Scheherazade and the King

"Unhand me," she said. All at once her voice was a different woman's. The lilting accent remained but her tone was commanding, sonorous. She straightened as the nervous servants let go of her and stood tall before the vizier.

Jafar stared helplessly into Scheherazade's eyes. A few moments before, he had been the one in charge, he had been the protector of a weak, vulnerable young girl. The woman before him now needed no saving. Her sapphire eyes were as strong and powerful as the sea herself and he suddenly worried he might drown in them.

"No one has managed to tame me yet," she said, an odd smile tugging at her lips. "And, despite all the chances he has had, Death has not managed to take me."

The stable was silent. Even the horses seemed to be frozen in time. While Scheherazade spoke, while her eyes glowed like moonlight on the ocean, the world held it's breath. Then she blinked and the spell was broken.

"I - I can't let you do this," Jafar said weakly.

"You can," she said, her voice returning to normal. "You can and, more importantly, you will. I gave my life to you."

The gypsy looked at him meaningfully: "It was a gift."

"Scheherazade, you do not understand the sorrow and rage that has taken possession of his soul," the vizier pleaded. "You are too young to have been burdened by such betrayal."

The young woman's blue eyes clouded over and she stared gravely at the vizier.

"I have known sorrow, Jafar," she said icily. "I have experienced more pain and suffering that you could fathom. It taught me the importance of fealty in the face of death. I owe you my life, and I shall repay that debt."

Jafar brushed a few stray strands of gold hair from the young girl's face and gazed sadly into her glowing eyes.

"You deserve more than this," he said. "You deserve someone to take care of you and make sure you never want for anything."

"Jafar, my looks have made many think that," Scheherazade said, shaking her head. "But I was never destined for love or riches, my fate is a rough road and a harsh reward."

++++++++

Shariyar had been drinking.

From outside the heavy, mahogany doors the guards could hear him swearing oaths into the night sky from the edge of his sprawling balcony, knocking trays of emptied goblets onto the marble floors and dashing spent bottles of wine into the fireplace.

Inside his chambers the emperor paced, alternately cursing himself and Jafar for what he was going to have to do if his advisor came back empty-handed. The thought of having to kill his closest friend weighed as heavily on his mind as the mornings' execution.

He shuddered now just thinking of the terrible look in the eyes of the girl's father. Never before had he seen so much grief, so much rage, so much anguish burning in the eyes of a man.

No, no that's not quite true, is it? He mused to himself bitterly. For months after the night she tried to kill you... Those were the eyes staring back at you in the mirror.

He drained his glass in a gulp.

Stupid, filthy snake!

Shariyar threw the goblet against the wall, finding some comfort in the clanging echoes of the metal upon the marble. As he stood listening to the lingering ring of brass against stone his sharp ears picked up another noise. The palace gates were opening - Jafar was back.

The emperor poured himself another glass of wine and then stalked out onto the balcony, anxious to see whether he would have to send his childhood friend to be executed, or whether Jafar had found a pretty little neck to save his own.

Shariyar stared down at the arriving party, not sure of what he was seeing. There was another person there, certainly, yet the guards were obscuring the vizier's companion as if on purpose.

Swilling the glass in his goblet, the shadowy king watched silently from the darkened balcony as Jafar helped a cloaked figure down from his horse and led the mysterious person hurriedly into the stables.

The colour drained from the emperor's face.

An assassin. He thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. He's hired an assassin to kill me in my sleep.

Shariyar gulped down his glass of wine and grabbed his sword from its scabbard. He threw open the doors to his chamber and commanded the men to follow him. His words were slurred but there was no denying the King of Kings his will.

The men followed Shariyar down to the stables and stood at the ready as he burst in, sword at the ready, prepared to strike the traitor down where he stood.

"Jafar?!" Shariyar had roared out the name before his brain even registered the scene before him. There was no assassin, just a slim, pale girl wrapped up in a cloak.

There was silence as the room waited for the king's drunken mind to catch up with his eyes.

"Jafar, what is this?" he finally managed, lowering his sword as he stormed towards the vizier. "I ask you to bring me a wife and you return with a barefoot gypsy?"

"She's not a gypsy, Shariyar," Jafar said. "I don't know what she is. I saved her from a group of fishermen who had caught her up in their nets."

