In the alternate universe, set in the medieval period, where power rules and superstition lingers in the thin air, the tale of The Last Princess unfolds.
For the hazel eyed king has secrets, desires and motives.
The champagne eyed queen has fears...
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Things were evidently heated at the grand darbaar (royal court) and its essence had seeped into the royal chambers as well. The skies of Mewar were rayless, as if matching the haplessness of its residents. Even the clouds seemed morose.
Cold, North wind keened through the mountains. The sky was casket-black. The soldiers of Mewar adorned heavy armour, their motives as firm as the Himalayas.
"Hum aapke Samrat hone se pehle ek yoddha hai, jiske upar pehla haq sirf aur sirf mulk ka hai. Humne aap sabke naam hamari puri hayat ki hai, magar saansein hamesha watan ki hi raahi hai," The king of Mewar began, while all his subjects, his family, his soldiers, his queen listened intently. Their hearts thumping in the same pace, as if one. (I am a warrior first, your king second. My loyalties lie with my country. I may have given you all my entire lifetime, but my breaths (life) belongs to my country)
"Hamare paas jitni daulat hai usse bhi kaahi zyaada yudh mein bahane ke liye khoon hai," he continued, his voice loud and clear, echoing in the prodigious court. (As much as we have wealth, we also have enough blood to shed on the battlefield)
"Mahan yoddha banne k liye Chakravarti banna zaroori nehi. Mahan yoddha woh hotein hai jo aapne aap ko yogge maante hai," (one doesn't need to become a great/clever king in order to become a great warrior; they just need to believe in themselves/find themselves worthy)
"Aandhi, toofan, aag ka darya chahein hamare samne jo bhi aaye, hum Rajput kisike saamne haath nehi felate," (winds, storm, fire, no matter what comes in front us, we, Rajputs, will not surrender)
"Yudh mein jab Rajputi talwar chalti hai, dushman ka jaan gawana laazmi ho jata hai," (whenever Rajputs use their swords on battle, it become law for enemies to lose their lives)
"Ek yoddha k jeevan ka anjaam kebal do hi ho sakte hai: shahidi ya sharanagati," (a warrior's life can only have two conclusions: martyrdom or apostasy)
All the soldiers style uptight. Their blood hotter than molten lava as they chanted together, "Shahidi!" (martyrdom!)
"All hail the Samrat!"
***
Anika paced her haveli, her heart in her mouth. She was a soldier too, before being a princess or a queen. Yet her husband would rather die than expose her to battle conditions in his free will. She had begged him to take her with him, but the stubborn man had sworn to die then put her life at risk.
"Aap mein hamari jaan basti hai, Anika. Hamari saansein chahe rukh jaaye magar aap par ek kharoch na aaye," (you are my life, Anika. I may accept death but I'll not accept a single scratch on you)
What would a woman say to a man who loved her with such earnest passion?
She had taken off his nazar (ward of evil eyes of him) and put a kalateeka (a small black dot) behind his ear with the kajal (kohl) of her eyes. She had no doubt about his capabilities, but he was her husband, her lover and her everything. How could she not be scared for his life?
Whenever the king of Mewar fought, he left his opponents dumbfounded, no mortal had any idea what or where his next strike would be. He was every king and very soldier's worst nightmare on the battlefield.
Despite that, a foolish yet greedy king had dared to attack his kingdom, without notice. The troops were supposed to reach the kingdom in two days maximum. They had only received this information a night before and her husband had forgotten every mundane activity and had only focused on preparing his army.
'Samrat ki raaftar hi unki pehchaan hai' - a very common saying in the kingdom. Not only Anika, but not a single person in the said kingdom doubted their king's skills. He was the Chakravarti for a reason and had not been reluctant to prove himself again and again. In the previous 10 years, he had had half the Hindustan in his grasp using his strength and wit. The Mughals, the Marathis, they all knew about him. There were poems and songs written about his bravery and his judgement in the battlefield.
"Chahein woh jis bhi raajje se kyun na ho, Baisa, Samrat ko harana mumkin hi nehi hai," her handmaidens tried to soothe her worries.
"Aur nehi toh kya? Isse pehle bhi jab jab dushmaan ka samna Samrat se hua, toh usne aapni jaan gawayi," another added.
Her husband's words echoed in her mind: "Jab tak yudh ki mitti Hindustan ki hai, Anika, tab tak humein maat dena namumkin hain,"
***
The air was brackish and coppery. Lightning struck and a gash of birthstone bright light peeped through the cauldron black sky while swords clashed with the same speed and fervour on the soil. Ungodly and septic smell of death hung in the air, persistent. Troops, mountains and elephants dwarfed the sheer size of the battlefield. Only the unlucky found beauty in doom.
Wind whipped at their faces, bodies cold, hands freezing. The spears glinted wickedly. A sea of barbed fire arrows soared into the sombre sky, sizzling and hissing through the air before hitting their targets. A battle of head-clasping horror.
A plethora of arrows fizzed and fizzled while the armours chimed unrelentingly. Sounds of metal and horses neighing outstripped that of the heavy rain. Neither the skies nor the men showed any signs of dwindling their activities. Molten, ruby red blood sprayed from the uncountable wounds the soldiers ornamented, while snarling and choking. Their bones crunching and splintering.
The Samrat fought relentlessly. His teeth chattered in fury while his eyes were magma red with hatred. To any other pair of mortal eyes, his ease of movement portrayed his armour to be a comfortable attired. He was implacable and unfaltering. His feet stamped while his neck hairs felt like sharp pins, his movements supersonic, his sword unforgiving. He had earned his title for a reason.
The theatre of death, greasy with gore while its soil slimy with intestines. Swords seethed and broke under the churning sky, cannons burnt, the earth soiled with crimson shook as black smoke performed a pirouette in the air, shielding the sky. Their armours flashed like moon fire and their shields gleamed like star flame. Hundreds took their final breaths as their souls departed- no one knew if towards heaven or hell.
The red flags on Anika's balcony flew determinedly in the wind, darkening to match the sky. Anika stared wide eyed and wordlessly as the clouds clashed, her heart thundering as she sent a prayer towards the ugly clouds, hoping her pleas would reach the heavens after being allowed to pass by the angry clouds of doom.
The sky and the sea turned darker as if matching colours, darker than the tainted souls as if trying to wash away the sins of the tainted. Anika shivered, the starless sky the sole witness of her turmoil.
