38 comments/ 66398 views/ 170 favorites Scheherazade and the King By: 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. Scheherazade and the King "Are you always so poetic when you're plastered?" Scheherazade asked mockingly. Shariyar loosed a swift backhand across Scheherazade's face, causing the girl to cry out sharply. "Shut the fuck up you filthy, stinking whore!" Shariyar bellowed. "Shut your fucking mouth!" The king's entire frame shook with rage and he raised his hand to hit the girl again if she dared utter another syllable. But Scheherazade was silent. For the moment, at least. Shariyar rose to his feet and turned his back on the girl. Scheherazade crawled slowly towards the ivory charm but the king saw her and got there first. Just as the girl reached for the carved pendant Shariyar placed his foot on her hand and pressed down on her bloody fingers sharply. Scheherazade cried out as he held her there. Shariyar smiled ruefully then knelt down to pick up the charm. Only when it was safely out of the girl's reach did he release her fingers. "Keep your thieving hands off things that do not belong to you, gypsy," he said, his words dripping with disdain. Scheherazade hugged her hand to her chest, cradling her fingers. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dropped onto her thighs, running streaks through the dried blood. "Were you always so cruel?" She asked through gritted teeth. "No wonder she left you." Shariyar's heart almost stopped beating. His amber eyes were fixed on the girl's but her eyes did not widen in fear, not even as he reached out and grabbed her by her hair. He could not hear whether she screamed or cried out as he dragged her across the room. The king did not even notice that her fingernails broke his skin as she clawed at his hand. All he could hear was the rush of blood through his veins, the throbbing of his temples, the pounding of his own feet against the floor. He pushed open his chamber doors and wrenched the girl into the hallway, pulling her along the marble corridor until they reached a carefully concealed door in the wall. He opened the door and pushed the girl down the stairs. Scheherazade cried out as she tumbled down the long, winding flight of steps. Every time she managed to catch herself, Shariyar was there to kick her down once again. Finally Scheherazade found herself sprawled on cold, earthen floor. The darkling room swayed before her eyes. "Can you hear me? Huh? You fucking bitch, can you hear me?" The king's words seemed to dance through her mind but Scheherazade nodded dazedly. "Good," he muttered grimly. The girl did not have the strength to resist as the king tied her wrists together and then looped the rope through a hook on the ceiling. He grunted as he wrenched the girl to her feet, pulling her up until her toes were barely touching the floor. Scheherazade stared at the ground, trying with all her might to convince her brain that the world was not spinning. "What are you going to do to me?" She asked, her words sounding as if they came from another person. "I'm going to beat some sense into you, gypsy," Shariyar growled from somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly he was before her, lifting her face to stare into her dilated eyes. She gazed helplessly back at him, unable to keep a hint of despair from trickling into her eyes. He held the whip in front of her face and then brushed it down her body, letting the leather tendrils graze her skin. Then Shariyar took a step back and snapped the whip in the air a few times, taking sick pleasure in the way she flinched each time. Then, finally, he let it go against her skin. Scheherazade screamed as it snapped across her chest, leaving a pattern of red welts across her breasts. Again and again and again Shariyar let the whip go, laughing as she bucked and screamed each time the whip tore at her skin. "Dance, bitch, dance," he roared, snapping the whip against her legs. Finally Scheherazade had no more screams. Her body was latticed with welts and hoarse moans replaced her sobbing cries. Shariyar stepped back, sweat beading on his dark brow. He walked around the girl slowly, as if admiring his brutal handiwork, then returned to stand before her. The king put his fingers under her chin to raise her face and then held the handle of the whip before her mouth. "Open your mouth, bitch," he purred. Scheherazade did not respond so he simply pushed her lips open and shoved the whip handle inside, pushing it in and out of her mouth. "You better get it good and wet, gypsy, because it's going inside you," he snarled in her ear. "Would you prefer it in your cunt or your ass?" Tears streamed down Scheherazade's cheeks, stinging as they dripped onto the raw wounds that covered her body. Shariyar pulled the whip from her mouth and ran it down her body. He slid it against the entrance to her pussy and then shoved it violently