Disclaimer: Roswell belongs to Katims, Metz, WB, UPN and probably many others, but not to me.
Author's Note: Scheherazade wove the tales told in The Arabian Nights (www.geocities.com/Athens/4824/arabian/a_index.html). Thanks to Debbie for her always helpful comments.
Feedback: I live for it.
So Scheherazade rejoiced, and thus, on the first night of the Thousand Nights and a Night, she began her recitations. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Something hard poked her in the side, right on her ribs. It hurt, and she mumbled and tried to roll away. Just a few more minutes, Dad.
"Get up. Now."
The poke again, harder this time. Something in the tone must've registered. That wasn't Dad. Her eyes opened slowly. A figure stood in front of her. She craned her neck and her eyes traveled up black clad legs. Her eyes widened as she took in the menacing weapon the figure held. That must've been what he had poked her with. She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue her survey. Black was all she saw. Pants, jacket, even face mask.
The gun jerked in a manner she took to be a command. She sat up slowly; her body ached and her head throbbed. Where was she? She searched her brain for some clue. Flashes of memory assailed her.
Gunshots ringing on the walls of the cave. Panicked breathing as the crystals were inserted in the proper order. The light, so eerie and blue, filling the cavern. The kiss, tender, caring, but tainted by parting. Four figures preparing to step into the light.
Another poke. Harder than the first two. A grunt indicated the guard was getting impatient but she couldn't give up the search for memories. Not now. Her eyes squeezed shut and she returned to the Granilith chamber.
Shouts, getting closer. And then the eerie sound of Nicholas's laughter. Sudden realization; this was a trap. "STOP!" Her voice echoing in the chamber. Three figures stepping away from the light. And her love her love turning to face her.
Her blood raced through her veins as she remembered. She fought to keep her breath steady. Just a little further and she would have her answers. Or at least some of them, she hoped.
Racing towards him, explanations falling from her lips. Pushing him away from the lights of the Granilith. Her foot catching on something. Falling into the swirling lights. Then nothing.
With a gasp, she returned to the present. The Granilith had brought her here. She shook her head; she needed to be clear-headed now. She had to find a way home.
The guard stepped closer.
The movement of the weapon was more insistent this time. No time to plan now. She pressed her feet to the ground. Her legs were steady -- mostly. The black figure watched her rise and then turned abruptly. She supposed she was to follow him.
She lost count of the rights and lefts they made as they traveled the stone corridors. Wooden doors interrupted the expanses of cool grey stone. But there was no rhyme or reason, no pattern she could discern. She gritted her teeth in frustration; she'd never get out if she couldn't remember the way. She just had to --
She collided with her guard. -- pay more attention. The wooden door before them swung open, revealing a room that caused her to gasp in awe. Vaulted ceilings. Mosaic floors. Glass windows that glittered in the sun.
"Leave her." The command echoed in the room.
With a bow her guard backed out of the room, the door closing behind him.
"So, you're the little mouse who scurried into the Granilith in place of my prize? Don't be shy, little mouse; step closer so I can see you."
The voice held a hard mocking tone, but she didn't see any other choice. She stepped forward. As she did, her eyes searched frantically for the source of the voice.
Before her eyes, a shadow detached from the corner of the room. It was man. A tall man. His clothes were well-cut, elegant, regal even. She tried to process it all.
He approached her slowly, circling like a shark. His hand grasped her chin, forcing her to look up. "Well, little mouse, what should I do with you, I wonder, now that you've spoiled years of careful planning?"
Unlike her friends, this was a man who used his height for intimidation. She forced herself to hold his gaze, but it was hard. She didn't speak.
Th grip on her chin tightened, forced it higher. "Do you know who I am, little mouse?"
Her eyes flickered around and pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "Khivar." She hated that her voice squeaked as she said his name, just like the mouse he'd called her.
"Why, you're a very clever little mouse, aren't you? Perhaps you should decide your fate. What do you think of that?"
Her breath caught in her throat. Decide her own fate? Um, send her home? She forced back the laughter that threatened. This was not the time for hysteria.
His laugh echoed. "No answer? I could kill you, I suppose, but where's the fun in that? Hmmm let me think." His hand released her chin, moving to grasp his own in a mockery of deep thought.
"I know. We'll play a little game. You tell me a story. If I like your story, you get to live another day. I think that sounds fair, don't you?"
She gulped and struggled to find words. To agree. To argue. To say something.
"You don't want to play? I'm disappointed, little mouse. I guess I'll just have to kill you now. Such a pity." He turned and started to walk away. His fingers snapped. "Guards!"
"Wait!" The word exploded from her lips. She had to do this; she had to buy herself time.
Her captor turned. "Yes, little mouse?"
"I I can tell you stories."
"Oh, goody. We'll start now." He strode to a chair, no, a throne she hadn't noticed at the other end of the room. After he seated himself, he urged her closer. "Come, little mouse. Tell me a story and we'll see if you live another day."
She swallowed hard and opened her mouth. There was only one story she could think of to tell. "My name is Liz Parker. On September 18th I died. But then the really amazing thing happened. I came to life ."
Author's note 2: from www.britannica.com on One Thousand and One Arabian Nights
King Shahryar, after discovering that during his absences his wife has been regularly unfaithful, kills her and those with whom she has betrayed him. Then, loathing all womankind, he marries and kills a new wife each day until no more candidates can be found. His vizier, however, has two daughters, Shahrazad (Scheherazade) and Dunyazad; and the elder, Shahrazad, having devised a scheme to save herself and others, insists that her father give her in marriage to the king. Each evening she tells a story, leaving it incomplete and promising to finish it the following night. The stories are so entertaining, and the king so eager to hear the end, that he puts off her execution from day to day and finally abandons his cruel plan.
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