"I am Scheherazade," the girl interjected.

"You will speak when I tell you to," Shariyar sneered, barely turning to glance at the girl.

"No, I will speak when I have something to say," she replied curtly, her accent making even her arrogance seem melodious. "You may listen as you see fit but I will say it nonetheless."

The king's disparaging demeanour disappeared and he turned around slowly to face the girl staring defiantly at him.

Shariyar's mouth fell open slightly when he saw that the eyes challenging his were the deepest, purest blue he had ever seen. They graced a delicate face as pale as sea-foam that was framed by hair of waxen gold.

But not even Scheherazade's stunning beauty could quell the king's anger for more than a moment. His wide eyes narrowed and glowed fiercely.

"You impudent little bitch," he growled. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"Well from what I understand you're going to have my head no matter what so I might as well speak what's in it while I have the chance."

The flustered emperor opened and closed his mouth, furiously searching for a retort to the girl's matter-of-fact statement. Never before had anyone, let alone a woman, tempted his anger so insolently. Never before had lips so luscious begged for both a kiss and a cuff.

"You will bow before royalty," he finally sputtered.

Two guards suddenly flanked Scheherazade and forced her to her knees. She clutched the cloak around herself tightly to keep the thick fabric from slipping off her shoulders.

"Oh I see," the girl mused mockingly, her sapphire eyes sparkling up at the man towering over her. "The king detests the weak-willed woman just as much as he does the woman with strength of character; He doesn't believe he can trust either."

The astonished stable was silent.

"Well, King Shariyar," Scheherazade continued, "if you want a fiercely loyal companion who will speak only when spoken to, might I suggest one of the mangy mutts wandering through your kingdom?"

Shariyar knelt down before the girl, his hand on his sword. His molten eyes blazed as he said: "Well, my brazen little whore, a sea-rat like you is not much better than a mutt."

Scheherazade's lips curled in a derisive smile, refusing to let the king see her anger.

"Jafar, you have failed to do as you were commanded," Shariyar said, turning his angry eyes on his vizier.

"I know," Jafar said solemnly.

"Then your life is forfeit."

"No!" Scheherazade cried out, springing to her feet. The guards immediately latched onto the struggling girl, holding her back.

"When Jafar saved me, my life became his," she exclaimed. "Take mine instead."

Shariyar stared at the girl silently, his dark brow furrowed as he considered her offer.

"You would give your life to save his?" He asked slowly. "You have known him all of an hour."

"He has my loyalty," Scheherazade said staunchly. "Take my life instead."

"If you expect this little charade to invoke my pity, you are sadly mistaken, gypsy," he said.

"This is not a charade," the girl said indignantly. "I am prepared to die if it will save Jafar."

The king's amber eyes held hers, unwavering. Finally Shariyar shrugged: "So be it - Jafar is free to go, but you have signed your life away to me, girl."

Jafar's mouth gaped but he could not find words to articulate his opposition to what had just occurred.

"Take her to my chamber," Shariyar said, his eyes never leaving Scheherazade's. "We will see how much of this insolent cur is bark and how much is bite."

"But- but-" Jafar gasped, "you cannot do this!"

"Jafar, be silent before I reconsider your place on the executioner's list," Shariyar snapped. "This worthless piece of flotsam will be missed by no one and her disobedience has earned her nothing more than the treatment she is about to receive."

"Shariyar, you - "

"Bite your tongue, Jafar, or be prepared to lose it permanently!"

The vizier glowered silently at the monarch, his hands clenched into angry fists as Shariyar motioned for the guards to follow him. Scheherazade glanced over her shoulder one last time before the door closed behind them. She saw the despair and anger in Jafar's eyes and offered him the briefest of smiles.

++++++++

Shariyar led the girl and his troop of guards back to his chambers, cursing under his breath the whole way.

Never before had all of his emotions been so incited by a single woman. The emperor glanced back at the girl: Her head was unbowed, her gaze unflinching, and that infuriating half-smile unwavering.

"What are you so happy about?" he muttered over his shoulder.

"Happy?"

"Why do you smile?"

"Because there is no point in tears," she shrugged. "As you said, you are not a man who gives in to pity."

