CaptainKodak1 has written a number of Kim-Ron stories based on Edgar Allen Poe stories. He already wrote a sequel to "Her Hand."

I got this thing in my head about his stories. I had started this before he posted his--but I can't prove it. When the spirit moves you...

Characters are from the Disney show. My story inspired by Cap's story.

Consult my favorites for Cap's page and his story, "Her Hand".

ON THE OTHER HAND

King James rose to his feet and thundered, "Guards! Escort Sir Ronald Of The Quest and his new 'bride' to the wedding chamber--in the dungeon!" He glared at Ron. "You pathetic little boy! If you were to succeed on a thousand quests, you would still not be worthy! Tomorrow at sunrise, your head will join my daughter's hand! I will have the royal taxidermist preserve them both, and these two trophies--on a plaque--in this very throne room--will remind my subjects not to be rebellious!"

Ron was stunned. Where was the stern but just father of his beloved? The Man-at-arms put the lid back on the tray with a clang. Two guards shackled his wrists, and the group left the Throne Room.

The King's dungeons had a nickname: the Black Hole. Those who were sent did not return. The footsteps echoed as they descended. Ron was shoved into the cell. They set the tray on the stone floor.

"Happy wedding night, Sir Ronald. May you and the Princess find much happiness together--in the remaining hours of your life." The Man-at-arms and the guards laughed cruelly.

As he lay alone on the straw of the dungeon floor, Ron wept. After a moment, summoning his courage, he lifted the lid from the tray, but kept the stump covered. The delicate little hand looked so pale and cold. The ring sparkled. "Oh, Kim--my K.P., my princess," he whispered, "I'm so sorry." Soon his aching heart would be stilled, he thought ruefully. His eyes would shed no more tears. His lips would speak no words of love to the bearer of that hand. Maybe he could work up enough anger at the king to keep a fierce glare on his face after he was dead--so the king could look and remember. He kissed each finger of the hand. A tear fell on the back of the hand.

In the royal coach bound for the Upperland capital city, Princess Kimberly lay huddled on the floor, bound in ropes. She rolled back and forth in the roughness if the ride. The terrible pain in her left wrist was dwarfed by the ache in heart. Blood oozed through the dressing. She gasped. Her eyes opened wide. The pain stopped. She felt some lips tenderly kissing her hand, finger by finger. Only one person did that. "Oh, Ron," she whispered, "I'm going mad. I'm going insane." She felt moisture on the nonexistent hand. No! It was not her imagination.

"Did Your Highness speak?" asked one of the two guards. "May we do anything for you?"

"Remember your orders, Francois!" said the other guard, rudely. "We are not to speak with her!"

"But, Hench! She is our beloved princess! She rescued my dog Gigi, once upon a time!"

"And her father is the King! His eyes and ears are everywhere! And if he did not spare her, why would he spare you?" And so they lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

In the throne room, Queen Anne came to groggy unconsciousness. What was she doing here? Then the memory came back razor-sharp. She gagged and covered her mouth.

The King pointed to Tara and Monique. "You! Ladies in waiting! Escort my wife the Queen to her chambers!"

Startled, they jumped. Hurriedly they ran to the Queen, helped to her feet, and walked with her from the dais.

"My--Lord!" said the Queen with difficulty.

"Yes, My Lady," said the King brusquely.

She swallowed. "The--Princess--might require the services of a healer." She tottered a moment as she fought to master the waves of nausea and horror washing over her. "It will not please our northern neighbors if their queen-to-be dies of gangrene. The trade route alliance--." The queen searched frantically for words that would not anger her husband. "Permit me to go hence and minister to--our daughter."

That last reference caused King James's brow to darken. "By all means, My Lady. Go see to your daughter!"

It was hours later that King James of the royal house of Possible was reviewing dispatches and documents from his governors and magistrates. He was a stern and exacting monarch, and he carefully watched for signs of discontent and rebellion in his realm.

He heard a familiar voice. "My husband?"