inside her. Scheherazade cried out and fresh tears sprang from her eyes as the king slowly fucked her with the handle of the whip. She could feel every inch of the braided leather handle being buried inside her with each thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?" He asked mockingly. "You know what's going to feel better? When I shove my cock inside your ass." Scheherazade whimpered and hung her head, letting her tears flow freely. Shariyar let go of the whip, leaving it to dangle from her pussy, and undid his pants. His erect cock sprung from his trousers, full and thick. He began running his hand up and down his dick. He walked behind Scheherazade, kneeling down in front of her ass. He smacked her ass hard, his palm leaving a large red spot on her fair skin. Scheherazade moaned as he spread her cheeks wide and spat in her asshole. "You have a beautiful ass," he murmured, kneading her soft flesh harshly. Shariyar stood up and pulled her close to him. "Are you ready for it?" He rasped in her ear. Scheherazade cried out as he pushed his cock inside her. Shariyar clamped one hand over her mouth to muffle her screams as her ass stretched around his cock. Her hole was amazingly tight and he could not help but moan as it squeezed every inch of his thick cock. He began pushing in and out of her ass slowly, feeling the leather tendrils of the whip brushing against his thighs as he pummelled her. "Oh fuck your ass feels good," he snarled. "You're so tight." Shariyar's nails dug into her, holding her firmly in place as he fucked her ass. Scheherazade could feel the whip, buried to the hilt inside her, moving as Shariyar's cock did. She was being fucked so deeply in both holes that she was not certain she would even be able to walk to her own execution. The king's pace quickened and he slammed into her ass harder and harder. For a while, the only sound was that of his skin slapping against hers as he fucked her. "Fuck," Shariyar groaned, breaking the monotony. His balls were so heavy as they slapped against the girl. All he wanted was to empty them inside her. Finally he let out a guttural moan and came inside her, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as her ass squeezed every last drop from his dick. Scheherazade clamped her eyes shut as Shariyar came, she could actually feel his hot seed filling her ass. Shariyar pulled out and laughed as thick drops of cum dripped from Scheherazade's ass and ran down her legs. He wiped up a few drops on his fingers and walked around to face her. Her eyes were lowered and her face was covered in tears. "Open your mouth," Shariyar said. Scheherazade's eyes flashed up at him but she did not resist as he slid his fingers into her mouth, forcing her to taste his cum. He pulled his fingers from her mouth and wiped them across her face before reaching down to slide the whip from between her legs. He held it before her face so that she could see her own juices dripping from it and then wiped the whip across her tits. "Now I have painted you as a whore," Shariyar sneered breathlessly. Scheherazade's body trembled but she did not speak. "What?" The king asked incredulously. "Have I finally silenced the insolent bitch? No biting retorts, gypsy? Have you sheathed that sharp tongue at last?" Shariyar grabbed her chin and lifted her face to meet his. Her azure eyes sparkled pitifully up at him. "What do you see when you look into my eyes, gypsy?" Scheherazade's quivering lips opened and closed a few times before her tongue could form words. "I see a man with a broken heart," she whispered falteringly. "And I see a girl with a broken body," Shariyar scoffed, squeezing his hand firmly around her throat. Scheherazade's eyes flashed in the dim light as she muttered: "Not yet." The king snarled and pressed his nose to hers. "Your insolence will be the death of you yet," he growled. "Why are you so keen to throw away your life?" "Perhaps I am too young to know the value of life," she said weakly, her breaths becoming haggard as the king's hold tightened. "No, that is not it," he said, his grip loosening a little. "Your arrogance is not based in ignorance." "Perhaps, then, it comes from a darker experience," she said hoarsely. "Perhaps I have seen death and know that your face is nothing like his." "Death?" Shariyar said scornfully, his fingers tightening around her throat again. "Where would you have seen Death?" "Last month I saw him in the streets of Baghdad," she gasped, "he gave a man I once knew a terrible look." "What did he want with him?" the emperor asked. "That was what I asked Death," Scheherazade said, her speech becoming slow and laboured. "And what did he say?" Shariyar asked, grasping her throat even more tightly. "He said -" But Scheherazade could not finish her story. Her limbs went limp as she finally, mercifully, faded into unconsciousness. "What did he say?" Shariyar roared. "Wake