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On Arabian nights, the sounds of laughter and music can be heard from the gardens just past Scheherazade's window. If she tilts her head just so, angling her gaze from the bed where she lies, she can see into the shadowed darkness and make out the faces there. There are the moon-white cheeks of men from Europe. There are the silky waterfalls of hair that hang to the waists of girls curved generously in all of the beautiful places. There are the dips in skin, the shadows at the bases of necks. If Scheherazade took it into her mind to notch an arrow in her bow and shoot from this window, she could kill this whole party. The music would sluggishly slow to a stop. The laughter would cease. The frightened gazes of men whose hands have touched far too much for Scheherazade's liking in the span of this short night would be fixed on Scheherazade's own. Their hands would be up. Their cracking voices would beg for mercy. Scheherazade would not give them any. After all, she has seen first hand what men do to their wives and their women. She has seen how women weep over them anyways. Her mother did, after all.
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Scheherazade is dangerous. And it is this danger - this poison that you can see in her eyes and taste on her salty skin - that has made the men flee Samarkand. It's the darkness that looms like a panther or lioness in the fringe of her blackened lashes. It's the curve of her waist that looks - instead of an invitation - like a knife. Scheherazade is dangerous, and she knows it, loves it, relishes in it. She relishes in the prospect of making men kneel with but a word. She relishes in the prospect of making them pay if they do not. There are few young men left in Samarkand, so the reaching fingers of the viziers and nobles have begun to search elsewhere. There are only so many unmarried men in the world that are Scheherazade's age. Scheherazade will have them all.
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In a world of wonder, Scheherazade sleeps. Beneath domes of gold and beside piles of riches. A hallway down from a weapons room filled with intricately engraved swords and embroidered sashes. At the foot of her bed, a great sand cat. He is bigger than any sand cat of his generation, or the ones before. In the old stories, these cats used to stand taller than a man. Now, they are small and gentle. Scheherazade's sand cat is not small nor gentle. He is as ferocious as the kingdom he guards. He is as ferocious as the biting winter winds at dawn. He is as ferocious as Scheherazade. The man Scheherazade married last night has already been disposed of. The sharp tang of copper lingers in the air, though. Scheherazade prefers to slit their throats while they're in her bed. It's more fun to play with your prey before you devour it. Amzi, Scheherazade's sand cat, seems to agree with her. The mouse he was chasing for fun lies, decapitated, by his large paws. Scheherazade and Amzi sleep peacefully. Two beasts under one roof.
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On Arabian Nights ✓
Short Story[bxg] Scheherazade is the most ruthless queen Samarkand has ever seen; She takes a new husband each night, only to behead him in the morning. But when Tahir begins to tell her a story, Scheherazade decides to wait for the next night just to hear how...
