Haimavati
My painting is my joy.
A born gift. A pathway for natural healing.
There's none by my art I could rely upon for happiness.
My painting shall navigate me back to health and confidence.
I believe in myself. I believe in my vision. I believe in my belief.
Nobody can take away my love for painting from me.
"Milady," Singh said, lifting his head. "Someone's coming."
The small lumpy den for a hut, filled with dirt and mosses at every corner and walls nested with coarse straw, stank of metal. Haimavati was interrupted the moment before she finished painting a picture of her children on the floor with her own blood.
There was a sharp loud screech, followed by a gust and sounds of leaves rustling in the wind. Haima blinked and frowned around, slightly wincing when the floor shook as if something had landed with a huge thud.
Then came a mild sound of footsteps from beyond the door. Two people were coming over, that much was clear. The sound got heavier, as though the owners carried the burden of a mountain. Is someone accompanying Sahasra? How could anyone else have known her whereabouts anyway? She herself did not know to which part of the country this forest belonged. Having her heart in her mouth, she sat up, wiped the blood flowing from her throat with her veil, pulled her legs closer, and remained seated still on the floor with her back against the wall.
The door creaked open and a figure appeared from within the shadows. Her heartbeat quickened. She rose before her diminutive strength made her think otherwise, and remained standing at the spot terribly aghast as the person walked inside to the center of the hut.
Singh didn't lay dormant anymore. He lifted himself halfway up, paws rooted to the floor. He seemed attentive, keeping a watchful eye on the intrusive presence of the person. Dirt and straw swept past him as he let out a low roar.
An abnormally tall, twenty-plus years boy walked in, wearing a loincloth from the waist below, and showing a sore scar at the area underneath his ribs. Most of his face was obscured with a thick slightly glistening beard and his brownish hair reached below his shoulders, clung to the sides of his rugged face. His big eyes, too big for any man, devoid of normality, stared sharply at her without being expressive. However, there was contempt in them, something that had replaced the compassion they once shared for each other, until she had contrived circumstances forcing him to call off the war with Parthiva.
Her motherly instinct triggered, heart thumping, skin prickling with cold sweat. "Almourah," she said, but no sound came out of her paralyzed chord. She coughed, a sob of joy wrenching her body.
Singh growled, rearing further up, ready to attack the uninvited guest. The Constellia and Almourah had fought before, a deadly fight that Haimavati had been forced to witness. The fighting happened when Parthiva needed protection from the beast. During when the roughness between them had been buffeted by the waves of terror, that could have psychologically traumatized Parthiva had his mother not gotten involved to thwart the beast's attempt to seek revenge.
With the fear of another battle, Haima hedged Singh, at once lifting her hand and frantically shaking her head. "No! It's not his fault. Leave him alone."
"Should have given that advice to Matsyasvi," Almourah said, voice with lunging abrasiveness. Haima shot him a glance, shell-shocked. Almourah cocked his head, face screwing up with more hatred. "Yes, I can hear your voice. My second heart burns every time I do."
The spell she had invented using the medium...was it really that wonderfully strong? To pour back life into a dying person and to create an artificial heart that pumped magic needed a bit of her own spirit as an ingredient. Almourah hearing her voice was similar to the Samagrahas' ability to mind-connect. Today's discovery, however unexpected, was a highly miraculous result of her invention. She was uniquely connected to Almourah. If the was connection so prestigious, then could Almourah ever acknowledge the predominance of it? No matter whether he liked or disliked her, they were now bound together, the second heart being the main source of the link.
YOU ARE READING
(Book 6) Hayden Mackay and The Third-Eye of the Pancharatna
Fantasy"Mrs. Zutshi, how different was Zarina Khan from you? She was a clairvoyant, that makes her a witch too, right?" "Mages have their own history, Hayden. They have categories too. Since the time of Lady Chandrika's authority over the sections of the p...