up, bitch! What did Death say?" Shariyar let go of her neck and backhanded the unconscious girl across her face but she did not stir. He growled in frustration and took his knife from his boot. He slashed the blade through the air and cut the rope holding Scheherazade's battered body aloft. The girl crumpled to the ground, her long limbs sprawled out across the floor. Shariyar growled and kicked her one last time before stalking up the stairs and back into the main palace. ++++++++ Jafar knew something was wrong. The vizier paced the throne room agitatedly, sweat glistening on his furrowed brow. Normally by this time the king would be seated on his golden throne, ordering yet another young girl to be sent to the slaughter. But he was no where to be found. "Where is he?" Jafar roared to the empty room. He scowled and stormed out of the throne room, walking as fast as he could to the king's chambers without breaking into a run. The guards, however, were not poised by the king's doors. The armed escort were lined up outside the hidden door leading down into the dungeons. The ancient prison was no longer in use but Shariyar had kept it open just in case there should ever be a renewed purpose for it. Apparently he had found one. The vizier's lip curled in a furious snarl as the concealed door to the dungeons opened and Shariyar stumbled out, still obviously intoxicated. Shariyar shielded his amber eyes from the bright sunlight streaming in through the open windows. "Where is the girl?" Jafar hissed, his hands clenched into fists. "What have you done with her?" "Nothing the bitch didn't deserve," he mumbled. The king reeled on his feet, clutching his throbbing head as his drink finally caught up with him. "What did Death say?" He asked Jafar dazedly. "You are drunk," Jafar growled disdainfully. The vizier gestured to the guards: "Take him to his chambers. Have the servants sober him up. He has two foreign counsels to meet with this morning." As the guards led the inebriated emperor back to his chambers, Jafar ducked into the hidden doorway and ran down the stairs. "Scheherazade?" He called into the darkness. A hint of desperation crept into his voice when she did not answer. But then he saw her... The girl's ivory skin was bruised purple and red from the lashings Shariyar had given her, and the only parts of her face not covered with dirt were those over which her tears had flowed. "Scheherazade!" Jafar cried, jumping down the last few feet of stairs and falling to his knees beside the girl. He pulled her gently in his arms, softly undoing the ropes binding her wrists. He pulled off his own shirt and slipped it over her head, holding her gently as he pulled it down to conceal her nakedness before carrying her up the stairs. Scheherazade's eyes fluttered open as he climbed up the long, winding staircase to the palace. She moaned slightly, the pain in her head too much to bear. "Don't worry Scheherazade," Jafar murmured, clutching her tighter. "I am going to get you some help." ++++++++ The palace doctor shuddered when he saw what lay beneath Jafar's shirt. The young woman before him had endured a horrific attack. "Jafar," he breathed, letting the shirt fall, "what has possessed him?" Scheherazade's eyes were clamped tightly shut but there was no question that she was conscious. Tears spilled from beneath her eyelashes and her body trembled with each painful breath she took. "This is all my fault," the vizier sighed angrily. "I could have stopped him. I let him send all those women to their deaths. Now he is going to kill this one personally." Hazim flashed Jafar a pointed glare and then glanced back at the girl. The doctor was a firm believer in the power of positive thinking and was loathe to hear anyone admit a dire thought - especially in front of a patient. Jafar bowed slightly in an expression of regret and was about to leave the room when a slim, shaking hand grabbed his. Scheherazade smiled sympathetically up at Jafar, winding her fingers through his as she did. "Please stay," she said, her raspy voice barely audible. "Not your fault." "It is," he said. "I am so sorry Scheherazade." "Not your fault," she said in as firm a whisper as she could manage. Jafar pressed her fingers in his gently and nodded down at her, grateful for her words and yet powerfully ashamed that she should have had to offer them when she, herself, was in such a desperate state. "Her injuries appear to be mostly superficial," Hazim murmured. "But she is clearly weakened from a lack of nutrition and hydration as well." He looked at Jafar sternly: "She needs food, water, and rest. I can treat her but she needs time to recover." "He will be back for her tonight," Jafar said grimly. "After his general appointments he has a meeting with the district representatives but that will only keep him occupied until sundown." The doctor sighed and rubbed his eyes but he nodded and