirred immediately.

Aladdin jumped back farther when he looked upon Jasmine, who by then sat straight up and rubbed her eyes blearily. She wore a simple negligee of lavender silk, her hair free of her crown or hair ties so that it sprawled over her shoulders like midnight waves. In the darkness she did not see his halted stance near the foot of her bed, and Aladdin thanked the heavens that he had avoided detection. He felt the presence of the ring as it burned briefly over his fingers, and he quickly muttered another wish as he wiped its golden frame. He felt a cool sensation kissing his skin as though he had stepped into a cloud of misted fog.

Instantly, Aladdin knew that Jasmine would never see him, even as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting and peered, suspiciously, in his direction. The jinni in the ring had allowed him to blend with the shadows until he became part of the darkness, and he breathed a sigh of relief, although he stifled it still as he realized that the spell may have only made him invisible, not soundless. He watched his love as she stood before her bedding and nimbly stepped toward her bureau, reaching for a small string to ignite the golden lantern overhead.

But Aladdin reached out and grabbed her waist just in time, as her bare feet traced the broken shards of glass across the carpet. She gasped in shock at the touch, and spun around to discover its source. But Aladdin, adapted for quick movement and agility, released her and moved out of the way as she struggled forward against her perceived invisible foe. When her hands did not make contact with anything, she blinked several times and looked about her surroundings, tensed. The hero couldn't help but smile; she was a fiery fighter who went with her instincts, and Aladdin could tell that she sensed someone else's presence within her chamber.

But just as suddenly, the Princess's beautiful face fell; her eyes appeared clouded and unfocused, and she closed them, her head tilted to the side as she grew lost in thought and memory. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, despite the thick heat; she brushed her hands against her figure as though in yearning, in a dream. She turned away from Aladdin and stepped around her small armoire and turned on the bright light of the lantern.

Aladdin's heart broke into a thousand pieces when he saw the true form of his princess without shadow or darkness to blur her figure. Her hair was revealed as unkempt and dull against the shine of gold about her room, her skin much more pallid and broken. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, their shine, and she looked so small and petite that Aladdin balled his fists to keep from reaching out and holding her.

Jasmine knelt down to finger the pieces of broken glass and wood that struck up haphazardly against the ground linen, and swept the pieces up in her hand in one quick motion, discarding them in a jar by the foot of her bed. Her hand lingered on the paper picture and she turned it over to reveal, as Aladdin had suspected, the face of another man, unknown to him. Sadness ran like a river down his body, and his heart lurched in anguish and misery. He was not the man in the picture anymore, and the thought tore his spirit in two.

But confusion overtook his pain when Jasmine ceased looking at the photo and threw in unceremoniously into the trash with a sigh. She sat down in front of her nightstand and looked at herself in the mirror, desolation etched into the sharp lines of her face. She looked weary and fragile, like a porcelain doll that had grown old and antiquated although it remained a doll still; past the prime of her life but still young. And yet she lived, happy and healthy and whole, and for this Aladdin felt his chest swell with relief and pride. No matter the yearnings of her heart, no matter whose face adorned her bureau, he was glad to see his princess still living, still breathing, and still fighting, though it seemed she did not want to any longer.

Aladdin watched her for a few moments, wondering why she stared blankly beyond the mirror, above her reflection. She wiped a few stray strands of hair away from her eyes and pinched her cheeks, trying to awaken some feeling, some sensation similar to the jolt of electricity she had felt earlier. Jasmine did not sing or hum a peaceful melody to calm her nerves, nor did she smile—she simply sat still, staring off into the mirror and Aladdin could only guess of what she thought, if she thought at all. He could see her eyes lit up suddenly at some recollection, and then fade away again into the hazy orbs that now characterized her face. She might sigh deeply, contentedly, when her eyes closed, and then instantly she would reopen them and nearly cry out.

Aladdin walked slowly toward her, desperate to see her closely and to examine her without reservation, but unwilling to allow her acknowledgement of his presence. When he stood by her side, he saw that her gaze seemed to occasionally fall upon a blue and gold vase that held a single white jasmine blossom. Surprised, Aladdin wondered how Jasmine had managed to keep the flower from their first date alive after more than five years. He suspected Genie had something to do with it, and he reached out tentatively to finger the petals, which were still as smooth and silky as the night he had plucked it for her.

