"My mother..." The word sounded so foreign to him. Destane had beaten him whenever he asked questions about where he came from, or who he was, saying 'Your here now, and your nothing, live with it.' The only information he given him was that his mother died in the Great Massacre. "You're saying...the favor-you owe it to my mother?"
"In a way."
"Stop talking in riddles, damn you," Mozenrath snapped. Pain, anger and a massive headache killed his common sense, especially in uncharted and raw emotional territories such as his mother. She was a woman he didn't even know, but as every child has, he felt a natural protectiveness.
Eris started, eyes wide, like she was going to smite him. The floor shook and the night darkened further. Mozenrath took a step back, calculating in a rush how far he could get running with a wounded leg and tired muscles. Not far.
Then...it stopped. And she smiled, a smirk laced with poison. "You are so like her. Her anger made you rather foolish at times as well." She started to sit. Stone flew up and morphed into a throne for her, as she rested. "I don't owe her so much of a favor, but I remember her faithful and diligent work as my Impiriori-the last Impiriori...you do know what that means correct?"
"Yes, of course I do," he said through gritted teeth. Impiriori were advocates, voices for the gods on earth. It made it much easier for gods to secretly do their work, or get human to trust and come into service to them. As faith in the gods wavered Impiriori came rarer and rarer.
"Well-it's your duty now."
"Me?"
Eris nodded, said no more, but drummed her fingers on the stone. She was offering power, but servitude. He had been a servant, and his skin crawled at the idea of returning to that state.
He turned and paced in the silence, looking around. Servitude to a powerful goddess, half in her good favors because of his mother-well he hoped he still was after that little outburst. Or, he could stay here, amongst the rubble and dust of his 'home'. Rebuilding would take time, then he'd have to recuperate-restock his library, survive the elements without a home until the walls were completed, feed himself, and rest enough to regain his magic. The mental checklist wasn't exactly appealing. At best he was looking at least five years of pure work without making any head way in his plans. That was time he couldn't afford because of the gauntlet.
Or, accept the offer-become a warrior of chaos, become lord of the seven deserts, kill Aladdin, but still be a servant. A slave to her moods and to her power. She could take away everything she had given to him on a whim if she was irate...
And then she could give it back and more with just a little charm and ego petting. Was it really so bad to glorify a moody goddess if it meant becoming a sultan, and one of the most powerful people this side of the Jordan? Or giving him years of life? Putting a hand to his chin he stopped and leaned back on his good leg, and looked at her. "Life and power?"
She nodded again.
"Alright, then...you have a deal.
Eris smirk twitched only slightly, as she stood. Her stone throne crumbled back into its rubble as she sauntered over to him. Mozenrath shivered, but not from the cold. Eris held out her hand elegantly, tapered fingers reaching for him. "Deal."
Yet again going against common sense, he reached for her hand, and held it. Her fingers were surprisingly solid beneath his. It was cool and smooth, like marble, and nearly engulfed his hand.
Mozenrath nodded and tried to pull away--but she held on tight. White lighting shot up his arm, clawing its way through what was left of his right arm and the pain sunk it's teeth into his chest. He gasped and let out a long agonizing wail of agony and he fell to his knees.
Clenching his fists and arching his back, his body locked. Something was ripping through his skin like a monster's claws, filling the wounds with fire as it deepend into his flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt rather than heard himself continue to wail. Hazed over with pain, all he knew was his hand still clenching the cool marble of Eris' hand.
When he thought that he could take it no longer, and simply black out form the sheer and pure hurt of it all, Eris let go of him. He collapsed on his back, gasping for breath, wincing as the air ripped at his already sore throat.
He kept his eye closed, slowly shaking his head from side to side, moaning in agony. He felt Eris approaching him, and lift up the side of his shirt. "Hmm. There, no one will interfere with you now."
"Wha...what the hell did you just do to me," he breathed. Eris pulled him to his knees, and he opened his eyes. His vision was blurred with tears. Rubbing his eyes free of moisture, he gingerly lifted up the thin cotton of his bloodied shirt and peered down at his sore chest. There, on the pale white skin, was a thick, bold black tattoo, etched into the skin. It curled near his shoulder and swooped down around his navel. There wasn't any blood but the skin round the mark was rubbed red, and tender. It looked familiar, but he just couldn't place it.
"If anyone sees that, they won't hassle you."
"How comforting. Maybe..." he lost the train of his thought, then shook his head and aborted it. He was too tired and in too much pain. He was surprised he was still alive...
"You will go to Greece, near Thebes, towards the coast. That is your first mission. Think you can do that?"
"Yes," he snapped. "Why don't you heal your servant, oh gracious mistress," he snapped, looking up.
There was nothing but thin air.
Later that night he gathered all the clothes he could, and searched the area for a structure of stone that was stable enough and would keep if from the cold and weather. He dropped the clothes and made a make shift bed, gathering at least a few hours of sleep.
He didn't know what to expect the next morning. It was all too much information-too much change-for him to comprehend. He pushed it to the very reaches of his mind, as he curled up, in pain, and rocked himself to a light haze of sleep.
The next morning he woke in utter confusion. Why wasn't he in his bed? Where was his bed? Where was...everything?!
Until everything came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. Oh, he felt sick. He had sold his soul to a goddess-he was a slave again. She had claimed she knew his mother-that could have easily been a lie!
But there was nothing to do with it now. Off to Greece he must go. But he wasn't so sure pure work would get him out of this one...
Standing, he felt his forgotten ribs scream in protest. Sitting again he ripped apart the clothes he'd slept in into strips. Shedding his bloody shirt he wrapped the strips round his chest and tightened it, not to the point of constant pain, but it would have to do.
