Warmth.
That was the first law of the universe. A steady, living heat that pressed against his cheek, his chest, his belly. It was the world. It had a sound, a slow, deep thrumming—*ba-dum, ba-dum*—that vibrated through his bones and filled his ears. Sometimes the warmth moved, a slow, swaying rhythm like a gentle tide. He would drift in and out of the gray, sleepy fog on the waves of that motion.
The second law was a Voice. It was a low rumble that came from the center of the warmth, a sound that meant safety. When the Voice was a soft, melodic coo, a happy feeling bubbled in his chest. When it was a sharp, chiding sound, a knot of unhappiness would form in his belly. The sounds themselves were meaningless shapes, like the flickering shadows on the high, curved ceiling, but their feeling was absolute.
He floated in the gray fog, held by the warmth. A large, dark shape loomed above him. The shape had bright points that held his attention. Eyes. They were the source of the Voice.
"There he is. Are you awake, my little serpent?" the Voice rumbled, pitching into a high, pleasing croon. "Did you have a good sleep? Yes, you did. Such a good, quiet boy."
A hand, vast and warm, came into view and stroked his cheek. He instinctively turned his face toward the touch, his mouth making soft, searching motions. The hand was a wonderful thing. It meant comfort.
"Oh, are you hungry again already?" the Voice cooed. "So greedy. Growing so fast. Let’s see."
The world tilted. He was lifted away from the thrumming warmth of the bare chest and laid down on the soft, cool mattress. The absence of the heat was a shock. A distressed noise escaped his throat. The air was a thief, stealing his comfort. His legs kicked in a jerky, unhappy dance.
"Ah, ah, I know it's cold," the Voice soothed. "Dada knows. It will only be a moment. We have to check you. Keep you clean and happy."
The dark shape moved over him. He felt hands, gentle but sure, working at the thick cloth around his hips. The unhappy knot in his belly tightened. He didn't like this. The cold was wrong. A wail built in his chest, a ball of pure misery.
"Shhh, shhh, my treasure. Don't cry. It’s all right," the Voice murmured. But the cloth was pulled away, and the cold air hit his bare skin. The wail broke free, a thin, wavering cry that filled the stone room.
He felt a wet cloth, a quick, efficient cleaning. It wasn't shameful, it was just another unwelcome cold sensation. His cries grew louder, more insistent. *Wrong, wrong, wrong.*
"I know, precious. I know," Jafar said, his voice laced with an indulgent tenderness. A fresh, warm linen was wrapped snugly around him. Then he was being lifted again. Lifted back to the life-giving heat.
He was pressed against the bare chest, skin to skin, and the crying instantly hiccuped to a stop. A deep, shuddering sigh wracked his little body. He nuzzled his face into the warm skin, greedily soaking in the heat, the familiar scent of spice and power. The unhappy knot dissolved. All was right again.
"There now. Was that so bad?" the Voice purred, a hand rubbing his back in slow circles. "You’re all clean and dry. My perfect boy."
His contentment was a thick, syrupy bliss. He made a soft, gurgling sound. A bubble of drool escaped his lips and slid down his chin. He had no control over it. It was simply a fact, like the warmth.
After a long time spent adrift in the rocking warmth, a new thing entered his small world. It was long and dark, with a gleaming curve at the top. Jafar held it before him, the Voice a low hum of excitement.
"Look, my son. Look what Dada has. You know this, don't you? You can feel it."
It was the cobra staff. Jafar held it horizontally, bringing the serpent head close to Aladdin’s face. The ruby eyes were dark, inert. But Aladdin could feel something coming from it, a faint vibration in the air, a silent hum that tickled his senses. He stared at it, his own eyes wide and unfocused.
"Go on," Jafar encouraged. "You can touch it."
He guided Aladdin's tiny, clumsy hand toward the staff's head. His fingers, small and weak, bumped against the cold, polished metal. Instinct took over. His fingers curled, trying to grip. His hand was a clumsy, fumbling thing, but he managed to latch onto the serpent’s snout. The metal was cold and smooth. The sensation was new. Interesting.
As his skin made contact, the ruby eyes of the cobra began to glow, emitting a soft, pulsing crimson light. The light wasn't just seen; it was felt. A gentle, tingling warmth radiated from the jewels, traveling up his arm. It was a pale echo of the warmth of the food, a pleasant, fizzy sensation. He gurgled, captivated. He brought his captured prize immediately, unthinkingly, toward his mouth.