"I can open your eyes…Take you wonder by wonder…Over sideways and under…On a magic carpet ride…A whole new world…A new fantastic point of view…No one to tell us no…Or where to go…Or say we're only dreaming…"

Aladdin frowned as the memory played in his head. So much for the heroic savior he turned out to be. He had save the kingdom from the evil clutches of Jafar, and destroyed his lamp some months later. Then, he spent the better part of a year trekking across the Seven Deserts, defeating countless foes and looking for more gold and treasure in fruitless attempts to justify his right to be with her. He had promised to open her eyes, and he might have done that—he had shown her the world outside of the palace, outside of her cage. But had he ever really spent time with her, romantic or otherwise, that didn't somehow involve his friends or the al Muddi, a werewolf, or Mozenrath? How often had he relished in her scent, her touch, her taste? How often had he told her she was beautiful simply because she took his breath away, and not as a cover up for some mishap that he'd caused? He had promised her the world and instead delivered unto her unspeakable pain and misery, all for a cause he didn't fully understand and for a people who did not trust him. And now only memories remained, lost in the dreams they could not escape even if they wanted to. Now they were only dreaming.

His hand released the petals of the flower, and it swayed in the vase, catching the attention of its human counterpart. Aladdin waited and watched as Jasmine entertained the same memory in her own head; her lips let out a brief sigh that was neither despondent nor dejected and a small smile crossed over her mouth. Her head rocked gently in rhythm with the song Aladdin knew well, for it was he who had written it; and before he could stop himself, Aladdin began to hum the sweet melody for his princess, so softly in her ear so she did not notice that it came from outside her head.

His humming became whispering as Jasmine's voice joined his, the song resonating from within their hearts and into the open room. Aladdin fumbled with some of the words, but Jasmine seemed to know them by heart—the lyrics danced off her tongue and mingled with Aladdin's voice, which slowed and hitched to support her chorus. Their spirits soared, tumbled, freewheeling through the imaginary landscape that was both familiar and alien, a place they had visited but could never return to. Jasmine's muscles relaxed and her body melted into the song, tension and stress and worry escaping them both as they reveled in the harmonious music and memory, united together as they both whispered their respective parts into the night. When the song finished, they two sighed in bliss, forgetting that one could not see the other and that the other had been gone for nearly four years with no word and no promise of return.

Jasmine hugged her arms around herself tighter, and she smiled a simple and tender smile that Aladdin knew was reserved for him alone. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her, caress her skin and stroke her hair. But he could not for fear of giving himself away. He would have to wait a little while longer, just a few more weeks, perhaps, and then he would be free to embrace her and make her his own forever.

Lost in thought, Aladdin did not see Jasmine reach into a small, plum colored box near the tabletop and pull out a frayed and worn photo from a linen scarf. His heart jumped in his chest as he recognized himself on the paper—she still had the picture that should have been in the frame. Aladdin wondered why she had replaced it to begin with while still holding onto the previous one, but he forced his mind away from that thought. He did not want to know about the other man in the frame, nor what his relationship to Jasmine meant. Aladdin only wanted to concentrate on his fair princess since he had but a few moments before he needed to retire to his hovel.

Jasmine clutched the picture that was tear stained and tattered with a vivacity and strength that made Aladdin's chest swell with emotion. He was so proud of her, so proud that she had been able to thrive and continue one despite the heartbreak that was still evident in her thoughts, in her movements. She was a resilient and courageous woman, and Aladdin knew there was no one else in the world for him—she must be his soul mate, his counterpart, his other half. He watched as she held the picture in the light, her eyes slowly scanning the many facets of his face and upper body as though recalling tiny details about his figure. His wavy hair, his lopsided smile, his lithe form, his chestnut colored eyes. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed loudly, the way his face grew solemn when he watched her intently. Her fingers converged against the colors on the paper, trying to remember the texture, the feel, of his skin. Her eyes began to water and a single tear slid down the side of her face.

Still cradling the photograph, Jasmine slowly stood from her chair and walked placidly back to her bed, pulling the lantern's light as she went so that the room was pitched in darkness. She lay down on her side, above the sheets, and held the picture before her face. The princess stared at its image for a few minutes more, struggling to keep her eyes open against the lateness of the hour. Aladdin knelt in front of her and sighed against her face, knowing that she would not allow herself to drift off to sleep—she wanted to remember and reminisce, but needed peace. Aladdin slowly brought the blankets over her waist to tuck her in, and his heart broke even more when she failed to realize the action, so lost in the past that she could not see the present. He was sure that she was strong during the day; Fasir had told him as much. It was the nights that took their toll, so long and lonely and without the earthly comforts that friendship and love convey.

