Written Upon My Lady’s Back (Kaious and Vashka) – #amwriting


Author’s Note: This is my original work and from a wider novella about Kaious and Vashka that I have been working on for a few years. I love these characters. Please, do not take them from me.

= =

Ouch! Gods, help me!

Vashka’s entire body screamed at her as she lowered herself onto her stomach on her bed. Her back was afire but there wasn’t anything she could for herself at the moment. She sent the servant girl for Ochabu, for she trusted only the old woman to tend her.

“Child! What happened?” the old midwife questioned as she entered the room and pulled the door to.

Vashka merely groaned weakly from where she lay on the bed. If she could have seen what Ochabu could see, she would have considered the old woman’s exclamations well-warranted.

Her clothes lay in bloody shreds upon her, the brown skin of her back striped a dozen times. The lines lay thin but the lashes had gone deep; not deep enough to stitch but too deep to heal quickly.

Ochabu rolled up her sleeves and set to work immediately, heating water and sending another slave girl out with a list of specific herbs and plants to make a healing salve for the girl’s wounds. She tore off what remained of Vashka’s clothes. There was no time for modesty; Vashka was already beginning to shake with the pain of the whipping.

“Who did this to you, child? Who would dare?” Ochabu asked as she worked and, shakily, Vashka poured out the story of an hour.

After a while, a shadow moved under the door and it opened quietly. “My lady,” a young slave boy said. “His Excellency demands your presence.”

“The Lady Vashka is in no condition—” Ochabu began but Vashka’s quiet voice broke in.

“Tell His Excellency Kaious that I am unfortunately indisposed and send my deepest apologies,” she said with as much strength as she could muster.

The slave boy looked confused and slightly afraid but he obeyed quickly, leaving the harem as fast as he could.

Vashka sank down onto the bed again, feeling Ochabu start to bathe her wounds. She flinched at the hot water on her tender wounds but soon ceased to feel pain as darkness slipped blessedly over her head.

She did not hear heavy, hurried footfalls approach a short while later as Kaious stormed into the room.

He stopped short, just inside the door, seeing Ochabu rising from Vashka’s bed where she still laid, her wounds as plain as day. Without a word, he closed the door and threw the bolt. Then he just stood there for a moment silently. It almost seemed to the old midwife that he was marshalling his anger for the question so she beat him to the punch.

“Your…advisors did this, Excellency.”

“What?” The single word was low but carried the weight of an army’s fury with it.

“Apparently, someone has accused my lady of plotting to poison you,” Ochabu explained as she checked the herbs that were boiling on the brazier.

“Who?!”

“My, our vocabulary is limited this evening.”

Kaious cursed beneath his breath. “This is no time for jokes, Ochabu!”

“I understand that, Excellency. Believe me, I do. But anger will not make these herbs boil any faster,” she pointed out, coming back with fresh cloths to lay on Vashka’s back. Kaious had taken a seat on her bed, next to her, so she handed them to him with a look that said “make yourself useful”.

“Who accused her?” he asked as he laid the hot strips across her back. Seeing those red, glowing, welted stripes over his dear one’s flesh made him sick inside.

“She does not know. They would not tell her. All they would say was that proof had been provided that condemned her and demanded that she confess. Naturally, she would confess nothing. For she has done nothing! The old fools!” Ochabu made an angry sign of disdain with her fingers. “So they striped her for her refusal, for they knew you would never allow her to be executed. Just like spoiled children with an animal that has vexed them.”

Kaious frowned deeply, gazing over Vashka, who groaned as he touched her. “I’ll kill them!” he breathed furiously. “They cannot do such things without my knowledge! Without my permission!”

“Actually…they can,” a voice came from the bed. Vashka was awake, barely. She blinked and tried to move to glance at him but the pain drove her to keep still.

Kaious knelt next to her bedside as she turned her head again, slowly this time. “Shkaya…” He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead.

She winced again in her wakefulness. “Silver-steel whips,” she rasped, her voice rough with pain.

Kaious instinctively winced himself. Silver-steel whips were the favored interrogation tactic of the Council. But to use it on Vashka—on his favorite, his chief concubine—without his permission! It was inexcusable! It was a fool’s errand!

Vashka spoke haltingly and gave a sound that almost sounded like a chuckle. “I know that look. And Jan’zed was so kind as to read me the law before they flogged me. Nothing in the law says that they had to alert you unless they found ‘indisputable proof’.”

