Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Intermission

And Scheherazade noticed that dawn was approaching and stopped telling her tale. Thereupon Dunazade said, “Oh sister, your tale was most wonderful, pleasant, and delightful!”

“It is nothing compared to what I could tell you tomorrow night if the king would spare my life and let me live.”

“By Allah,” the king thought to himself, “I won’t slay her until I hear some more of her wondrous tales.”

So they continued to rest in mutual embrace until daylight finally arrived. After this the king got up to perform his official duties, but he did not call upon the vizier to perform the execution. Instead, he went to his assembly hall and began holding court. He judged, appointed, and deposed, forbidding this and permitting that, the rest of the day. After the divan was adjourned, King Shahryar returned to the palace. That night he had his will of Scheherazade, as was his wont, and afterward, as they were relaxing, Dunazade came to her sister and asked her to tell another tale.

“With the king’s permission,” she said.

And Shahryar replied, “You have my permission.”

So Scheherazade resumed her storytelling.

-          Arabian Nights: The Marvels and Wonders of The Thousand and One Nights

Signet Classic, Penguin Group, 1991

Adapted from Richard F. Burton’s unexpurgated translation by Jack Zipes

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He could feel their hands on him, slow, intimate… pulling at him from the inside out. He resisted at first—they liked it when he resisted—but soon his body began to respond to their ministrations. Soon, he was sweating and trembling and smooth for them. He wanted to cry, but it came out as a gasp when they tugged him—hard.

He hated them.

But he hated his body even more.

He fell forward when they climbed over him, their softness brushing along his hardness. They liked him hard. They made him hard. If he was not hard, then he would be dead. It was one of the rules of living: to be what they wanted him to be. He was nothing without them—would be dust and decay without them. They let him live as long as he was hard.

He raked his nails into the ground as they pulled at his chi points—abused his chakra. It was both soothing and burning, both pleasure and pain, and they giggled and simpered as he hissed and groaned. He wanted to pass out, but knew that he must stay awake; he wanted to sink, but knew that he must resist—they liked it when he resisted, their hands running over his smooth planes and pulling him into them, away from them, in every direction against his want.

“Bella,” they called him. “Bella…” With one last jerk, he spilled onto the ground, sinning the Mother who bore him—the Mother who cursed him. He could only choke and tremble as they laughed and laughed and laughed, satisfied, but not yet sated. For hours into the night, they moved him however they wished, beaten him however they wished, bled him however they wished until, finally, they were as spent as him.

Until, finally, the sun rose and the others came to take him back to his beautiful cage. They tossed him onto the feather-filled duvet and velvet-silk pillows, leaving him in the room, shaking and hating himself. He wished for a swift death, or magic strong enough to strike down his accursed enemies—those who sinned and destroyed and killed for pleasure. He wished them all dead.

He stilled when he heard his brother call for him from his corner. A gentle tone of comfort and compassion. Then, and only then, did he find the strength to lift himself up from the ground and lay his head down on his brother’s lap.