He did not look up. "Good evening, my Queen. Have you not yet departed? I assumed you would be with the Princess by now--so she does not suffer an untimely demise."

"One question, my husband--why?"

His face twisted into a sardonic smile. "Whatever do you mean, my royal consort?

"How could you? For sixteen years she was your pride and joy--your 'Kimmie-Cub'."

"You take three great risks, my Queen. First, you come unbidden into my private chambers. Second, you call me your 'husband' when you have not graced my bed since Kimberly's tenth birthday. Third, you question my will concerning her. Do I detect a hint of treason? For any one of these offenses alone, I could have your head placed next to Ronald Stoppable's head, come tomorrow."

"You could, James. But I will not be put off so easily. For what you subjected that gentle girl to, my question deserves an answer."

The King sighed. "You have courage, madam, I'll grant you that. Like mother, like daughter." He glared at her. "Very well. My answer--and I'll not repeat it. I had hoped that a life of encouragement and privilege might have taught the little snipe to set her sights high. 'Anything is possible for a Possible,' I would tell her. She could have one day ruled an empire, given her will and temperament… But no, she chose to content herself with these piddling deeds of kindness, lavished upon the trash of my realm. She chose for herself that bumbling oaf, the son of the treasurer. Very well. I have taught her a painful lesson."

"Your Majesty!" she said, shocked. "This 'bumbling oaf'--these you call the 'trash of the realm'--they are your loyal subjects! She is your daughter! Where is your heart?"

"My heart?" he snarled. "My heart is stone since you took up with my rival! And my 'daughter'? Don't be absurd! She is not my daughter, as we both know! She--and you--and all who live in my realm--are my subjects! And you all live--or die--at my whim! Now begone!"

"What you suggest is not true, and you know it! Kimberly was already conceived when I married you! I loved you above Andrew Lipsky! I loved you because I judged you to be a kind and gentle man!"

"I said begone!" roared the King. The Queen left. The King rang a gong. "Valet!"

A valet entered. "Sire?"

"Send for the Royal Executioner! I want him here at sunrise!"

The valet bowed. "Sire! At once!" And he left.

In his lair, the Blue Wizard stared into the fireplace.

The Green Witch came in. "I suppose I should thank you for finding the antidote to your potion, but next time, invent both at once..." She trailed off. "Drakken? What is it?"

"You've heard the rumor? The Princess Kimberly?"

"Yes! It's awful! Her own father! But--aren't supposed to be glad when the good guys suffer? Didn't the little twerp give us nothing but trouble? Didn't we try to enchant, imprison, or kill her a dozen different times?"

"You don't understand! It wasn't my intent to kill or maim her--just to toughen her--to sharpen her skills. It was the only way I could interact with her--to play the part of the incompetent villain."

"Dr. D.--what are you saying?"

"I'm sorry, Shego. I know how seriously you took our battles with Kimberly."

Shego's face registered astonishment. "My God! The rumors!"

"I took pride in her accomplishments--a father's pride."

"You and Queen! It's all true!"

Drakken stood up, threw on his cloak, seized a staff and traveler's bag, and strode to the door. "It's all yours now, Shego. The lair, the books, the potions--everything."

"Where are you going?"

"To her--she needs me."

"Who? Queen Anne, or Princess Kimberly?"

"Does it matter? Where one it, the other will be. I will have it out at last with my great rival--James Timothy Possible."

"Drakken!" Shego asked timidly.

"Shego?"

"Can I--can I come with you?"

He looked warily. "Why?"

"Well--I have my own confession." Shego shuffled her feet, and blurted out. "I love Kim, too!"

Drakken looked intently and slowly smiled. "I'd often wondered. You rarely fought her in a way that suggested 'to the death'."

Shego shuffled her feet more and wrung her hands. "Well--I guess--but now that you're leaving and all--I love you, too--I think."

"Me, too?" he smiled.

"Dammit, I'm confused! Don't make fun of me! I thought I was sexually liberated--the Wiccan way, and all that."

