Song of Silence

It was a dark day in Agrabah. A young woman with jet black hair and unusually pale skin sat in the shade, fanning herself. Her black eyes glittered, and she had the air of expectancy about her. It was obvious she was waiting for someone, but why she was waiting in an alley was anyone's guess.

The reason she was waiting in an alley was because she was meeting her lover, and a secret one at that. It was unseemly for those of high status to mix with those of low, and Shakira was of decidedly low status. But as with every girl who's ever fallen in love, she really didn't care. And today she had something very important to tell her clandestine lover...

"Shakira...?" The soft voice was gravely, and definitely male. Shakira looked up, and saw a long, cloaked figure standing in the mouth of the alleyway.

"I'm here." She said, standing and smoothing her faded blue dress. She was a beautiful woman, tall and slender, her ebony hair falling in gentle curls to her waist. It was clean and held back with a blue ribbon, that matched the color her dress had once been.

"Ah, Shakira my dear. You are looking as lovely as always." The hood was thrown back, and Shakira gazed up into the face of her love.

"Thank you Jafar." She said, blushing. Again she wondered what the royal vizier wanted with a nobody like her.

"No thanks needed. I was simply stating the truth. Forgive me, I cannot stay long."

"That's all right." Shakira took Jafar's hand, and he sat on a barrel opposite her. "I have something to tell you."

"Really?" Jafar raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

""I'm pregnant." Shakira couldn't keep the words in any longer. Her whole face glowed with pleasure, and she grasped Jafar's hand. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"A baby." Jafar said, an odd smile passing over his lips. "Well, well."

"No one will know you're its father." Shakira assured him. "Don't worry about that."

"Of course not." Jafar said, that odd grin still on his face. "I never worried for a second. Tell me, how long do I have to wait for the...joyous occasion?"

"Seven more months." Shakira placed Jafar's hand on her belly. "You can hardly tell at this point."

"I never would have guessed." Jafar said, shaking his head. "Congratulations to me."

"Yes." Shakira said, and her black eyes glittered. "I'm so glad you're happy."

"Why, what else would I be? Oh dear, I've stayed too long. I must return to the palace before I'm missed." Jafar kissed Shakira on the cheek, pulled up his hood and hurried out of the alley.

***

"Curse it all!" Jafar muttered, sweeping into his lab. Iago woke up from his doze, startled by his masters ranting.

"Curse what? I didn't do it!" The scarlet parrot snapped.

"Not you, featherbrain." Jafar said. "Shakira."

"Oh, your little friend, huh?" Iago asked. "What, don't tell me you're tired of her already. She's a cute little thing. I'd keep her around for a while."

"She's pregnant." Jafar said.

"Ew." Iago nodded. "So what's the big deal?"

"Don't you know anything, you stupid bird? A sorcerer cannot have a child. The first born of a sorcerer is always a son, and will always rise up to challenge him." Jafar whipped out a book.

"So what are you going to do?" Iago asked.

"Destroy the child, obviously." Jafar said. "And the mother as well."

"Well, that's one way to do it." Iago said, swallowing.

"That's the only way. I won't have my plans ruined."

***

The months passed in a blissful haze for Shakira. As the child grew inside of her, so did her hopes. She began putting aside money immediately, as she refused to rely on Jafar. And the baby would be something she would always have of Jafar's. The vizier had been visiting her less and less often, but had explained to her that the sultan needed his advice now more than ever. Shakira understood perfectly.

"Don't worry baby, you're going to have a wonderful life." Shakira said, patting her now large belly. "You're going to have everything I didn't. A loving mother, and a wise and wonderful father. You'll grow up to be strong and smart and rich. You'll never want for anything, and you'll never know pain or hunger." She smiled, a tear leaking down her cheek. Her own childhood had been one of pain and torment, living on the streets and relying on handouts to survive.

"So don't worry." She said. She knew she had to be close to giving birth. And Jafar was looking forward to their child as much as she was. He always looked so hungry for news, and got the most blissful expression whenever he felt their child kick. He was convinced it was a boy, and had already chosen a name.

"I'd rather call you Tahir, but your father prefers Mozenrath. I still think you're a girl, but that's just wishful thinking." Shakira lay down to sleep, her hands clutched protectively around her stomach.

"It's time." Jafar said. He was staring into a crystal, waiting for the moment of his sons birth. He rose, his dark red robes swishing around him as he did. Iago gulped.

"Uh, I think I'm gonna sit this one out." The bird said, looking away.

"Oh no you're not." Jafar said, plucking the bird and setting him on his shoulder. "It's the birth of my first-born son. You of all creatures should want to experience it with me. Why, you're almost like an uncle to the boy."

"Yeah..." And again Iago was forced to admit that perhaps Jafar wasn't as sane as he had convinced himself.