"You are as perceptive as you are brash," he said as he pushed open the heavy mahogany doors that guarded his chamber.

"Leave us now," he said, waving away his armed escort.

The guards flanking Scheherazade pushed her to her knees once again and then filed out of the room to take their places along the corridor.

The moment the door was latched behind them, the girl was on her feet.

"On your knees," Shariyar demanded as he poured himself another glass of wine. "No one told you to stand."

Scheherazade raised her eyebrows at the king, offering him no response aside from a disdainful sniff.

The king put the glass down and walked slowly towards the obstinate girl, his blood boiling at her frustratingly superior attitude. He wrapped one hand around her neck and began to squeeze.

Fury flashed briefly in Scheherazade's azure eyes as Shariyar forced her to her knees. He held her there, his hand wrapped tightly around her throat.

"Either you do what I say willingly," he whispered angrily, "or I will force you."

Scheherazade's lips trembled but she pointedly refused to lower her sapphire eyes.

"What is this?" the king asked suddenly, his other hand fingering the necklace Jafar had given her. "How did you get this? Jafar would never have given this charm away."

Scheherazade desperately clawed at the king's fingers, her face turning red.

"You stole it from him, didn't you?" Shariyar snarled, tearing the string from her neck.

The young girl shook her head as best she could.

"Don't you lie to me!" the king cried, finally loosening his grasp on the her neck. Scheherazade fell on the palms of her hands, desperately sucking air into her empty lungs.

"I'm not lying," Scheherazade finally managed, clutching the rich fabric tightly around her body as she rose to her knees.

"Then how did you get it?" Shariyar pressed.

"It was a gift," she said hoarsely. "He gave it to me to earn my trust."

"Oh, is that all it takes to earn the trust of a gypsy?" the emperor taunted. "If I throw a couple trinkets your way will you open your legs for me?"

"I did not open my legs for anyone," Scheherazade snapped.

"I bet you wanted to though," the king said. "Your kind have a reputation for a reason."

"Do not paint me as a whore," the girl said, anger sparkling in her eyes.

"I don't need to," Shariyar said. "You are a whore."

The king hurled the necklace to the floor and then turned his scathing eyes back to the girl.

"Now be a good little whore and take that cloak off."

"No."

"Take it off," Shariyar repeated icily.

The girl's knuckles simply clenched tighter and she shivered under the king's glare.

Shariyar reached down and slowly pulled a dagger from his boot. He knelt down before the girl slowly. He held the glinting blade in front of her face for a moment or two before gently running the blade down her neck.

Scheherazade gasped in sharply at the touch of the cold steel and stayed deadly still as the king brought the blade to rest just above her shaking hands.

"The cloak or your fingers, girl," Shariyar said. "Either way, something's coming off."

Again, Scheherazade shook her head. The blade came closer to her fingers, steel pressing sharply into her skin. A thin trail of blood dripped down her finger and Scheherazade bit her lip to keep from crying out at the blade's sting.

"Take it off," Shariyar repeated dangerously. "Slowly."

Scheherazade's shaking, bleeding fingers uncurled and she slipped the cloak gently off her shoulders. Shariyar licked his lips as the thick fabric pooled around the girl's knees. She could almost feel his fiery gaze singing her skin as he took in every inch of her naked body. The tattoos scrawled across her arms began to itch under his hungry gaze. A cool gust of wind from the open window blew gently across her breasts and her cheeks burned as she felt her nipples hardening. But Shariyar's knife was still poised before her breasts and she dared not attempt to cover them.

"Well, well, well," he leered, running the cold blade gently across her breasts. "I didn't know street rats could look such a dish."

"And I didn't know kings could act so much like a common lecher," she muttered.

Shariyar's cinder eyes returned to hers sharply and he leaned forward until the knife was pressing against her chest and his lips were almost brushing hers.

"They can when they are bedding nothing but a common whore," he taunted.

"More like when they have been drinking enough to match a common drunk," she said, recoiling from the strong scent of wine on his breath.

"Sharp tongue," he said spitefully. But mischief and lust sparked in his eyes as he wondered aloud: "What else can you do with that?"

Scheherazade's eyes narrowed and she directed her gaze pointedly away from the king.

"No, no, no," he said, his words slurring slightly. "Look at me."