Jafar chuckled, a deep, proud sound, and gently pulled the staff back. "Not for eating, little one. Not yet. All in good time."
He took the staff away, and the world became less interesting. The tingling warmth faded. A small noise of protest escaped Aladdin's lips. He wanted the shiny, warm thing back.
"Patience, my precious," Jafar murmured, setting the staff aside. "You are not ready for such toys. But soon. You are growing stronger every hour."
The loss of the interesting thing was quickly replaced by a more urgent need. A familiar hollowness was blooming in his stomach. It was a demanding, raw ache that grew with every passing moment. His contentment curdled. He began to fuss, his body squirming against Jafar's. He turned his head from side to side, his mouth opening and closing, rooting blindly against the warm chest for a source of food that wasn't there.
The fussy noises escalated. The ache was becoming a sharp pang. His face scrunched up, and a frustrated mewling sound escaped him.
"Oh, listen to you," the Voice said, full of fond amusement. "Singing the song of your hunger. A beautiful song. Your body knows what it wants. Let Dada get it for you."
The lean, dark shape of the leather bottle appeared. The sight of it was a jolt of pure, focused need. He knew that shape. It meant the end of the ache. It meant the good warmth. His fussing turned into eager, demanding whimpers. His arms flailed, his little hands opening and closing.
Jafar settled him more securely in the crook of his arm, bringing the wooden nipple to his lips. He latched on immediately, his entire being narrowing to this single point of contact. He suckled greedily, desperately, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
The dark, rich liquid streamed into him. It was a wave of pure life, of profound relief. The warmth bloomed in his chest, potent and immediate, chasing away the hunger and filling him with a deep, humming vitality. He drank until the bottle was empty, until he was full and heavy and boneless.
Jafar pulled the bottle away and shifted him upright, holding him against his shoulder. His large hand began to pat his back in a firm, steady rhythm. The world was a hazy, blissful dream. He was warm. He was full. He was safe. A small, wet burp escaped him, a puff of air smelling of spice.
"Good boy," Jafar praised, his voice a low, triumphant whisper. He held him close, rocking him gently. His tone shifted, losing the high-pitched coo, deepening into its normal register. He was no longer speaking to an infant consciousness, but at it, for his own benefit.
"All of this is to make you strong, my son," Jafar murmured, his words vibrating through Aladdin. "This room, this quiet, this food. We are scouring the filth of that world from your spirit, from your very blood. Soon, you will be pure again. As you were meant to be."
He walked slowly around the circular room, a king pacing his nursery. "This place is a womb of stone, but it has served its purpose. You cannot stay here forever. You need proper light. Proper air." He paused, looking up at the seamless stone dome. "Not the pale, useless sun of this world. It is poison to our kind. Weakens the blood. No, you need the light of a true star. Our sun."
Aladdin, limp and drowsy in his arms, stirred. The deep voice, no longer soft and cooing, was a strange vibration. He shifted his head, his heavy eyelids fluttering open. He looked up.
His infant vision, usually a blurry smear beyond a few feet, sharpened for a single, stark heartbeat. The fog cleared. He saw the face of the one holding him.
It was not a loving blur. It was a landscape of sharp angles and deep shadows. A gaunt cheek, a long, hooked nose, a jawline like carved obsidian. The eyes that looked down were not just fond; they were black, ancient pits of utter possession. The shape of the man was immense, a dark tower of power and control. He was held in the grip of something vast and terrible.
A new feeling, colder and sharper than any hunger, pierced through the warm, milky haze of contentment. It was not a thought. It was not a memory. It was an instinct, buried deeper than any name he had ever had. It was the primal, reflexive terror of a small, soft thing waking up in the jaws of a serpent.
A tiny, involuntary gasp, a sound of pure fear, escaped his lips.
Jafar smiled down at him, mistaking the sound for a simple sleepy sigh. "Hush now, little treasure," he crooned, his voice becoming melodic again. "Dada is here. Nothing can ever harm you again."
The soothing tone was a lie. The warmth was a cage. The infant in his arms went still, the brief, terrifying moment of clarity swallowed by the fog again. But underneath the placid surface of his new mind, a seed of pure, animal dread had been planted.