The Servant's Story

Farah, Grand Vizier of Agrabah, second only to Sultan Dastan, strode through the halls of the palace with fury and purpose. In her right hand was a staff, carried upon it a falcon. In her left, a group of parchments, given to her by a servant, and bearing the sultan's signature. His chambers were her destination, and so far, none had seen fit to stop her. If anything, seeing the fury in her eyes, they had made all due effort to stay out of the way. Still, all that might mean nothing if she didn't get through the door that now stood between her and the most powerful man in Agrabah. A door that she could easily open by herself, but it was flanked by two members of the palace guard. Wielding spear and shield, clad in armour, their capes as red as the blood that so often fed the sand, they gave her a look that would have made even the most vibrant flower wither.

"Move," Farah said.

The guards stood there.

"I am here to see the sultan."

"The sultan is busy," said one of the guards. "He will see you when he's available."

"He will see me now."

"Does the shit from the streets still fill your ears girl?" One of the guards took a step towards her. "The sultan is busy. He is with men more powerful, and far wiser than yourself."

"I am the grand vizier," Farah said. "I am second only to the sultan. I have more power than any man beyond these doors, and I have more power than you."

The guards said nothing, but in their eyes, Farah could see a flicker of fear. In practice, they could gut her where she stood. In theory, she could order guards to her sides, have them wrapped in chains, and tossed into the sea before the setting of the sun. The man beyond those doors had once told her that power was simply a matter of perception, that if power was an absolute, those of steel and magic would rule the world. In her years as the grand vizier, Farah had since come to see that as being true.

"Look at it this way," Farah said, feigning a smile. "I come in and disturb the sultan. If you're correct, and he does not wish to see me, then a pike will have my head, and you will get to laugh as the buzzards feed."

The guards looked at each other.

And if you're wrong, and the sultan does listen to me, I'll see that there's a change of staff.

The guards nodded and opened the door. "Have fun princess," one of them whispered, as she walked in.

I'm not a princess.

Agrabah had neither prince nor princess, and thus, no clear line of succession. In years past, Farah had pressed Dastan to take note of the issue. To find a wife, whether it be from within or without the kingdom, be it far or, for all he knew, very, very near. But that was years ago. In those years, the sultan had changed. So when he looked up at her with the wise men around him, all huddled over a series of maps with soldier figurines on top of them, Farah reflected that the years had made the sultan no less handsome. But seeing the look in his eyes as he looked at her, she was further reminded that while the sands of Arabia grew ever warmer, Dastan, son of Sharazan, had grown as cold as the lands to the north.

"Farah," he said. He got to his feet. "I did not send for you."

"No. You didn't." She tossed the parchments onto the maps that covered the table. "But there are some things in this world that can't wait."

Dastan glanced at the parchments, then glanced at her. He knew exactly what they entailed – he'd given to them in the first place, albeit delivered by servants.

"There are some things that can't wait," Dastan murmured. "And some things that can."

"And as your vizier, who's provided sound advice to you for a decade, I would advise that this is a matter that can't wait."

"Indeed?" He looked at the men around him – generals in the armies of Agrabah, spies from distant lands, informants from the streets of the city. "Well, you heard the vizier, my friends. There is a matter of grave importance that takes precedence over the survival of our kingdom."

Survival of our kingdom, Farah reflected. You're making a sand dune out of sand ball.

"Still," Dastan said. "Many hours we have been here, and the day grows old. I will hear what our vizier has to say, and you may take in the sights and scents of palace. Adjourn back here, and perhaps we will have fresh perspective."

The men reacted in variety of ways. Some chuckled. Some bowed. Some smirked, some glowered. Watching them leave, clutching her staff with a warrior's grip, Farah made a note of what each of them had done. Even when men did not speak from their lips, their eyes could utter a hundred words. But she only had a moment for that, because before long, only she and Dastan were left in the room. The guards closed the doors with a thud, and before they'd done so, Dastan had already begun pouring some wine.

"I don't appreciate this Farah," he said. He finished the first glass and handed it to her. "I give you a simple task, and you barge in here like you own the place."

Farah took the wine. "In the current order of things, I'm the second most powerful person in Agrabah."

Dastan snorted as he poured a cup for himself. "Someone else said that once. Did I tell you what happened to him?"