The young girl's jaw clenched.

"Look at me, bitch," Shariyar said dangerously, pressing the tip of the knife harder against her skin. "I want to see the fear in those pretty eyes."

Scheherazade's narrowed eyes flashed back to the king. There was no fear, no pain. The only thing Shariyar could see swirling around in those dark blue depths was anger.

The king reached out to run a hand down the girl's face. His fingers were gentle at first, softly running over her flawless skin, but in an instant his movements turned vicious: he gripped her chin firmly and wrenched her face towards his. She felt him move the blade from its place between her breasts and heard him tuck it into his boot.

"I hope you understand that you belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

The only response he received was a short, indignant and derisive sniff. Shariyar pushed her face away sharply and stood up, pulling his robe off as he did.

"A whore like you should understand the concept of property," he said as he walked away.

"I don't remember you paying for me," Scheherazade retorted under her breath.

Shariyar turned around and stared at the girl incredulously. He threw his robe across the room and then pulled his linen shirt off. He began walking slowly towards the girl, revelling in the way her beautiful body tightened as he approached. Blood dripped from her fingers and glittered on her thighs like rubies in the dim light.

She watched him walk towards her with slow, deliberate steps, like a lion cornering his prey. His skin was the colour of charred earth and his rippling chest was covered in dark hair.

"Why do you mock me?" he asked, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her upwards. "Why are you so keen to incite my wrath?"

Scheherazade gasped and tried to pry the king's fingers apart, wincing in pain as he pulled her hair. Her bloody fingers left streaks of red in her hair and across Shariyar's fist.

"I'm not afraid of you," she managed through gritted teeth.

"You should be," he said, his lips brushing against her pained face. "I'm going to kill you in the morning."

"I can take care of myself," the girl snarled. "Your desert doesn't scare me."

"Oh I'm not going to exile you," he said darkly. "I'm going to kill you with my own bare hands. Then I'm going to string your body up outside the palace gates so that the whole city can watch the birds pick the flesh from your bones."

Shariyar let go of her hair and wiped his blood-covered hand across her face. Scheherazade gasped and her eyes filled with angry shock as the king backed away from her, a dark smile curling his lips.

"But don't you worry," he smiled darkly as he poured himself another glass of wine, "by morning you will wish you were dead anyway."

"I'm sure that's how most women feel after a night with you," Scheherazade scowled, her own blood smeared like war paint across her face.

Shariyar whirled around and hurled his glass of wine at Scheherazade. The young girl cried out and covered her face with her arms. The glass flew past her and shattered against the wall, wine dripping down the marble.

"You're lucky I didn't aim," the king growled. He started towards the girl, his eyes sparking as he noticed her heaving breasts and her trembling hands.

"Oh my, did I frighten you?" Shariyar purred mockingly as he knelt down in front of her. "And I thought you weren't afraid of me."

Scheherazade's upper lip twitched in derision but she did not respond to the king's taunt.

The fire in Shariyar's eyes was raging: "I once had a horse like you: Beautiful, wild, stubborn, fearless. But it came to learn fear, it came to learn that I was it's master."

Scheherazade drew back in disgust.

"You will come to learn the same, gypsy," Shariyar sneered.

"I am not chattel," the young girl spat. "You are my captor, not my master."

Shariyar snarled and grabbed the girl's throat, his powerful, rough hand wrapping around her neck once again.

"I am your master," he barked, "and, just like that horse, I will ride you until you collapse. You will die sweating beneath me."

The young girl strained to pry the king's fingers from around her neck. Even though she could not choke out a retort, her azure eyes spoke volumes. Shariyar allowed himself a moment to get lost in the girl's blazing sapphire eyes before finally loosening his grip on the her throat.

Scheherazade gasped in air and glared angrily at the king.

"Then I will have repaid my debt to Jafar," she rasped grimly.

"He gives you a piece of carved wood and suddenly he has your allegiance?" Shariyar scoffed.

"He saved my life," Scheherazade bit back. "That means I owe him mine. And I intend to repay him."

"You won't," the king snarled. "You're a treacherous whore and you will abandon your promise to him the moment you get a chance."

"You will see that I am a woman of my word."

"A woman's word is worthless," Shariyar sneered.