H I M
The one he'd die for, wanted to kill him the same,
But death would be a guest he'd welcome, if she promised to sit by his grave.
................................................
H E R
If there was a list of all the sins she was t...
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Sanyukta was about to get married. To a sword.
The letter had come as a present on her twentieth birthday, but it was the worst present she had received in her twenty years of life. And with the letter came a sword, the Yuvaraj's sword. But what shocked her to the core and had her stilled in her place were the words that were written in that letter.
The Yuvaraj had accepted all her conditions.
And he had sent his sword for her to marry in his stead.
It was a tradition in their land to complete the rituals of marriage of the bride with the groom's sword in his absence. But to Sanyukta, it felt humiliating. The sword was used as a replacement only when the groom was either afar, in a war or sick. And the Yuvaraj of Simhavat was neither of those.
Her furious gaze clashed with the shimmer of the sword, slender hands picking it up, removing it's golden hilt. The blade was a long scimitar, longer than the one she owned, her grip on the blade giving her a poise assertiveness. She felt like she was holding power in her bare hands.
She could cut through the curtain of the day and night would fall upon the kingdom, the blade was that sharp. But not more than her wits, she thought.
The preparations for the ceremony had already began since the night before, the rangoli, the flowers, the mandap. Everything had been arranged, as if her father had resolved to be done with this marriage right there.
Her kohl-rimmed eyes grazed the henna on her hands, the burganday stain a striking contrast against her cream white skin. Her gaze then fixated on the name written between the henna, hidden yet evidently present, marking her as his bride. The anger that rose within her could burn the kingdom ablaze.
Siddhant.
The name read. She felt like laughing at the sheer irony of the situation. His name meant Morals, literally, and morals were what the Simahavat's lacked. They were backstabbing deceivers with silver tongue and a malevolent, rotten heart. Their diabolical nature would never allow them to be someone's ally, let alone friend.
She grazed his name with the tip of his sword, as she felt his name on her hand taint her soul. The light around her suddenly dimmed, the sun veiled by the floating clouds, as if his name alone could bring darkness upon her. The name had to go, she couldn't let it stay there a second longer than it had already been written.
The sword heated as she placed it over a diya, the glimmering iron blazing at the contact with the flame. When the the sword was hot enough, Sanyukta gripped the hilt tighter than before and burned his name off her hand.
The place where his name rested a second ago, it was red with her delicate flesh being exposed. A sardonic look took over her eyes.
A whimper followed her hiss of pain but she shut her eyes closed, her lips tightening, as she held back the traitor of a tear that had dared to escape her eyes. She would not shed even a single tear at his expense.
