Disclaimer: New Aladdin fic. Hey, here's some sad stuff, and it's not violent like "Tormented." This is just drivel.
Pairing: Jafar/OC(Jasmine's Mother)
Rating: G
Before the events of Aladdin I.

Night of the Woeful Remembrance

What is the vizier to do when he cannot even give himself counsel? During the entire month of Ramadan he fasted in his secluded ebony and blood room, trying desperately to focus his attention primarily on Allah, and then on the affairs of the kingdom. But Jafar grew so weary during the day. The lack of food and even having to reprimand the Sultan for trying to sneak small bites of fruit in the orchards, and Iago munching on the Sultan's crackers was wearing Jafar's nerves. How could he focus on the fast and prayer when so many things wanted to break it?

And the feasting after Ramadan was worse. Jasmine was fifteen, soon to be sixteen and she had her mother's eyes, her smile, her elegance, her beauty…

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Sultana, I apologize…"

Jafar had done it again. He made crucial decisions in the organization of law enforcement in the streets and new taxation in agriculture. He sent out a proclamation where tithes would be collected to better the state of Agrabah's economy. This was all without the Sultan's permission. He had made the Sultan look incompetent.

He prostrated himself at her feet, refusing to raise his head until she gave an answer or departed. They were alone in her chambers, an improper place for a man to be, but he feared that trying to reason with the Sultan would result in his decapitation, or worse… emasculation.

"There is no reason for it," her voice was soft, but there was a powerful force in her words.

"Sultana… have mercy," he muttered, his face going through the contortions of begging.

"You did the appropriate thing," she continued, in her same quiet might, "We needed to reorganize the guards and the majority farmers owe the kingdom money. If you didn't take control, what was necessary probably would never have happened. Hamed can be too lax."

Jafar rose from the floor, but kept his eyes on the floor, "Sultana…?"

"Hamed was never meant to rule—I wish him no ill as ruler! But, he does not have the adamant mind to reign. He has the gentility for a time of peace and prosperity; this is not what Agrabah has. We have peace, yes, but we are in poverty compared to other lands. He does not realize this, he only knows the comforts of the palace," she paused, noticing his condition, "You may look at me."

"I…" he raised his head, but his eyes were shut.

"Look at me." It was an order, but there was a slight pleading.

"I…" The vizier should not look at the wife of the Sultan. It must be against the Law.

"Please, too many avert their gaze from my face," the determination now had a cruel trace of anger, loneliness, and misery, "I wish to be considered human. Am I an idol, or so hideous that no-one will look upon me?"

"No, Sultana…" Damnation was something that the Sultana could not save him from.

"Open your eyes and see me!" she hissed.

And he opened them and saw her magnificence. Her skin was smooth and the color of fine silt. Her eyes had a glow of honey glistening in the sun, though the room was dark. A fine lavender scarf tied back most of her hair, and one thick, soft, ebony lock poked threw the veil. Her body was covered in lavender, and the garments had traces of the scent. A thin shawl covered bare shoulders and her dress was of a darker shade, loosely framing her, emphasizing modesty and allowing traces of beauty.

"Sultana…" he began. She had saved him from punishment and gave him a small sense of pride. She was wisdom and beauty incarnate, the ideal Sultana. What could he say to her?

There was a silence. The Sultana sighed,

"Have you eaten, Jafar? It is still night."

"I have not been eating much. I am too preoccupied with prayer and Agrabah," his eyes strayed from her.

"You've been looking thin and ill," she sniffed.

"It is Ramadan. One should become thin," he looked at the patterns in the floor. Almost like calligraphy.

"But not ill. Come, you will get food and water," she took his arm.

"It is late, the servants should not be bothered. And I should not have bothered you," he bowed, wishing that he could leave her in peace, and yet wishing that she would not let go.

"Nonsense. I can cook," she gave his arm a small tug.

"But you are Sultana!"

She walked him out of her room and led him through the hall, "Ah, but I once had to prepare my own meals. My kingdom had fallen into ruin and the servants became soldiers and fought wars."

"Khazainar," he whispered. A mighty kingdom that was overrun by it's neighboring kingdom of Tabor. It was once the grandest kingdom, but weak pacifist rulers could not keep armies away.

A sad smile formed, "My mother would not cook for herself, so I learned. And the one chambermaid I have left taught me the basic skills for a woman to know. Sewing and calligraphy, how to dress. Then I married Hamed and he spoiled me with luxury."

They had reached the main kitchen. Large tables and benches covered in scraps of the evening's meal decorated them.

She sighed again, "Sometimes I miss Khazainar," a distinct sadness threatened. There was a glistening in her honey eyes. She wiped her face with her sleeve, "Forgive me. Pita bread and hummus fine with you?"

"Oh. Of course."

She found left over bits of pita and covered bowls of hummus beneath the main table. She placed them on the table and sat. Jafar almost sat down beside her, but then thought of his position and walked around to the other side. The Sultana waited, almost politely, for him to start eating. Then she spoke,

"Ramadan will be over soon."

"Yes," nodding as he chewed.

"Then Hamed will have his feast," the Sultana muttered darkly.

"I'm sorry?" This was odd. It seemed fine for her to relieve him of his anxiety over taking control, but for her to insult her husband again…

"Oh, my manners! I will eat with you," she became frantic, "Oh, the milk…" She looked about the table and wrung her hands in frustration, cursing herself.

"That jug over there," he gestured towards the end of the table, "… goat's milk?"

"Oh yes!" she rushed over to retrieve it, but the vizier had picked it up first and placed it in front of her, "Thank you," she wiped her eyes in gratitude.

They ate and drank in an embarrassed silence. Jafar removed his turban and ruffled his sweaty brown hair for a moment. He glanced at the Sultana. Her eyes were closed, her breathing was shallow… something was wrong!

"Sultana!"

He rushed around the table and held her.

"Take me to my chambers," she mopped her brow with her sleeves. Jafar wrapped one arm about her waist, and his free hand rested on her shoulders as he walked her from the kitchen. A silent apprehension in the hall, then broken by the vizier,

"Sultana… are you ill?"

"No, I am with child. It happened before Ramadan. I fear the lack of food may hurt the baby."

Her chambers were in sight.

"You have been eating?"

"Yes." A pause as they entered, "It grows, but I know not if it is healthy," she coughed.

"I'm sure the child will be fine…" he assured her, "Does the Sultan know?"

"Hamed knows not."

She sat down on her bed and wept furiously.

"By Allah, I hope it is a boy. A boy, stronger than his father. You would tell him how to be strong?"

He could not possibly argue, "Yes."

"And rule justly?"

"Yes." He had to swear to it. She was Sultana and he was vizier, and… she was giving him power.

"And if it is a girl… will you make certain that she marries a strong and just ruler?"

"Yes." It was only just. She had given him mercy, he must return the favor.

She smiled, her face covered in sweat.

"Thank you."

She stretched out her hand and motioned for Jafar to come closer. He obliged. She wrapped her arms around him. The vizier sat on the bed. She held his head in against her chest and kissed the top of his head.

"Thank you, Vizier."

Jafar left. In one night he transformed. The epiphany. He loved the Sultan's wife. And he knew not what to say. He turned to face her and found her sleeping.

The scent of lavender was on his clothes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Andmonths latershe gave birth to Jasmine. And she died the following year, a night after the end of the Ramadan feast. And her chambers still smell of lavender.

---Fin---

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(I know it's not my best, the ending and the beginning totally suck and I wrote the dialogue before the description. Eek."Night of the Woeful Countenance" is the companion piece. I wanted the two to blend together nicely, but I suck so that didn't happen.)