I was inspired to write a drabble about losing eyesight, and it resulted in the start of a set of drabbles of Ja'far losing various things. I'm not sure whether I'm going to write some follow-up drabbles to these, or if they are all going to be unrelated to each other. Then again, there's only so many things Ja'far can lose...

So note, these drabbles are seperate stories, and are not related to one another!

Warnings: Gore, Sinja pairing and mistakes in my English

I do not own any of these characters


He could sense the people passing by. Many people, some walking fast, some strolling leisurely. They were just there, a few steps away from him, all passing by.

Yet he couldn't reach.

He could feel the warmth of his blood where it was forming a puddle around his hands. He might've taken his hands off the ground to avoid tainting them even darker, but he needed the stability.

Tears of blood rolling down his cheeks, his regrets and his joy all mingling together in warm stickiness smelling like iron.

The smell of his own blood was overpowering, but even then he could still smell the remains of fish, rotten fruit and cooked cabbage. He could smell the places where dogs had relieved themselves, scattered around him. The two large bodies slowly cooling down behind him. It was clear he was in just any alley, the people of the city bustling by right outside.

He could sense the person entering the alley. He could hear the soft panting and feel the distress. Yet tilting his head down towards his king merely resulted in more bloody tears, more warmth, more of his life running down his cheeks.


"Sin." He acknowledged softly with cracked lips. He tried to wet them with his tongue, but the metallic taste he received told him he only painted his lips in red with this action.

"Good Gods, what happened? We need to get you to a healer!"

Warm arms circled around him, trying to pick him up. He resisted.

"I lost them already, Sin," he told his king with a wavering voice. "It's no use. I will only be a bother."

"What are you saying?" He flinched, hearing genuine distress in his king's voice. Why then? He failed him. He went after those two men and killed them in cold blood, like Sinbad had forbidden him. And he lost. He was no longer of any use like this. He wasn't worthy.

"We need to stop the bleeding," Sinbad's voice sounded even more shaky than his own, and for a short moment he feared his king was injured too. That he had lost as much blood as he did himself.

But he was lifted in two strong arms, pulled close to a warm chest with a steady beating heart. Sin was healthy.

And he was no longer in any shape to resist.

He could feel a new warmness on his face. Tears. Actual tears. His king was crying for him, shaking as he held his weakened body close.

"Please don't bother with me Sin," he told him gently. "I am no longer of any use to you. It's fine if you leave me here."


He flinched, a new stab of pain at the contorting of his face.

"I'm taking you to the palace now." A hesitation. "I'll just... I'll just cover your face, so the people won't be scared when they look at you."

"As you wish, my king," he submitted weakly. He had lost too much blood, sitting there in that alley. He no longer had the strength to argue.

But he only dared to lose consciousness when the soft fabric of Sinbad's turban touched his eyeless face.




The large man looked down at him unimpressed, instead only pulling the wires in his grasp tighter. He was wearing thick leather gloves and didn't seem bothered by the sharp cut of the wires.

Ja'far on the other hand had the wires circled right around his bare wrists.

Never before had anyone tried to use his own weapon against him, but this man was surprisingly successful. With a large foot on the middle of his chest and a whole lot weight, he easily held down the small body of the government official. His arms were stretched to their limits, the wires pulled taut by the man's large hand. Ja'far would've kicked his legs, but a shortage of air made his vision swim.

He didn't even understand how he got here.

All he had been doing was walking quietly over the bazaar. Remarkably relaxed, if he did say so himself. He had been checking on a couple of people who sold heavy orange vegetables when he was called. A large man asking him to walk along for a moment.

He wasn't given a good reason, and he was suspicious. But unlike most people, that only made him more sure about following the man.

Such a mistake.

When he realised he was in danger - as soon as they entered the alley - he had pulled out his knives, but instead of cutting the man with a warning sharpness, both wires were grabbed right behind the blade. A foot was planted on his chest and he found himself strung up tidy and well.

He wondered if his shoulders were going to dislocate.

He had long lost the feeling in his hands, the strings cutting sharp edges into his wrists. Delicate lines of blood seeped down the wires on his arm, red trailing red over white. The man seemed in no hurry to change this, patiently waiting for Ja'far to give in.

He wasn't giving in just yet.

He couldn't struggle, no matter how much he wished. But he could remain tense, ready for attack the moment the man dropped his hands or lifted his foot. He might not be able to struggle, but just one person needed to enter the alley and there would be alarm, the man forced to let him go.

Only, that one person wasn't coming.

He hissed, his vision blurring. He could see his hands slowly darkening. No longer red. No longer purple. They were starting to turn black.

His trembling arms ached dully, all sharp pains long since gone. He heaved for air, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

His hands.

He lost them.

Only then the man dropped the wires, and his arms dropped to the sides on his body as dead weights. He couldn't even feel where they hit the gravelly floor.

The foot lifted from his chest, but he couldn't gather the strength to get up. He couldn't gain the momentum, even if he wanted to. His arms were useless, his hands were dead.

The man slowly unsheathed a sword, lifting it above him and taking aim without any hurry. His face was impassive, like he couldn't really care. He couldn't really care he was assassinating one of the best assassins he'd ever meet.

And therefore, Ja'far wouldn't let him.

With a fast flick of his leg he twisted the wire around his ankle, smoothly sending the blade up into the man's back. He stumbled, surprised.

The other foot took care of the second wire, the blade tucked between his toes when he cut open the artery in the man's thigh with practiced precision.

Even when you used his own weapons against him, Ja'far hadn't lost yet. He didn't need his hands for simple tasks like these.

He lost his hands. But never his life.