"Aladdin."

Slightly startled, the hero stared down at Jasmine's lips to discover that she had spoken his name, whispered it into the night so that the sound was almost silent, tacit in the scene. He looked up at her eyes to see them again hazy and unfocused. He knew that she could not see him, but that she might feel his presence there, attributing it to her memories and the aching that accompanied them. She could feel him near her, but she thought that it was just a mirage, a fantasy that she had played out over and over in her mind after closing her eyes but before reaching the confines of sleep.

He began to hum the melody of their song again, his voice flowing slowly over her laying frame and she shivered, but her eyes finally fluttered close. She tried to hum her parts of the song, but her voice grew quieter as the music that they made soothed her spirit and eased her heartache. Aladdin lightly cupped her face as he whispered the song in her ear, and he knew that sleep had overtaken her when her hand fell on top of the pillow for support and her grip on the picture slackened. But she refused to let it go completely.

He stayed with her a moment longer, drinking it her sight for the final time before his departure. He would be back, he promised to the night, to his love, even if he had to move mountains and conquer the entire Seven Deserts. He would return to her.

Jasmine barely opened her eyes at the sound of the curtain swaying in the darkness. Her vision was blurry but she could see a shadowy figure turning the corner and leaving the room without looking back. Just before she succumbed to her weariness, her heart shuddered one last time and a sad smile painted her lips when she saw a familiar red fez hidden in her illusion.

Aladdin surveyed the outline of the balcony, pulling the hood back over his head and covering his face with the cloth. He took a deep breath, rubbed the ring once, then twice, then three times as he sprinted toward the edge of the balcony, and hurtled over the railing with ease. The hero jumped from the balcony and landed on his feet some thousand feet below, without loss of feeling. His knees bent low so that his cloak pooled atop the limestone walkways amidst the lush garden, and his face contorted in pain beneath his mask so that it appeared lost in the shadows. No one could discern his figure as the cloak wrapped tightly around him, and he let out a tremendous gasp as his feet contacted; but just as quickly as he fell, the hero dashed to the nearest trees to avoid detection and artfully scaled the wall without strength or muscle to conduct him.

Aladdin wove his way through the darkness, slinking into the gloomy crevices of the kingdom as though he had created them. His neck strained forward to glance around the thin corner edges of the fragmented buildings and shops and temples. He passed more people now and then, whose dark and sinister stares elicited no response from the time-tested hero of the sands. He seemed to pass trough walls and gates uninhibited by solidity, murmuring each time to the ring as his cloak swept past the derelict surfaces that marked personal property and gang territory.

At last, the hero entered a familiar realm and his eyes lighted eagerly at the sight. The building sat upon the outskirts of the city, tucked away between dangerous alleyways and friendly neighborhoods. The wall surrounding the kingdom was nearby; Aladdin touched his fingers to it lightly, tracing the grooves and nicks in its side from years of wear. The heat still lingered on the side of the gate although night had fallen fully. Aladdin passed through the recognizable entrance into the decrepit building, and slowly climbed the stairs, one at a time, aided by no magic. Memories again washed over him like forceful waves of water, filling his head with images and sensations from years before when he had walked the same path, up the same stairs, into the same hovel.

The climb was arduous, but Aladdin welcomed the exercise. His muscles flexed and toned with each stride, and he kept an even pace as he made his up and over many old buildings and arches, never feeling a stitch in his side or a pain in his lungs. Months of riding Carpet up to the high tower before his departure had made him more agile, in keeping with the swift and unsteady movements of the rug, but also weaker. Now, years of wielding sword and spear and ring had given Aladdin such strength as never before witnessed in the slim and sprightly hero. He felt power course through his hands into his arms and shoulders, down to his thighs and feet that made his journey effortless.