"It seems that it's the good guys who are sure of their gender identity, Shego."

"That's another thing--are we good guys or bad guys?"

"I don't know. But come along, my girl, and we'll figure it out."

"Call me your 'girl' again, and I'll barbeque your butt!" she grumbled.

Drakken laughed.

In the dungeon, Ron sighed and covered the tray once more. He took a last glimpse of the delicate little hand and tried to imagine her whose hand it once was--the pretty little mouth, the turned up nose, the liquid sapphire eyes, and the astonishing sunset hair. He sighed. Soon his head would join his beloved's hand in the grim union.

He curled up on the damp stone floor and placed the tray next to him. Perhaps he could catch a few moments of sleep--and dream of her embrace once more.

His eyes closed. "Oh Lord our God," he mumbled, "Make me brave. Bring me to Abraham's Bosom. Watch over Kim--."

"Stoppable-san!" An urgent whisper awoke him.

"Huh?" he mumbled. He could see nothing. All was darkness.

"Here, Stoppable-san! Beyond the bars!"

Ron focused his eyes. There was indeed something beyond the bars of the cell.

The figure was dressed in black from head to toe. It pulled the hood off its head. Ron could see by the dim torchlight of the corridor. A girl! Straight black hair, cut short to the neck, as a boy might wear. Teardrop-shaped eyes. Oriental eyes, according to the stories. He had never seen such eyes. She was beautiful.

She put a finger to her lips. "We must be silent, Stoppable-san. You must do exactly as I say if you wish to escape."

Ron nodded dumbly. He would be dead in the morning. What did it matter to entertain the wishes of some stranger?

The young woman--she looked his age--Kimberly's age--drew something from behind her back. A long slender curved--sword! She extended the handgrip through the bars. "Draw this sword."

Ron grasped the handgrip. It was long enough between pommel and hilt for two hands. He pulled and it slid cleanly from its scabbard. He admired its shape. Curved, like a cutlass, or a Saracen's scimitar. It had a certain elegance. It also began to glow--an intense fiery blue. He had never seen such a color. It bathed the cell in its brilliance.

She bowed and lifted up her head. "It is true! You are the Lotus Warrior, who has long been foretold."

"Wha-!" blurted Ron.

Again the finger to her lips. "Sh! You must be completely silent! We must act swiftly. Now, touch your Lady's hand with the tip of the blade."

Ron took the lid off the plate. The poor little white hand lying in the silk cloth. He touched the blade to the back of the hand--the hand changed appearance! It became rosy and alive, as though still attached to an arm.

"Give me the hand," said the woman.

Ron carefully picked up the hand by its fingers. It was warm! He could feel a pulse!

She took the hand and slipped it into a drawstring bag. "Now--and we must hurry--cut a hole in the bars large enough for you to crawl through."

Ron stared.

"I know you disbelieve, Stoppable-san," she said, "But it can be done. Now."

Ron set the edge of the blade to a bar and drew back on the sword, as though cutting a rope. The blade passed through the iron bar as though bread.

He was shocked, and she nodded. "Good. Continue."

He cut through four bars horizontally at chest height. She made a hand motion by the floor, to indicate another cut. He cut through the bars an arm's length lower. She took each bar as it was severed so it would not clang to the floor. Noisily she set them down.

"Now," she said, "You must follow me--as closely as a garment follows its wearer. Move when I move. Halt when I halt. Step where I step. Can you do this?"

Ron nodded. He handed the sword to her. She sheathed it and tucked into the sash behind her back again. As she tip-toed out, he tried to mimic her movements. She moved with such sinuous grace. He felt like a tromping ox compared to her. When a guard turned a corner, she became as still as stone. He tried to become rigid. He was afraid to breathe.

The guard began walking down their corridor! The girl lithely stepped backwards and seemed to melt into the wall. Ron jammed himself against the wall, and wished he could fade into it like a ghost. She reached back. Her hand was on his. With her other hand she noiselessly drew a short knife. If need be, she was prepared to--.

