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On Arabian nights, the cunning sickle of the crescent moon can be caught hovering above the dunes. While the wine flows like the Nile and whispers pass behind ringed hands, Scheherazade watches the heavens. Everyone knows of Scheherazade, though they don't know her in truth. They know of the cruel twist of her ruby lips, the harsh line of her sandalwood jaw, the glittering onyx of her eyes. They know of the gold hoops in her ears and the bangles on her lithe wrists. But they do not know the heart that pulses within her chest. They do not know the blood that fills her veins. They do not know that every inch of her aches with a longing to love and be loved in return. Scheherazade would touch the heavens if she could, but she would give it up in a second for a body warm next to hers. She would give it up in a second for a golden chalice to be pressed to her lips by cinnamon fingers and soft skin. She would give it up in a second for peace of heart, peace of soul, peace of mind. The people of Samarkand see her as a beautiful queen, as a war general, as a goddess. Scheherazade wishes, twisting at the rings on her fingers, eyes reflecting the spotless, starry sky, that they would see her for just one night as a woman.
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Scheherazade is clever. More than that, she is a clever woman. It doesn't take long for a clever woman to separate the truths of the world from the untruths they are told. It doesn't take long for a clever woman to realize that this world is filled with ambitious men who have stamped them down like the dust that swirls off of the ground on busy market days. Scheherazade is clever, and she has separated the truths of the world from the untruths she has been told. She has separated them, and now she lives with them in mind. She has lived with them in mind since she was fourteen. Her father died under the harvest moon, and her mother died shortly after of grief. Samarkand was left without a male heir who might rule. Scheherazade took over. They expected that a pretty face would only be that. Oh how wrong she proved them. She was dangerous and delightful. She expanded their lands tenfold, twelvefold, sixteen. Her shawls were dipped in indigo dye to match the jet black blue of her hair and the curve of her venomous smile. She was a queen born of death and she delivered it too, with all the skill of a midwife. They said that her hands were stained with blood more red than the crimson she painted her lips with.
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In a world of men, Scheherazade learned quickly that there was nobody to trust. Her back was up against a golden balustrade, and a thousand hands were aiming to push her off. In a world of men, Scheherazade learned quickly that there was not one she could make her husband. But in the traditional, pious world of women, Scheherazade learned quickly that she had to choose one, or give up the support of her people. But men were villains and cheaters - that Scheherazade knew. They were scheming, conniving masterminds. Scheherazade would be damned if she let one into her bed. Scheherazade would be damned if she let one into her heart. So she devised a plan: each night, Scheherazade would wed a new man, and each morning, she would behead him. Her hands are stained black with blood by the 400th night.
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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...