He reached the twelfth story and adjusted his eyes to the minute moonlight that shone over the roof. He quickly found the light pole slung carelessly to the side of the landing, and he held it closely to his face to inspect its durability but found no cracks or splints. He walked to the edge of the roof and then sprinted to its opposite edge, where he positioned the pole's tip against the shallow rim and vaulted across the immeasurable gap to a landing on the opposite side. The warm wind brushed gently across his face and he closed his eyes when he landed firmly on the sandstone, having lost no breath in the strenuous exertion. Aladdin lowered the pole and let it fall from his fingertips; he turned to gaze upon the final entrance to his home. He smiled beneath the cloak as he walked inside, instinctually ducking his head as he passed the low beams and fallen walls of the top room.

At first glance he was disappointed not to find his friends sleeping listlessly about the room; Abu curled up against the smooth steps, Iago perched precariously on a small peg, Carpet carefully laid out on the ledge, and Genie's lamp set atop a firm cushion in the corner. There was no sight of any of them, and in fact it seemed to Aladdin that the room had not been touched in years. The shuffle of the hero's feet disturbed thick dust lining the floor, and the cushions and curtains seemed to be piled fastidiously near the window, not strewn about as was typical. Aladdin's eyebrows knitted in concern: where would his friends be if not in their home?

Even as the supernatural being appeared, streamed in shadow, Aladdin turned on his heels and crouched defensively. His senses became away of the voice before it even escaped the speaker's lips.

"They are not here, Aladdin. They sleep in the palace now, at the request of the princess."

Aladdin peered suspiciously into the night as the figure approached, cutting through the rafters without impediment. He moved back to the oversized window, and when the moonlight fell on the old man, he let out a sigh of relief.

"Do you always have to enter a room that way? You could at least knock." A small smile tugged at Aladdin's lips, but remained hidden beneath the mask. He eyed Fasir wearily and sat down on the ledge overlooking the grand city.

"What purpose would a knock serve if there is no door?"

Aladdin huffed slightly, but did not say anything. He contemplated the view, awaiting orders from the wise and elderly man. Aladdin was used to this cat and rat game, where the cat seemed to hold all the answers while the street rat did his bidding, still surprised that the feline had not devoured him. But that was foolish thinking—Aladdin was still alive and strong yet, and although he knew that Fasir spoke for his best interest, he couldn't help but feel contempt for the one with all the answers, when he himself had none.

Fasir stood quietly, half in shadow and half in light. The heavy rag that covered his eyes was weathered, and his robes were soiled and torn. He stood with a hand on his heart, his bowed head catching lines of moonlight with its silver white strands of hair. Aladdin looked back at him curiously before returning his gaze to the city, still unused to the strange customs of the seer. But when Aladdin shifted his hand, the glint of the ruby-covered ring reminded him of its wear. Fasir, who could not see physically, knew the location of the ring even in the darkness

"You wear the ring without sign of fatigue. But I wonder whether it will take its toll on you yet."

Aladdin finally turned to address Fasir, crossly. He clenched his fists in resentment. "I have to wear it. There's no safer place for it than on my hand." Fasir considered Aladdin for a moment, while the street rat returned the apparent stare, challenging it. Anger seemed to stir within him, anger that rose from the red ruby shine of the jinni's ring.

The mask which shrouded Fasir's eyes twitched as the old man lifted an eyebrow in response. "Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims." His robes swirled in the dust on the ground. "It has not obeyed you fully." It was not a question.

Aladdin coughed hoarsely, his eyes narrowing in the semidarkness. He felt contempt for the old man's wise observations; but how did he always know the truth despite his constant disappearances? Aladdin could only offer a small shrug, the truth spilling from his lips like water. "It gives me strength when I ask for it, but it also gives me a lot of pain. It never does what I want completely." He fingered the gold sphere on his hand and touched the great many rubies encrusted in its side. He spoke his mind suddenly, struck by a thought that had manifested during the last few years. "I don't think the jinni wants me to have the ring at all."

Fasir brought his hands together as if in prayer, pointing them at Aladdin to communicate the direction of his gaze. "The jinni has no qualms against you, Aladdin. It takes no sides in mortal affairs. But you are not the true master of the ring, and therefore are not the true master of the jinni."

Aladdin looked up, disappointment etched in his eyes. "But I've had the ring for four years now, ever since I stole it from Maghreb. When will it finally accept me as its master?"

Fasir shook his head slowly and the long tendrils of his hair moved against the grey and black backdrop palette. "Need you be master to conquer other masters before you?" Aladdin looked away bitterly, visibly, and childishly, huffing at the thought.