"Many times," Farah said.

Dastan smiled, and sipped the wine.

"Which is why I'm here," she said.

"Hmm?"

She gestured to the parchments she'd tossed onto the table. "This."

Dastan sat down. "Is it beyond your abilities Farah? I always thought writing was a passion of yours."

"Writing is, when my quill speaks truth." She sat down as well. "But this? You wish me to rewrite the story of your grandparents?"

Dastan said nothing. He just sipped the wine, avoiding her gaze.

"Agrabah knows the story already," Farah said. "What makes you think you can change history?"

"The same way men before me have always changed history," Dastan said. He looked back at Farah. "As vizier, as someone who's read more books than everyone in this palace put together, I'd have thought you would understand that."

"I understand…" She took a sip of wine. "I understand that history has been reinterpreted, but this isn't such a thing. This is a perversion."

"Perversion?" Dastan asked. "That's a strong word to use, especially if one takes the view that history is nothing more than the story we choose to tell ourselves, and present it as truth."

Farah scowled at him.

"For instance," Dastan said. "Is it true that my grandmother was the wisest, most brilliant sultan who graced Agrabah in a thousand years, who delivered peace and prosperity to her people, and who died beloved? Or is it truth that in her idealism, she forgot the jackals beyond the gate and whose decades of inaction have left Agrabah without sufficient might to defend itself from kingdoms who would seek our wealth?"

Farah didn't say anything. She knew which side she fell on, but she was guessing that it would be the opposite from that where Dastan resided.

"The story needs to be told, because Agrabah needs a new truth," Dastan said. "And it needs that truth, because sooner or later, we're going to be facing some harsh truths."

"And, what? The story of The Princess and the Street Rat will carve that truth in stone?"

"If you bothered to look at the notes, you'd see that I bid you to title it Aladdin." Dastan smiled and went to get some more wine. "Much simpler that way."

"To minimize the role of your grandmother?"

"To deliver a better story, so that as I move away from my grandmother's legacy, the kingdom will be better served."

"But these changes," Farah protested. She picked up the parchments and began shuffling through them. "You remove any trace of sympathy for Jaffar. You remove Dalia entirely. You end the story with a giant snake fight, and Aladdin becomes sultan, rather than your grandmother retaining power." She looked at Dastan. "You expect the people to buy that?"

"They already buy tales of genies, and jams, and talking parrots. Why not this?"

"And Dalia," Farah protested. "She's nowhere to be seen. Why?"

Dastan gave her a dark look. "Are you happy with the notion of a djinn and human breaking the laws of God and producing unholy spawn?"

Farah stared at him.

"Many aren't." He glanced to the side. "More and more men each day it seems. Faith and reason are but two sandals on different feet, but these days, one treads further than the other." He looked back at Farah. "Do it," he said. "Write the story. Deliver it to me within the month, so that the people of Agrabah will forget my grandmother's legacy."

Farah just looked at him.

"Are you listening?" Dastan snapped. "I told you to-"

"No," Farah whispered.

"You're not listening? Well, that's-"

"I am listening," she whispered. "And I won't do it."

Dastan sighed and got to his feet. Farah went to stand as well.

"Sit down," Dastan snapped.

She obeyed, but did not sit still. As Dastan walked round her back, as he lay his hands on her shoulders, she squirmed, as a shiver went down her spine.

"I remember when my father took you in," Dastan whispered. "Some street mouse who dared think she could steal from the sultan. Who was spared from the sword only because she could quote the works of great men, who argued for mercy so eloquently that he could not help be moved."

Farah remembered. She also remembered that Dastan himself had begged his father for mercy, reminding Sharazan of his own father. Where he had come from, what he had done to survive. How would his memory be honoured through the spilling of blood?

"So mercy you were given," Dastan said. He let go of Farah and walked over to the table, looking at the map of Arabia, its kingdoms, and its armies. "A servant, then a scholar, who spent more time in the library than with the rag." He smiled, and for the first time since she'd seen him today, Farah could see that the sultan was genuinely happy. "Good times. Kinder times. Times where one such as yourself would climb the ladder to grand vizier, who would share her knowledge of great thinkers, and combine it with the everyday knowledge of one who had grown up in the streets below." He looked at Farah. "Ten years as vizier you have served me, and never once did I doubt you, in ability or loyalty." The smile faded. "So tell me Farah – was I wrong?"