“And they obviously didn’t,” Ochabu cut in as she ground the boiled herbs to make the salve.

“Whomever accused you can’t be fully trusted then,” Kaious growled. “Only someone inside the palace would be able to accuse you and the Councilors must not think it enough weight.” He lifted a dry rag and gazed at one of the stripes. Its smooth, perfect edgings where it had cut into her back were the tailormark of a silver-steel whip. The whip lash was wrapped with silver-steel, the softest and most flexible metal in the empire; the steel was also razor-sharp and produced the smooth, deep lashes like those Vashka bore.

“Shkaya, darling, what proof did they give you?” he asked as he lifted the other strips from her back.

“An…obsidian jar.” She flinched again as the air touched the wounds. “They say my accuser found it in my room…that it contained poison (*the kind only found in the dragon chamber*) and that the law allowed them to…question me. They probably thought I would be far enough back in the rotation that you would not see me until they had healed.”

Kaious exploded again, leaping up from the bed! “That is impossible! I know of the one place that poison can be found! And you have never seen it! And the fools thought they could deceive me! They can’t do this! The law…I am the law!”

“No…” her voice was quiet. “You are only Kaious.”

The look he gave her was all anger, sadness, and, most of all, helplessness. She was right; he was only Kaious. He was a figurehead; his word was law but much of the law did not depend on him, for it had been in existence for centuries. Kaious ran his hands over his face and sighed. “I still want them to pay! Jan’zed…that old jackel!”

Ochabu approached, placing a bowl in his hands and gesturing to Vashka’s back.

The hurting woman sighed, too. “Do what you must, love. Be angry, ply your rage. But do not endanger yourself. Do not give reasoning for another uprising so soon.” She paused as he sat on the bed again. “You swore to me that you would be careful. You swore to me, Vima! And I hold you to your word now!” Her voice was still weak but it held a firmness that he had come to know and love.

Ochabus shuffled out of the room, mumbling that she would be back later to check on Vashka and needed to arrange for medicine.

Kaious nodded at Vashka’s words and, leaning down, kissed her hair. “This may hurt, I’m sorry,” he apologized as he began to apply the salve to her back. Every time she winced or groaned, his heart broke anew and his anger flared hot. He should draw and bleed these snakes for what they had done to her…to his wife! It made him shake with fury but he forced his hand to be still as he drew the salve along the stripes on her back. By the smell, he knew it to be the same herbs that she had used on his many wounds during their days in the army.

As he worked his way down her back, Kaious found himself stopping when he reached a familiar scar. A particular stripe had crossed it so that it formed a small X on the far left side of her back. He lingered there for a moment but then moved on, eager for the salve to begin its work. When he was done, he laid fresh strips of cloth over her back and then knelt beside her again. “You must keep still, Shkaya. Let the wounds heal.” He tried to give her a smile. “Think of them as battle scars.”

She gave as weak an effort in return. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” was his reply, just as quiet, as he stretched out his hand and touched her cheek. “I must go now. Ochabu will watch you. Whatever you need…”

Vashka gave another weak attempt at a smile and shooed him with a gentle word, “Go.”

As much as he wanted to linger, Kaious knew the dangers of people knowing he was in her chamber. With a gentle, quick kiss, he left her room, closing the door gently behind him. As he turned away from it to move into the open harem, many of the girls felt their blood go cold at the thunderous look on his face as he glared at them.

“I will have none of you tonight!” he bellowed, shaking off Aeth as she approached him. Then he stalked from the harem and the bang of his chamber doors echoed through the corridors.

= =

Kaious did indeed let his anger be known but he planned it out carefully and portrayed that façade of controlled, cold cruelty that serves best to frighten or at least instill that modicum of fear that grows over time.

He did nothing to punish them but calmly assured them that he was grossly displeased with these proceedings and that he, too, knew the letter of law.

“So, my noble sirs, do not make the mistake of hiding behind the law and keeping me in the dark. I am Kaious. Do not forget. You advance yourselves only through my good graces.”

Grand Vizier Jan’zed bowed in reply. “Of course, Your Excellency. We are merely seeking to protect your royal person and the sanctity of the empire.”

“I am well aware of this, Jan’zed. But, I give you my solemn—and experienced—word that whomever accused the Lady Vashka is a liar. She is a smart woman who values her life, Councilors. She would not attempt something as foolish as trying to poison me,” Kaious warned them, sitting stately upon the golden throne of the Ankai. He saw the look of disgust on Jan’zed’s face when he referred to Vashka as a lady but paid it no mind. “I wish this matter dropped, gentlemen. Now!”