"No. But it sure would help when I run into Mozenrath again." Aladdin rubbed his side temples, weariness tugging at his muscles and mind. He was so very tired.

But the statement caused Fasir to chortle, and Aladdin looked back in wonder and surprise. "Does the sorcerer bring such fear into your heart, Aladdin? He is but a man after all."

Aladdin rolled his eyes at the idea. "Oh, yes, only a man. Only a man with unspeakable power and ambition." He sighed wistfully, wishing to change the reality of the tension between the young arch rivals. "Why does Mozenrath have to come after me, have to fight me still? Why wouldn't he just join my side, since Maghreb is a threat to him too?"

Fasir cocked his head to the side, seeming to contemplate the answer before responding. He frowned slightly, and Aladdin could tell that the wise man had expected different behavior from the young sorcerer. Seconds passed as a small breeze swam through the hovel, swirling the dust in strange patterns before Fasir, and at their arrival he seemed to find truth in his answer.

"Mozenrath remains dominated by power. But he will transform soon enough." Aladdin pierced the old man with an intense stare, prompting him to elaborate. Fasir looked at him blankly, without expression, although Aladdin was sure that if he could see Fasir's eyes, they would hold a small flicker of hidden candor. "Where love rules, there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other."

Aladdin returned his gaze to the floor and pondered the statement, turning the words over in his mind. "Does that mean he will finally get a girlfriend?" He looked up hopefully in response, but Fasir did not answer. Aladdin sighed and turned back to view the city. He grew tired of Fasir's unhelpful prophecies, and wished the wise man would speak more plainly. How would Aladdin know what was was to come if Fasir only spoke in riddles?

The hero was tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of fighting. For four years, he had journeyed perilously through the Seven Deserts, battling wave after wave of sorcerers, swordsmen, paupers and princes. He had been witness to the escalation of warfare, seen sultans and their wives die at the hands of enemy insurgents. So much blood had been spilt, and for what? Aladdin could see no end in sight to all the chaos, and only wished to return home to Agrabah, return to a time where fighting had been against supernatural monsters and when heroes and princesses always won. Everything, even the truth, seemed clouded in the turmoil of war, where blood and lives were wasted upon the treacherous desert sand. There was no black and white now, only red and grey.

Aladdin had wanted to return to his city, to his love, ever since the day he left it nearly four years ago. It had been too much for the street rat to be separated from all that he held dear; truth be told, he had never really spent that much time away from the kingdom before, and for the first eighteen years of his life he had walked the streets of Agrabah contentedly. He had been engaged to the princess, had freed a jinni, and had made dozens of friends and enemies along the way, but there was nothing in his life he regretted. Until now.

Aladdin thought of his princess, sleeping soundly, listlessly, in the cool palace twilight and he wished beyond measure to join her in long, uninterrupted slumber. He wanted the fighting to end, he wanted the betrayals to end, and he wanted to journey to the past where love and life were the measures of a man, not weapons and power. But when would he be able to return to Agrabah again? It would be too dangerous to visit frequently, but if Aladdin had his way he would visit his friends each and everyday. It had only been his perpetual struggles in the far east that had kept the street rat away, but now that the war drew near to his home he felt more compelled to remain and ensure the safety of his loved ones.

As though he had spoken the thought aloud, Fasir stirred in his silence, and Aladdin was sure that the old man had been waiting to address the point.

"You should not have visited the palace, Aladdin. It was foolish of you to do so."

Aladdin, surprised at the frankness of the statement, cast his gaze upon the cushions in the opposite corner, guiltily. He should have known that the old man would be aware of his indiscretion. "…I know. But I had to see her. I needed to make sure she was okay."

"And my constant assurance that she is does not grant you faith?"

Aladdin played with the string of his cloak when he answered. "It's…different. I needed to see her with my own eyes." He let the silence ring in the air and when Fasir did not answer, patiently waiting for Aladdin to explain, the hero angrily tossed the cord from his hands. "You act like this isn't hard for me! I haven't seen her or my friends in years, haven't even spoken with someone from Agrabah in just as long! They don't even know why I'm gone; they must think I deserted them!" He tore the mask from his face and head and stared down at his palms. "They already moved on." He gestured furiously to his own face, his mouth curved in a cross scowl. "They wouldn't recognize me even if they did see me."