It was night in Agrabah, so Jafar moving through the streets didn't cause much stir. He hung back, not wanting to be there for the actual birth. But he knew the exact moment the child was born, and swept into the tiny hovel just as the midwife was handing the boy to Shakira.

The new mother was bathed in a fine sheen of sweat, and her ebony hair was slicked back, her eyes wide. A smile lit up her entire face as she stared down at the tiny, black haired boy in her arms.

"I told you it would be a son." Jafar said, standing over Shakira and his son. "Isn't he beautiful." The baby had his mother's hair and pale skin, and not much of his father in his physical appearance.

"You were right. Of Jafar, he's perfect." Shakira was crying, Jafar realized. The midwife had left, and Jafar let the predatory grin return to his features.

"I could think of a few other words to describe him." Jafar said. "Here, let me hold him." Jafar took the squirming bundle in his arms, and looked down into the tiny face of his new born son. He stood, holding the boy close, and went to the doorway. Shakira was slipping into unconsciousness, being drained from giving birth.

"Look at him Iago. Feel him. There's power in this boy, I can feel it already. His name means dark arts. Isn't it fitting?" Jafar tickled the babies chin.

"He's so cute." The parrot said, peering down at the baby. Then he remembered what Jafar planned on doing with the boy.

"Well, I think it's time to do what we came here for." Jafar set the baby down outside of the small hovel. "Make sure nothing happens Iago."

"Sure." The bird said. Jafar returned to the hovel, and Iago immediately flew off to find the first person he could.

"Abandoned baby." He said to an old woman, who followed him back to where little Mozenrath lay. " You'd better get him out of here now! Run, and don't stop no matter what you hear."

"Of course." The woman said, bending and scooping up the baby.

"Hey, come back here with that baby!" Iago screamed. "Lady get back here, now!"

"Oh, what did you do Iago?" Jafar asked, returning outside. He held a bloody knife in his hands, and Iago had to choke back the bile.

"I couldn't stop her, Jafar. She just took the baby and ran." Iago said.

"No matter." Jafar waved a hand. "I can deal with him later. But not too much later."

***

"Hey, you boy! Come back here!" The merchant yelled, calling after the small, black haired boy who darted away into the crowds. "Guards, guards...why are they never here when you need them?"

Meanwhile, the boy darted down an alley with his stolen bread. He skidded to a halt, panting. He had almost been caught, again. He devoured the bread, to dispose of the evidence. Times were hard in Agrabah, and young Mozenrath wasn't the most skilled of thieves. He kicked at the dust with his bare feet, wishing again that he had a home of his own. It got cold at night in the desert, and the abandoned building where he slept was not warm at all.

He had lived on the streets of Agrabah since he could remember, knowing nothing save for his name. And he wasn't even sure how he knew that. The old woman who had raised him had died when he was four, and he had been on his own ever since.

"Don't see what the big deal is, anyway." He muttered, staring at the ground. He wasn't watching where he was going, and walked strait into someone.

"Sorry." Mozenrath muttered, rubbing his head and looking up. A tall man in red robes with a large turban stood over him.

"Watch where' you're...well, well, well." The man said looking down at Mozenrath.

"I said sorry, Mr." Mozenrath said, picking himself up.

"Why, yes you did." The man had a strange smile on his face, and Mozenrath knew he was in danger. "Iago, do you see what I see?"

"Rawk!" The parrot on the mans shoulder said.

"Um, I have get home now, Mr." Mozenrath said, and tried to push passed the man.

"Oh, but street rat thieves like you don't have homes. That is what you are isn't it? And you know what happens to thieves in Agrabah...Gaurds!"

"No!" Mozenrath yelped, and darted away at a run. He heard the sounds of guards behind him, and ran faster. He saw the city gates looming up ahead of him, and he had nothing to do but keep running.

He zipped right between the guards at the gate, slipping between them and running into the desert. He didn't know how far he ran, but he didn't stop until he collapsed. The sun was going down, and Mozenrath knew it was going to get cold. He pushed himself up, and forced himself to go on. Finally it became too cold, and Mozenrath boroughed under the sand for what warmth it offered.

For three more days he traveled like that, not knowing where he was going. Then the sand turned black, and he swore he was losing his mind from dehydration. Licking the moisture from the sand every morning had not helped much, and the oasis had been two days ago. He laid down on the sand, and tears leaked out of his eyes. He was going to die, and for nothing but a loaf of bread. He sniffled, clutching at the sand as though it could help him. Soon, he began to hear voices.

"Well, what do we have here?"

"I don't know, lord. It appears to be a child."

"Yes it does. Bring him."

Strong hands lifted Mozenrath up, and carried him. He sniffed, and soon the swaying motion lulled him to sleep.

"I know you're awake boy." Mozenrath heard when he tried to fall back to sleep. He was in a bed softer then anything he had ever felt before, and he was warm. But someone knew he was awake, so he opened his eyes.