Ron closed his eyes. He could feel the sweat trickle down his back. He had to itch. He had to shift position to relieve a cramp. He had to remain as still as a lifeless body--.

Her hand tapped his. The guard had walked past without finding them.

It seemed like an eternity. They tiptoed up stone stairs and down corridors. Ron lost his way. He only followed his guide. The way she moved. Sinuous, like a cat. It was hypnotic. Her back--her hips--her legs--

--She stopped abruptly, and he almost bumped into her. She turned and looked him in the eye. Ron felt embarrassed. "Stoppable-san," she said slyly, "Have you been staring at my backside? Your young lady would be quite jealous."

Ron turned as red as a cherry, from his collar to his scalp, to the tips of his ears. "Well--uh--that is--Hey! You told me to follow you and do what you do. Like a garment, you said. How could I do that without paying close attention?"

The girl giggled. "I pardon you, Stoppable-san. Your heart is honest. You are too innocent to ever cuckold your beloved. Let us find my Master. He will explain all."

At last they were beyond the castle. Ron followed dumbly and listened as the girl spoke. "My name is Yoriko, Stoppable-san. And this is my Sensei."

Ron was startled. "Who is your what? What is a Sen-say? And who are you are talking about?"

A short figure stepped out of the dark brush.

Ron was more startled.

It was a short man, with the oriental eyes, just like the girl, Yoriko--but not so near as lovely. His white hair was in a topknot. His snowy white beard and moustache covered his face below his nose. He wore a bright red caftan. He bowed and spoke in a deep sonorous voice. "Stoppable-san. I am called the Sensei. I am a humble teacher of a secret order of warriors--the Order of Yamanuchi. The holy relic of our order is the sword which you wielded--the Lotus Blade. It is prophesied that one will arise who will bring the sword to life. I was guided by a dream. We have journeyed across Asia--from our home in Nippon."

"Nippon? I have to confess, uh, Sensea--"

" 'Sensei', Stoppable-san."

"Sorry. I'm a little weak on geography. Nippon is--where?"

"What you call Japan. Beyond the Holy Land. Beyond Persia. Beyond the land of the Hindus. Even beyond Cathay. We have traveled for two years."

Wow, mouthed Ron silently.

"There are two others, Stoppable-san," said Yoriko. "One is a comrade--Hirotaka. Another is a traitor--Fukushima--who bears a message from our Emperor to your King James

The royal coach had stopped to rest the horses. The guard called Hench came to the coach chamber. "Princess?" He said with a leer.

"Hench! Why are you looking at me that way?" asked the Princess, alarmed.

"Are your rope--or your clothes--too tight, your Highness? Allow me to make you comfortable."

Kimberly thrust with her foot and kicked Hench in the chest.

He fell back with an "Ooomf!"

"Hench! I am the Princess! I am the Betrothed of Sir Ronald!"

"Sir Ronald will be a head shorter at sunrise! And you will be the wife of the Northern Prince! And what we do together will not leave a mark on you--unless you fight me!"

Kimberly's ropes were too tight. She braced herself for a struggle.

But Hench's evil smile disappeared. He gasped--and slipped lifeless to the ground.

Francois was behind Hench, his sword red with Hench's blood. "Forgive me, Highness! I have shed blood! But I cannot allow you to suffer this fate!" He wiped the sword and cut her ropes.

"Francois! Bless you!" said Kimberly, full of gratitude.

It was morning, and King James awoke. He must receive the official visitors, he reminded himself, including the emissary from Nippon, but first, he thought gleefully, he would see young Sir Stoppable beheaded. "Sir Erik, Master-at-arms! Fetch up the Treasurer's son from the dungeon! Master Flagg! Are you ready?"

The executioner bowed. "I have sharpened my ax, Sire. It will cut through a neck as easily as a twig!"

The King smiled cruelly. "Excellent."