The improbability of this statement was not lost on the street rat, but even if his friends welcomed him back with open arms he knew that things could never be the same. He had abandoned his love, his life, the very night before their wedding ceremony. And in four short years, she had already moved on, as was necessary to secure the standing of her kingdom. His friends had stopped looking for him; their palpable absence from his hovel home marked their desertion. Aladdin could not blame them for relinquishing his memory, especially since he had given that memory up himself. He could not remember what he had even looked like before this war, and as his mind grasped new experiences of bloodshed and perfidy, he was forced to forget the wholesome memories of his former life. What strategy was used to defeat the serpent Malcho? What was the name of the imp who had set Genie off to no end? What was the Jasmine's mother's name? Simple details he could not remember; his body seemed to recall only vague feelings and washed emotions that still stung his heart.

Fasir moved slowly through the mingled shadows and moonlight until he stood near the ledge opposite from Aladdin. "Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

Aladdin could only stare out into the night as these words, less of a riddle than a statement of truth. But it brought no comfort to the street rat, whose mind had already betrayed his heart by forgetting his former life. He could not be there for his friends or his love, and they had no choice but to move on with their lives, saving reminiscence of the hero for late night dreams and nightmares.

Fasir stood watchful at the ledge, seeming to peer into the darkness as though he could see. But Aladdin knew better than this; despite the old man's appearance, Fasir saw more and knew more about the seven kingdoms than any other man alive. He was an acting force in this war, but his help was divided and difficult to follow, especially given his habit of disappearing for weeks on end, visiting Aladdin sometimes only in his dreams to deliver some urgent news or report. Fasir spoke again through the silence, chastising Aladdin in all but the tone of his voice, which remained steady and unperturbed.

"Agrabah is a fair and open kingdom. The Sultan and his daughter fare well but remain naive to the endeavors of their neighbors." He turned toward Aladdin and quirked an eyebrow when the hero shivered in the heated night and pursed his lips, observably unconvinced.

"Not every servant is a spy, you know. And no one saw me enter or leave her balcony."

Fasir turned sharply to face the street rat, and despite the form of a sharp gaze, Aladdin could still feel its intensity. "You do not know such. Or did the ring aid you in this journey?" Aladdin nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Fasir cut him off forcefully.

"There need be only one spy for your presence to be known." He waved his hands before the open window of the hovel and Aladdin saw sand glittering as it fell from the sorcerer's hands. A vivid image appeared in front of the hero just outside his hovel, and Aladdin rubbed his eyes at the sudden contrast of light. More than a picture, the illusion that Fasir created was a multidimensional image of the past, no different from the image he and Fasir made before it.

Aladdin shot a glance at Fasir, questionably, before returning his gaze to the illusion. He saw himself and Jasmine, aboard Carpet high above the city, reaching for something that seemed out of their grasp. But the image appeared to steal away from the pair, and Aladdin could see that the view of their ride came from within the palace, where three servant girls sat giggling and pointing at the couple so far away. When the magic carpet vanished from sight, the servants fluttered their lashes and whispered behind open palms. They retreated from the open balcony, only to run into the royal vizier, Jafar. Aladdin clenched his fist at the image, but knew that Fasir conjured nothing but the past—Jafar was long dead. But the street rat watched as the servant girls gossiped loudly as they passed the man, who overheard every word of their conversation.

"That Prince Ali is quick with wit and charm to secure the princess!"

"And he's so handsome! I wonder that the princess will return intact, with grace! I know that if I were riding on a magic carpet with him, my virtue would surely be smeared across the Seven Deserts…gladly!" The other girls emitted high pitched squeals of laughter at this, and they exited the chamber with their polish and dusters.

Jafar listened intently to the dialogue, a vicious smile curving his upper lip into a sneer. He turned to eye Iago, who sat perched on his shoulder, and the pair immediately followed the puerile girls, attempting to discern more of their chatter. Aladdin could see the inner cogs of Jafar's mind rapidly running, and was sure that the moment had helped hatch his plan to ambush Aladdin on his return, when the royal vizier endeavored to assassinate the pretend prince once and for all.