waved Jafar away: "See if you can get us any more time." Jafar nodded and turned to leave but, before his fingers could slip from Scheherazade's, she gripped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze: "He won't kill me." The vizier squeezed her fingers back and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face before leaving the doctor to treat her. Shariyar may not have ordered her execution yet but the day was still far too young for such a desperate hope. Hazim helped the girl to sit up so that she could sip at a cold, pungent herbal drink. "I know it smells terrible," the doctor chuckled good-naturedly as he prepared a cooling paste for her welts, "and, believe me, it tastes worse, but it will do wonders for the pain." Scheherazade nodded and gulped the remedy down, struggling to ignore its gritty, stomach-churning consistency. She finished it just as Hazim came to help her out of Jafar's shirt. The old man gently pulled the linen over her head, breathing in sharply when the full extent of the whip marks became apparent. The girl hugged herself, tears glistening in her eyes as she tried to shield her body from the doctor. "I am not going to hurt you, my dear," Hazim said gently. "I'm just going to treat your wounds." "I know," she said, her voice faltering. "It's just so... I'm ashamed." "This is not your fault, Scheherazade," the doctor said firmly. "You do not need to be ashamed. He has wronged you." "I have endured worse," she said. "But I thought -" The girl stopped and choked back a sob, silent tears beginning to drip down her cheeks. "I'll going to start with your back, all right?" Hazim said. "We have precious little time to treat you." Scheherazade nodded and closed her eyes as he dabbed the paste onto the stinging marks on her back. The mixture felt like a jolt of ice - numbing and cooling her damaged flesh at the same time. Hazim helped her to lie on her back and then began dabbing the paste across the rest of her body. The girl sighed with relief as the pain slowly melted away. "Is it helping?" The doctor asked. "Yes, it is," Scheherazade said softly. "Thank you." "Do not thank me, child," he smiled. "This is my duty." "Is Jafar going to be all right?" She asked. "I do not want him to suffer for my sake." "Do not worry for him," Hazim said brusquely. "You blame him for letting this escalate, don't you?" Scheherazade asked. The doctor looked up at her and was shocked by the strength of her gaze. The tears that had filled her eyes just moments before had vanished - the only trace that they had ever existed were the trails of moisture on her cheeks. Her blue eyes were sharp and focused. "He saw this coming before it started," Hazim muttered finally. "He wanted too badly to believe in the goodness of his friend. But that man is gone." Scheherazade nodded and closed her brilliant eyes, releasing the doctor from their piercing gaze. "I've been meaning to ask you about your tattoos," Hazim said as he pulled a blanket gently over the girl's slim frame. "They are Daarkan symbols, are they not?" Scheherazade's eyes opened and she nodded: "How did you know?" "I have done dealings with those enigmatic nomads," he said. "Their medicine men and women are revered for their healing powers." "Then you have heard of this ritual," she said. "They use the tattoos to heal physical wounds." "Yes," Hazim chuckled. "It's a myth all doctors love to hear." "It's no myth," she said. Scheherazade's eyes suddenly grew very heavy and she glanced at the doctor sleepily: "Am I supposed to feel tired?" "Yes, child," he said, offering her a kind smile. "That's the medicine taking its effect. You sleep now, you need to get your rest." Scheherazade nodded and a few moments later was peacefully asleep. Hazim tried to laugh off the girl's statements as he tidied up the infirmary but he could not. He had heard stories of a ritual that could cleanse the body of all manner of wounds, but he had never seen someone with the tattoos before. And yet those were Daarkan symbols. So she must have received them during a tribal ritual... He sighed and continued rearranging his herbs and poultices, lost in his own thoughts. ++++++++ Jafar returned to the infirmary just as the last rays of the dying sun were settling below the horizon. He found Hazim at his desk, surrounded by scrolls. "How is she?" The vizier asked earnestly. The doctor started as if he had not heard Jafar enter. "She is doing as well as can be expected," Hazim said, hastily rolling up the scroll he had been reading as he rose from his desk. "I checked on her briefly but she was still sleeping. Come with me and we will look in on her again." "He is going to be coming for her soon," Jafar said quietly as they walked through the infirmary to Scheherazade's bed. "God only knows what fresh hell he has in mind for her tonight." "Jafar," Hazim said sharply, "how many times must I tell you?"