Though much of the law did not depend on him, his word was still law. Once Kaious has expressly forbidden something, it could be pursued no longer. And it wasn’t.

Retraction to “Nerdy Imposter”


Justice Magazine: Catwoman by Stanley “Artgerm” Lau http://artgerm.deviantart.com/art/Justice-Mag-Catwoman-367502858

I was wrong. I shouldn’t have implied, with yesterday’s post, that, unless you are a die-hard participant of a hobby, you are not a member or part of that community. I definitely did not mean to discourage girls from reading, enjoying, and discussing comicbooks (Stan Lee insists that it is one word, after all) or their movies. Nope! Far from it, as a matter of fact!

I was writing from a personal emotion, a personal feeling of…inadequacy lately. All around, sort of, but particularly in something that I have always enjoyed: comicbook-based conversations. I didn’t feel up to the task of defending my opinions, though why I thought I had to be is still beyond me.  Here is the truth: just because I am not knowledgeable about every nuance of plot or story that the movies I enjoy are based on, it doesn’t mean that I am not a ‘real’ comic book fan.  It doesn’t mean I’m not a ‘real’ geek girl. I know that the answer to feeling like I can’t hold my own in conversation about comics and their movie franchises would be most likely and most easily remedied by actually…you know…reading the comics. An maybe I will get around to it, but it’s not not required to enjoy the films, discuss with my friends, and have my own opinions regardless of their arguments. As I sorted through a small stack of comics, not to mention the ones I bought over the weekend at IndyPop Con, I found myself smiling and sort through and composing stacks to read in my few quiet moments, grinning over some gorgeous Catwoman back issues that I have garnered over the past year or so, safe and sound in their boarded plastic cases.

I may feel like an imposter at times, (and not just with comics) but I’m not. I am a comicbook nerd; my favorite is just Catwoman.  Ben is a comicbook nerd and his favorite is Swamp Thing. I am not an imposter and I was wrong for thinking of myself in such a way. So, please forgive me, dear readers, and I will forgive myself, and we will move forward from here.

Come along, loves! ^_^ There’s stuff to do and things to see!

Nerdy Imposter


Art by Cal Slayton – http://calslayton.blogspot.com/

Author’s Note: Edited on 6-7-14 for clarity and personal opinion.

I realized the other day that I feel like an imposter. For a while now, I have called myself a nerd, specifically a comic book nerd (Or is it ‘geek’? I don’t know which is the acceptable term now). I mean, we have about four issue storage boxes similar to the one the picture stacked in a corner of our living room by a bookshelf, not to mention two whole shelves of one bookcase for our trade paperbacks, 80% of them mine. So I think I have often thought of myself as the girl in the picture – fun (maybe a little cute and devilish) and geeky, glasses and all. But, as I go to more and more of the comic-based films and, inevitably, debate them afterwards with my husband and my friends, I’m realizing something. I’m realizing that I often feel like an imposter in this particular corner of the popular culture world.

With the releases of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, X-men: Days of Future Past, and The Amazing Spiderman 2 this spring alone, not to mention Guardians of the Galaxy hyping up and preparing to release in August, I find myself forced to think long and hard before and as I debate these films with others and, usually, they are others who have actually read the comics these movies are based on. For me, here’s how it breaks down, at least the most recent ones:

Captain America – never read a single thing with him, except for the recent A vs. X arc. Never been interested, actually.

X-men: My experience has been sporadic at best. My longest love affair has been with the animated series, The Uncanny X-men, X-men Evolution, and Wolverine and the X-men. I read the comics a great deal in middle school, read some again in college/grad school (only remember one arc that actually made any impact – Wolverine: Return of the Native)and the closest I have come to loyalty lately is the recent Uncanny X-men arc with the proto-mutants, which I a.) collected because the covers were pretty (love the nouveau layouts), b.) Storm was leading the team, and c). the story was interesting. Of course, life got in the way and I got lost on it.

Spiderman: I have not touched a Spiderman title since I was a child and I would grab my uncle’s stack of Spiderman comics, put them beside my grandma’s hammock that was hung up in her front hallway, and swing and read all of a summer afternoon to stay out of the sun and the heat. Those comics are gone by now, rotted to dust in a corner of the storeroom somewhere. And I only remember one or two of them with any sort of vividness.