Fasir lowered his arms and the image was wiped away instantly, like wind upon the desert sand. Aladdin pursued his lips but said nothing. He remained unconvinced, but Fasir had seen through his demeanor and sighed. He lifted his hands again, recreating another image that merged into the night sky, again of Aladdin flying atop Carpet, this time alone. He circled in the air, turning around to face an unknown enemy that hurtled fluid chunks of rock and smoke at the hero. Aladdin watched himself dodged the attacks effortlessly; he stood atop Carpet with ease and readied himself, as he hurtled downward to strike his surprised assailant, who disappeared beneath wisps of smoldering ash. Aladdin guessed that the villain of that episode had been Abis Mal, although he could not seen the bumbling idiot in the image. He recognized that chaotic care that the thief instilled with his half-hearted attempt to use a powerful deity to destroy Agrabah.

Aladdin was so focused on the image that he did not see the young child watching the illusion from the streets below. Fasir noticed, however, and suddenly moved his hands back into the hovel, taking Aladdin's image and his gaze into the depths of the room. Aladdin watched as the scene changed again; he saw the royal guards standing shuffled in a corner alley, below the flying Aladdin, reporting their findings to Rasoul. The city shook and trembled, as the ground itself split in two and fire and smoke whisked the edges of buildings. The head guard issued orders to the others which Aladdin could not hear—his attention focused intently on another figure, cast in darkness, whose eyes glinted red against the fire that burnt the city. It was not the monster that Aladdin had been fighting, but before the figure stepped away from the burning alley, Fasir once again lowered his hands to his sides.

Aladdin turned to look at Fasir, confused. The image was not something he could recall seeing or hearing about, though he was sure that the guards had sensed the mysterious presence even if they did not feel threatened by it. Fasir only folded his arms against his chest, his head bowed deeply as he delivered his message of clarity.

"That form was not someone you know, nor will ever meet. But through his simple observance, your person was chosen to retrieve the jinni's ring from the goddess of the underworld. From his simple observance, your life's journey was changed forever."

Aladdin frowned, the words sinking in slowly as his brain refused to acknowledge its implication. "I was chosen simply because I could fight monsters and hopeless villains?"

Fasir shook his head sternly. "You were chosen because you never surrendered, even when facing a demon god."

Aladdin's face fell slightly at the news. "That was really the only reason I was chosen? Not the whole diamond-in-the-rough thing?"

"Would you rather that the reason were to take you away from your beloved Princess so that she would not marry a commoner?"

Aladdin let out a sharp breath of anger. "What? That's not the reason I was drawn away from the city!" He abashedly paused. "Right?"

"Only one of many reasons you were made to steal the ring so as bring terror unto the land."

Aladdin rubbed the back of his neck, still angry but more confused than ever. "I did manage to steal the ring. And I think I may have brought that terror to the land, too." He sighed, and closed his eyes tightly shut. "I've tried so hard to bring peace to warring kingdoms, but so far I've only brought more war and more death to every city I've visited." A lump caught in the street rat's throat and he trembled to push it back, back to cloak his heart and not choke his words. "No good can come of my troubles." He thought silently of Jasmine and Genie and all his friends. He could not return to them yet, but he did not want to return to the warfront either.

He felt a crippled hand, curled in places where bones had broken, grip his shoulder softly, solidly. Aladdin turned his head away in shame.

"You do this and other lands a great service, even if your efforts appear in vain before the swarms of evil. But your task is not complete. Heart and spirit must bind together if you are to bring an end to war."

Aladdin struggled to open his eyes as the pain bit away at his chest like a chisel. Weariness and sorrow etched more lines into the young hero's face before he finally managed to look up at the wise man. Fasir managed only a small smile that quickly gave way to solemnity.

Aladdin understood the look and moved to the side of the window, away from the sill, kneeling down on one knee. He had agreed to meet Fasir in the hovel for a reason, and had only just remembered. The street rat reached below the rug and his fingers traced the edges of a stone slightly set above the rest; he gently lifted the smooth brown sandstone from its place to reveal a large, ornate wooden box. It was lighter than Aladdin remembered, and Fasir looked on as the street rat slowly unfastened the metal latch. He lifted the lid and stared intently at the contents of the box; a small thin dagger laid atop a cushion of red satin, with bright gold laid into the handle, an enormous turquoise gem marking the end. Blue sapphire twisted around the center where an ancient golden hand was embossed. Aladdin touched the leather straps gingerly, stroking the curled edges wrapped in yellow gold. He set the box upon the floor next to him, and lifted the dagger before him, inspecting it in the shallow moonlight, where it sparkled and shone just as bright as the ruby covered ring he wore.