Farah remained seated.

"Well?" he snapped.

"You need a wife," she murmured.

Dastan blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You need a wife," she said. She got to her feet. "I've told you for years that-"

"God's sake Farah, of course I need a wife!" Dastan snapped.

"Then-"

"And it's not you."

She stopped short.

"Not you," he whispered, and when he looked at her, it was a mix of desire, pity, and sorrow. "Not you," he repeated. "Those years are over. Marriage is to form alliances. My grandmother married within her kingdom, and robbed Agrabah of a potential alliance as a result."

"It's because of your grandmother that I'm even here," Farah whispered. "That I'm even alive. That so many are alive today, rather than dying in the streets."

"Yes, they grow fat, and now, other kingdoms want our wealth that we have kept with our people rather than within the throne," Dastan said. He walked over to Farah. "Shall I tell you how power works, Farah?"

She cleared her throat. "Power is in the hands of-"

"Guards!"

The doors burst open, and the guards walked in from outside.

"Dastan, what is this?"

"Guards, seize the vizier."

They did so. Quite roughly.

"Dastan, what are you doing?!"

"Guards, the vizier has refused to follow my orders."

One of them drew out a dagger.

"Dastan, please," Farah begged. "You can't-"

"Cut her throat, then remove her head."

The dagger went for her throat. Farah screamed.

"Wait!"

The dagger was pressed against her flesh, but it had yet to draw blood. For it was not Farah who had bid the guards stay their hand, but Dastan himself.

"I've changed my mind," he said. He looked at the guards. "Return to your posts – we shall discuss matters with tongue rather than blade."

The guards bowed, and departed. Farah looked back at them, trembling. And still trembling, she returned her gaze to the sultan, who was looking at her with a stony gaze. As hard as the mountains, and as uncompromising.

"That," he said, "is power." He patted her on the shoulder. "Armies give you power Farah – not prophets and philosophers who could dream of Heaven without ever setting foot in the Hell known as Earth. Power comes from the blade, not from the quill."

"Dastan-"

"I believed different once, but now…" He sighed, leaning over the table. "Now, mercy has come to condemn us. Now, we are our own Cave of Wonders, and thieves come to steal not just our lamp." He stood up straight and looked at the vizier. "Write the story Farah. Write it quickly. Write it as brilliantly as you've written everything else within your life, so that the people will see it as true. So that in Aladdin they see me, and the legacy of my mother is forgotten. Do it, so that this kingdom has any legacy to discuss."

Farah stared at him. Searching for any sign of the boy he had once been. Of the boy she had once known. Of the boy who treated the street mouse as equal, who had come to visit her quarters in the night. Who had walked with her in the garden, and with whom secret whispers had been exchanged under the stars. Of the boy he had once been…and the boy he had forced himself to kill, for reasons he deemed necessary.

"Sultan," she said, bowing. She picked up the manuscript. "Your will shall be done."

"Good." He took a seat. "And do remember Farah, you're only number two. And thinking you can climb any higher, well, that doesn't work out, does it? Even if you made great effort to climb so high?"

"Does it?" she whispered. "Why, Jaffar was but a power hungry maniac, wasn't he?"

Dastan gave her a sad smile. "Very good."

She bowed, thinking of what she would have to write. Of the lies she would have to pen.

Of the truths that she could never speak.

A/N

There's a chance that someone might get the wrong idea from reading this, so I want to specify something - this isn't me trying to make the case of the 2019 film being better than the original. In fact, I really didn't like it. Oh sure, there's individual elements that I liked (jams!), but like Beauty and the Beast, at the end of the day, I've little reason to watch it over the animated version. I'm not opposed to Disney doing live-action versions of their films, but I am opposed to them not making them their own films rather than remakes with anemic attempts at distinguishing themselves from their predecessors. Jungle Book managed it, but BatB/Aladdin? Not so much. If you've been following my Lion King stuff, you'd have seen I've got similarly low expectations for the 2019 version of that film as well.

That said, it did give me the idea of there being an in-universe reason for there being two versions of the story (yes, I'm aware that Aladdin has its 'modern' origins in the 18th century). Hence, drabbled this up.

Also, jams!