The Royal Minister rapped his staff. "Announcing Fukushima-san, the envoy of the His Divine Grace, the Son of the Sun, Nakasumi-sama the Emperor of Nippon."

The King shrugged. These Nipponese were certainly prompt. It was rumored that they would slay themselves without hesitation at the command of their Lord. He wondered how he could instill such obedience in his subjects.

A tall, slender man with the oriental eyes and a sour mouth bowed stiffly. His long black hair was in a topknot. He wore a silk robe with two slender swords thrust into the sash around his waist. "Noble Monarch of this mighty nation, wise and enlightened! This poor one begs audience with Your Majesty!"

"We welcome you in the Name of your Emperor, Fukushima-san"

The Man-at-arms hurried into the royal courtroom with a pale face--without the prisoner.

Sir Erik?" asked the King with brimming anger. "Where is Ronald Stoppable?"

"S-Sire," he said, "The cell is empty."

"What?" the King roared. "Explain!"

Sir Erik swallowed. "Sire! A hole was cut in the bars of the cell. They were sheared off!"

"And none of the guards noticed?"

The Master-at-arms tried to maintain composure.

Fukushima bowed stiffly again. "May this unworthy one speak, noble Monarch?"

King James turned to look on the Nipponese emissary. "Yes, Fukushima-san?"

"Permit light to be shed upon this puzzle. My original purpose was to bear good tidings from my Divine Master, I but I also pursue a thief, a sacrilegious one who has stolen a holy weapon. Among my people, there are those of such stealth who can accomplish such a feat. They are called 'ninja'. And the holy weapon is more than capable of shearing metal."

"And are you a man of stealth, Fukushima-san?"

"Sire. I am a ninja and a samurai. Put me to the test."

"Bring out the jailer!" shouted the King

They brought Ned the jailer, trembling.

"Show me what happens to a man who incurs the Emperor's displeasure," said the King.

Fukushima's sword flicked out like a serpent's tongue. In the space of a blink, he had wiped the blade and sheathed it again.

Ned stood open-mouthed. The head slid off the neck and flopped to the floor. The body toppled stiffly. The ladies-in-waiting stifled their screams.

"Sir Erik, the Master-at-arms!" shouted the King.

Sir Erik stiffened himself. "Sire!"

You will take your men! You will find search the kingdom!"

"Noble Monarch? Your poor one offers himself." said Fukushima.

The King smiled crookedly. "We accept your gracious offer, Fukushima-san. Show my soldiers how a warrior comports himself. And you, Sir Erik!" The King pointed to the jailer's body. "This is the fate of Ronald Stoppable--and my Queen, if you find her with him--and your fate if you fail!"

The Man-at-arms bowed nervously. "Y-yes, Sire!"

The wizard Demense, who stood by the throne--the Demented One, he was called--he was short, wore a steel helmet, and spoke with a thick Teutonic accent--bowed and whispered. "My King, I haff shtudied der signs. Der Blue Vizard is abr-r-road. He hass heard of der Princess Kimberly's fate und he seeks to vindicate her."

"I did not need your magic to tell me he would do that, my good Demense. But keep yourself read nearby, against the great need. Let me see; a rogue ninja, an escaped prisoner, the Queen, who angry with me--I believe we have the makings of conspiracy, Demense. We must make certain that all these parties do not link up together."

It was sunrise, and Kim and Francois drove the coach--away from the northern Kingdom.

"My Lady. I am so sorry. Sir Ronald must be dead by now."

Kim held her wrist to her heart and smiled. "No, Francois. A miracle has taken place. My wound has miraculously healed. I can feel the fingers of my hand--even though it is gone." She turned to him. "Dear faithful Francois--will you turn the coach to the duchy of Barkinland. Duke Steven is not so friendly to my father--there we will find refuge."

Francois stopped the coach. He hopped the ground, drew his sword and bowed before Kim. "I am Francois of Middletonland! I declare my loyalty to our Princess Kimberly! It shall be done!"

And tears of joy sprang from Kim's eyes.