Fasir eyed the piece carefully over the street rat's shoulder, tilting his head to examine the fine craftsmen work and detail embedded in its design. Aladdin pulled the blade from its sheath and ran his fingers across the smooth silver metal, its rounded edge still sharp enough to prick the hero's finger. Aladdin looked grimly at the small wound and hastily shoved the dagger back into the case, turning around to remove the existing knife from his belt and replace it with his father's.

"That is a fine blade, Aladdin. It will be necessary in times to come."

Aladdin looked up skeptically at the old man, his eyebrows raised, but he did not say anything. Fasir had requested that he retrieve the weapon, although Aladdin still did not understand how the sorcerer knew of its existence; even Jasmine, his former fiancée, did not know about the weapon. Aladdin held his older dagger in his hand, the one which he had earned after fighting off monster upon monster for Maghreb, the same one which the street had used to escape. It was a handy weapon, to be sure, and it was slightly larger than his father's dagger, making it more helpful, although its strength could not match the golden blade. After examining it for an indefinite time Aladdin decided to keep both, and he meticulously tucked the knife into the other side of his belt. Aladdin had been dueling swords for longer than he cared to remember, and he knew that two blades were always better than one.

The street rat stood up and the new daggers swung lightly at his side but remained hidden beneath his cloak. His face uncovered by the mask, Aladdin made a foreboding sight: dark and daunting, his lean muscular frame gave testimony to the years he had spent surviving beneath the hot desert sun and his eyes shone ominously beneath his heavy brow. He looked every bit the part of hero, and Fasir smiled tightly as he watched the younger man turn around to face the city. He knew that Aladdin was strong and resilient, but he also knew that if that strength and resilience was to continue he would need reassurance and guidance. Even as he watched, Aladdin's shoulders seemed to slump forward, his head titling down as he became entranced by a painful past, made evident by the large, majestic palace overpowering the view.

"Confidence is necessary for survival. You must prepare yourself for what is to come."

Aladdin glanced over his shoulder at the wise man. "It's hard to believe that four years ago I thought I was invincible, and now my own mortality hangs over me like a shadow."

Fasir stood silently behind the hero, and Aladdin felt an eerie sense of exposure; he knew that Fasir could see although he had no sight, and that he could understand the inner workings of Aladdin's heart and mind without observance. He did not like opening up to the old man, especially since he had a feeling that Fasir knew the stirring emotions which attacked Aladdin's composure even before Aladdin recognized the symptoms himself.

But the silence grew more awkward, and the street rat shifted his weight uncomfortably. "What if I don't make it through this war, Fasir? What if I can't save all these people?" He turned to look at the blind man, eyes fading in the pale moonlight.

Fasir bowed his head again and breathed deeply. "Fear not for the future, Aladdin, for it will come soon enough." He turned his arm over, revealing the base of his palm. "But you must not weep for the past. One face's the future with one's past. Your part in this was not accidental."

Aladdin nodded imperceptibly, and his eyes grew heavy with both the past and the future. He felt the sting of sand against his rough palms, and knew that the shattered grains carved away more than just his skin—the sand swept over his life and suffocated his very memory. He turned to Fasir to see the old man backing away slowly to the other end of the hovel, and when he spoke Aladdin stood still and silent.

"To ease another's heartache is to forget one's own. But you must pay the price if you wish to secure the blessing." Fasir began to fuse with the shadows again and Aladdin could only make out the outline of the crinkled white blindfold that marked the old man's sight. "Leave neither letter nor mark of your presence here. You keep Agrabah safe by keeping her enemies far." Aladdin held out a hand to stop the quick exit, but by the time he had gotten to his feet he stood alone in the hovel. His hand fell dejectedly to his side and he cast his eyes upon the dusty floor. He ran his hands through his hair, but did not notice his missing fez.

Fasir spoke only in tongues that Aladdin could not comprehend, and it had been as such for more than four years. With only vague guidance and careless aid from the old man, Aladdin could only hope to win the war with his own sheer luck and bravery. But now was not the time to consider the impossibilities of his journey, or to consider abandoning his duty to the people of the desert.

Aladdin stood facing the exit to his hovel, the exit to the kingdom, and with ghostlike strength he turned his back on his beloved, his city, one last time.