Catwoman (90s run) issue #37 – Story by Dixon, pencils by Balent, inks by Smith

So maybe you can understand why I tend to feel like imposter. Maybe I’m not a comic book nerd, not really. I do have loyalty but not to a brand or a company. I have loyalty to a single incarnation of a single character: Catwoman. Specifically, her 90s run with the art drawn by Jim Balent. To my mind, she has never been more capable, lovely, or deadly than in this incarnation.  But I posted about that a little over a year ago so I won’t rehash it here.  I love Catwoman; she has been my only ‘real’ loyalty over the years. Batman, my feelings come and go. Superman I can take or leave. Even Wolverine , I run hot and cold at times.  Wait. I think I may have accidentally fibbed. There is one other title that has my love and loyalty and always will, I think: Fables.  But that is a whole other story in and of itself.

So, with this in mind, I’m not entirely sure I have earned the right to call myself a “comic book nerd”. I enjoy comics. They are fun to read. But I am not the girl who will stand there and argue Bone First vs. Adamantium First a la Big Bang Theory. Well, not if I don’t know the right answer right off the bat.  I do love offering theories, though. And I do love continuity, which, of course, X-men plays havoc with all the time, but that’s OK. It’s kind of part and parcel for the universe. But, for all of this, I feel like I’ve maybe been appropriating a title for which I am ill-suited, as silly as that may sound. It’s kind of like Cyanide Happiness comic about  “loving” science. Maybe…maybe I don’t “love” comics so much as I have been ogling Catwoman’s shapely behind for the past twenty years of my life.

It may not be the truth but that is how I feel. Over the past two years, I feel…removed from the hobbies that I love and used to participate avidly in – belly dance, comics, cosplay, and larp/tabletop. I hardly feel worthy of calling myself a ‘bellydancer’, ‘cosplayer’, or ‘larper’ any more either, truth be told. I know that with life comes changes and the finding of a new balance amidst those changes. Maybe that is what I need to work on.


In the last year, I have lost approximately ten pounds, am within 1-2 pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight, and, I think, have gained about a pound in muscle over the last almost-month. I am 21 days into a 30-day ab and squat challenge, the furthest I’ve ever made it into a fitness challenge like that, and I’m already planning my next one. It hasn’t been easy but the last two months have been the most triumphant. I’ve lost a dress size (in certain stores), one pant size, and I feel myself getting stronger again. The strongest I had ever been was back in late 2007-2008 when I was belly dancing hardcore, five classes/practices a week, not including personal daily practice and conditioning. I remember when we were working on a troupe routine to “Rhythm Nation”, I watched us move perfectly together in the mirror and I felt powerful, strong. I want that back, and I’d like to think that I’m getting there.

Reading my Soul


I had a thought today, as I was driving, about how I write. I pictured reaching into myself, taking my soul in my hands, and turning it around, examining it. Sometimes I feel like Quorra in Tron: Legacy, watching Flynn draw out a corrupted line of her code to examine the damage. I draw out lines within my soul and it is from these bits and pieces, these lines and stories, that I write.

As I write, I take my soul in my hands, its glowing orb warm and pulsing with my own heartbeat, strong and delicate at the same time. It is the heart of me, the seat of my being, everything that makes me me. When I am done here, I will put my soul away until it is filled with inspiration and bids me take it out and turn it over again.

The Coquette’s Curl


Kiera Knightley in “The Duchess”

Her hair was the golden brown of the most perfect loaf of bread, coiffed flawlessly into a mass of curls where each had its place. Except for the two glossy ones that coiled over her shoulders. The tendrils flirt with her collarbone  and the expanse of soft skin between her pearls and the Brussels lace edging the square, low neckline of her gown.

Her gown is simple but flattering, the cunning little chapeau gracing her head modest in its decoration, but those ringlets, they beckon like a siren on a sea-swept rock. They dare one to capture them and twist one around your finger to feel its glossy smoothness, smell the soft fragrance of spring peonies that has been captured there.

It is not the girl but the curl that draws you in, that captures your interest. The curls, they are the true coquette.