He spent the next few hours scavenging for a bag, and any salvageable papers and scrolls. He also managed to find a cloak that wasn't completely destroyed, and climbed down into the kitchen. As he pulled up to the table with parchment, charcoal, a candle and bread, he set to work. The underground kitchen was the only room that had been spared the torch.
Form memory he could draw an ugly, but accurate map of the seven deserts, Africa and Greece. Munching on the bread, he contemplated what he should do. He knew there was a tiny town made of shops, where he could steal a few necessities, and follow the road to port. From there he'd travel to Cyprus, then Crete, and from there to Greece.
"Alive?" Jasmine sat straighter in her throne. "What do you mean alive? We left him dead, I'm sure of it. Aladdin," She said turning to her husband.
Aladdin was slouching in his chair, rubbing his chin. He wasn't contemplating the threat of Mozenrath still alive. What he was thinking of was why he feeling relieved that his enemy was alive.
He had thought he'd killed another human being. Not from ordering an army, or making something fall on them-oh no-but he had held his collar, and seen the light drain from his eyes, felt his skin go cold. In turn, he'd felt something inside him die along with him.
And now, realizing he was alive, lightened the burden he had been wearing for months.
Finally opening his mouth, he asked, "How do you know he's alive?"
The new vizier, Hajeed, bowed again. "A band of travelers where trekking through the past black sands, and heard his wails. They were on they way to trade in the city. When they went to investigate they said they had taken in a 'poor shivering creature on the brink of death' walking through and taken him to the nearest town. On the second day of their trading there, the man-fitting Mozenrath's description-disappeared, taking some of their clothes and food with him."
"That sounds like Mozenrath," Jasmine said folding her arms. "Should we go after him?"
"He's at a disadvantage, weak and barely alive, Jasmine."
"He's a danger! And he will get stronger!"
"He hasn't started to rebuild Jasmine," Aladdin said sitting up. "He's run away. Something tells me he's learned his lesson, he's going to hide, not fight." He knew this was a weak defense for his position. They had thought Mozenrath was simply hiding many times, and that had been the last of him-simply to come again with greater force. He knew they should ferret him out, and kill him for the safety of their people but, he couldn't get the image of his face out of his head. Pale, blood spattered, and hopeless, almost surprised. He had tried to say something, but he choked up and his eyes slid shut. Aladdin had let his collar slip from his fingers, eye trained on the lifeless face. He un gloved hand had been gripping Aladdin's arm. It fell from his skin, leaving a burning sensation behind. He'd whispered something-something barely audible. Aladdin wasn't sure but he had thought he'd said 'I'm coming...'
Now, in the hot throne room, he felt cold rivers shoot down his spine. Stupid memories. Maybe the transfusion between him and Mozenrath had left him un balanced. Yes that was the reason he felt relieved at this announcement-not for any sympathy, but simply a mental deficiency.
"Al...? Aladdin? Any one home, little buddy?"
Aladdin jumped at the proximity between him and Genie. He had been completely oblivious to the world around him. "Yeah, I'm fine really. Jasmine," she said turning to his wife. "I really do think we're in the clear this time. Trust me?"
It worked. His age-old line struck a nostalgic chord in her and she relaxed and nodded. "Aladdin, why don't you lay down? You look pale sweet heart." Aladdin stood, nodding and kissed her hand. Abu hopped from his cushion on the floor, to the throne, and from there, to Al's shoulder, cooing softly in worry.
"Genie," he heard Jasmine whisper behind him, "watch over him. I think he's coming down with something."
"Don't worry Miss Sultana," Genie said in his best army voice, and saluting her. He floated up to Aladdin as he walked down the corridor. "She's right Al-you don't look so good."
"I'm fine. I guess, I just didn't know what I was getting exactly when the sultan died," he voice trailed off. It hit them all hard-but it wasn't unexpected. His health had declined severally after their marriage. Jasmine had been so grief stricken, she'd locked herself in her room for a week, emerging, pale and thinner, but a bit less somber.
But one hardship followed another: Jasmine wasn't getting pregnant. As many times as Aladdin and she had tried, is was in vain. He'd asked genie if there was anything he could do, and was hit again with a dead end. Life and death, genie had said, are heavy things, in magic and nature. Even a genie at full power couldn't fully tamper with them. He had suggested that maybe it wasn't impossible, they just hadn't hit the mark yet.
As much as he'd love to believe that, month after month of no proof of a baby weighed down on him, and his masculinity. Jasmine reiterated her love over and over-but she simply didn't understand what it was like to feel like a part of you didn't work-like you were abnormal. Or maybe she did...it was simply different for a man. He was Sultan now-and a hero. To fail in something that should be so natural and easy for someone at his age killed his pride.
Not to mention the daily problems in a kingdom that were just normal worries. When he reached his own privet chamber, he fell gratefully into his bed.
I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer. He's alive. Genie had also explained what he meant by 'heavy'. He said to kill bared down on you-did something to you. Everyone was different to this effect. Some felt it a great deal, while others lost themselves bit by bit, the darkness eating at them. He had said the worst crime in the world you can do is kill kin, the slang term was kinacide. The slang covered all the bases, patricide, matricide, fratricide, etc., etc. The worst was a parent or a lover or a child of your own body, and only a step lower was siblings. Then aunts, cousins and so forth. That was a deed so heavy it could very well damn you in the afterlife if un justified or for selfish means.
Of course, kinacide didn't apply to this situation, nor did any act of murder. Aladdin could rest easy, if only for tonight.
Black Amethyst by savyleartist