"Who are you?" He asked the grey haired man sitting by the bed. He was in a room with black walls, and a window, and a large cabinet.

"I am Lord Destane. You've stumbled into my kingdom, boy. Who are you, and how did you come here?"

"My name's Mozenrath, and I ran here." He answered. "Please, could I have something to eat? I haven't eaten in days."

"Dark gods, of course!" Destane clapped his hands, and a man brought a palter with food and water. Mozenrath ate greedily, as Destane watched him.

"Well, you can stay here if you've nowhere else to go." Destane said.

"I can?" Mozenrath's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Because you have power child, and I can teach you to use it. Would you like to be my apprentice?"

"Yes sir!" Mozenrath said, smiling. He had power? That was new to him.

"Good, good. How old are you boy?"

"Twelve." Mozenrath said. "Almost thirteen."

"Yes well, after you've rested a bit I'll take you to your new room, and we'll get started. Welcome to Necra, my boy."

***

Mozenrath spent the next five years of his life sleeping on a straw pallet with nothing but a thin blanket for protection. Destane was had on the boy, allowing nothing to distract him from his studies. Mozenrath lived and breathed magic, never allowed to waver. Not that he didn't try.

There were servants in Destane's palace, which he called the citadel. Among them was a very pretty maid, near Mozenrath's age. He became enamored of her, and made his affections known. The two snuck off to a storage room, but were caught before they could even begin. Mozenrath was locked in his room for a month, with nothing but water and bread once a week. After he had been beaten, of course. He never did find out what happened to the maid.

He grew to hate Destane, and the guards and servants. They all had the same orders, not to coddle the boy. And no one dared break Destanes rules. Mozenrath soon began planning how to overthrow his mentor, and studied every attack spell he could get his hands on. He didn't have the power for half of them, but Destane took care of that one himself.

"Come with me boy." Destane instructed Mozenrath. It was the boys eighteenth birthday, and he was ready to kill Destane.

"Yes lord." Mozenrath muttered, following after Destane. The old wizard led Mozenrath down winding corridors, to a thick wooden door. Destane said a spell over the lock, and the door swung open.

"What do you see?" Destane asked, indicating the interior.

"I see a glove." Mozenrath said. A thick, brown leather glove was suspended on a pedestal in the center of the room.

"Ah, it is so much more then that." Destane said. "It is power itself."

"Power itself?" Mozenrath asked, peering at the glove.

"Yes. It gives its wearer such power. But I am far too weak to wear it. You, on the other hand are young and strong. You will be able to wield the power of the gauntlet. Take it down, and put it on." Destane commanded.

Mozenrath walked slowly to the glove, looking at it. It seemed normal enough. Brown leather, edged in gold. But if it did what Destane said, Mozenrath would be able to kill the old sorcerer once and for all.

"Go on, go on." Destane urged, and Mozenrath reached for the glove. Blue fire leapt out, and snaked around the glove. Mozenrath was aware of voices, whispering in his head.

Such strength! Such beautiful power! Put it on, Mozenrath. We will do as you command. We will give you revenge...

"Yes..." Mozenrath breathed, slipping his right hand into the gauntlet. The voices sang in his head, a chorus of pleasure and pain. Mozenrath felt the power surge through him, and knew that this glove would do all Destane had claimed and more.

"Do you feel it boy?" Destane asked, and Mozenrath turned on him.

"Oh I feel it." He curled his lips, baring his teeth, but the expression on Mozenrath's face could never be called a smile.

"What is it?" Destane asked, aware that something was wrong.

"You have no idea what you've done you old fool!" Mozenrath laughed. Do it now. The voices urged.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, how I've grown to hate you! And I never had the strength to do a thing about it. But now...you've handed me your end on a silver platter."

"No...you wouldn't..."

"Of course not. Why would I ever want to hurt the man who starved me, beat me, locked me up when I'd done nothing to deserve it. How wrong I am." Mozenrath couldn't keep his voice calm, and anger permeated every word. "No wait, I'm right!" He called up the spell, that would kill and yet not kill. He felt it build in the gauntlet, and had to laugh. He said the words, and a blue fire blasted at Destane, griping him in its center. His skin shriveled, his eyes blackened, his limbs stiffened. But he did not die! He remained alive in a way, the living dead.

"Curse you, boy..." Destane screamed, as the spell overtook him. Mozenrath laughed, drunk on power.

"Oh, how incredible!" He said, dancing up the stairs, leaving what once was Destane in the basement. "They will all pay!" Mozenrath vowed, and pay they did. By nightfall, Mozenrath was the only living creature left in the city of Necra. Not a single guard or servant escaped Mozenrath's revenge. All became walking dead, Mamluks they were called.

"I m the Lord here, now." Mozenrath said. "I answer to no one, bow to no one, take orders from no one! And one day, I swear, I will rule the seven deserts!"