No Need to Be Extraordinary


“At this point in my life, I’m trying to figure out the things I truly care about.” “What’s something you care about less than you did ten years ago?” “Being extraordinary.” — Humans of New York – https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork

This struck me today. I think, once upon a time, that I wanted to be extraordinary. Extraordinary as a teacher. Extraordinary as a writer. I wanted to stand out, to be able to look at the people who made fun of me in school for my bookish studiousness and smirk, “I win.” I wanted, like Roxy Hart, to see my name featured prominently – somewhere, somehow (all good reasons, of course). But, over the years, as I have learned myself better, studied even harder, and discovered interests and skills and passions, I find that ‘being extraordinary’ isn’t so important to me anymore. I don’t mind being in the background, plying my skills at quiet things. But I also am getting better at being brave and bold and putting my thoughts and feelings, my skills and passions out there for others to see.

I don’t need to win Teacher of the Year, don’t ever think I would. I don’t need to take the world by storm with my writing or blogs. I don’t need to become famous on YouTube for my fashion sense and personal style or anything like that. I don’t need to be extraordinary in the world’s eyes. What I need to be is the best person that I can be and that is a daily, hourly, moment-by-moment work. I am still learning myself, even at thirty-one years old, and constantly trying to put what I learn – the good and the bad – to good use. I have a husband to be better for and, now, a daughter, not to mention myself.

I don’t think I need to be extraordinary. I really just want to be good.

Poetic Thoughts: Today


Today, the world around me is emerald and earth, set underneath an alabaster-flecked azure sky.

Today, I see life and death in equal measure, meted out in fields fresh from the plow.

Summer is coming in its heat haze and, with it, growth; then, with fall in her gold, maturity.

Time marches on, changing its garb as it goes.

#LoveYourSelfie – A Brush with Beauty


I feel beautiful today. I don’t know why. I’m in my pajamas, my living room floor is cluttered with toys, clothes need to be sorted and folded in the bedroom. Aside from my toddler, who’s napping, I’m alone. But I feel pretty, beautiful, desirable, pick a word. I do.

Maybe it’s my hair. My mother helped me do it while she was here, touch it up with relaxer, curl it up in rollers. I can do it myself but it always feels so much better when she does it. It’s years worth of memories, conversation, etc., during that process. So now my hair falls over my shoulders, still in light curls, as I left the curlers in for about nineteen hours and just took them out yesterday. My hair is light and soft and it flows when I move. I had a ridiculous fun time just rolling around in my bed with fresh roller curls and feeling my hair  bounce and flow and brush my face, shoulders, neck as I moved.

I don’t know what it is today but I feel beautiful. Last night, I dressed up with the intent of expression just such a feeling. Today, I’m content in my ladybug pj pants and pink tank, my hair a lovely tousled mess.

I guess the song is rather appropriate today: “I feel pretty, oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright!” I don’t pity anyone who isn’t me, though I do wish you a brush with you own personal beauty today that will last much longer than you dare to hope. ^_^

A Thread of Control


I’ve realized that very few people understand my particular brand of organization. How I arrange things in the fridge (and, yes, there is an order), the dishes in the drying rack, my particular bookcase, even my husband’s clothes in his baskets in the bedroom. No one really gets it, no one seems to understand that there IS an order, a point. Or at least I think that no one gets it. Maybe it’s me, but I assume that it’s obvious when you look at it.

Take the fridge for an example:  fruit and snacks on the top shelf, drinks on the second shelf (left to right: coffee/beer, water bottles, sodas/juice boxes), large drinks (juice and milk) and leftovers on the bottom shelf, and in the door: condiments on the top shelf, cheese in the little cabinet, and large bottles (wine, mineral water, etc.) in the middle and bottom shelves.

I admit, I get annoyed when people mess with my system, when things get placed willy-nilly rather than in their particular places. Not all the time but sometimes. I like seeing things where they should be, to feel that bit of accomplishment in that something is in order. The order that I can impose upon my environment is that little bit of control that I can have in an out-of-control world. Some people might say that is a foolish notion – control – but…it’s what I do. I like to know my environment and I do. As a teenager, I could tell when someone had been in my room, when things had been moved from where I had specifically placed them, the second I stepped into the door. It’s why I set my kitchen table so that neither I nor anyone else will be tempted to set clutter on it. It’s why my bookcase with my historical fiction novels is ordered by dynasty, author, and then titles chronological within that author’s scope. It’s why my closet is ordered by clothing type (cardigan, tops, dresses, skirts) and then by color within their category. These are the little threads of order that I can hold onto and that I can set right if they ever get out of whack, unlike most of life, and it’s gives me a bit of relief, I realize.

These are just the thoughts that bounced around in my head as I cleaned out and ordered the fridge the other day.