Anya's ancient antics: a mahabharat tale

chapter 51

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Morning in Hastinapur:

The soft light of dawn bathed Hastinapur in a golden hue, and the air carried the gentle chirping of birds welcoming the new day. Inside the grand corridors of the palace, Anya twirled gracefully in her vibrant sari, her bare feet skipping lightly over the cool marble. The sheer fabric of her sari flowed like a cascade of bright colors—sunset orange, deep reds, and hints of gold—each fold catching the sunlight as she moved. Her laughter echoed off the tall stone columns, as if the worries of the world had never touched her.

From afar, Duryodhan stood by a large window, the cool morning breeze ruffling his long robes. His dark eyes tracked her movements, an intensity simmering beneath his stoic facade. His brows furrowed slightly as memories of last night replayed in his mind. He recalled her trembling voice, the way her tears had fallen silently as she confessed her fear—fear that she might lose him, fear that the weight of his words may not have been enough. No one will take your place, he had promised her. And yet, here she was, spinning and laughing as if the heaviness had lifted overnight.

Anya suddenly spun toward him, her bright eyes locking on his figure by the window. She lit up, practically skipping across the grand hall toward him, her infectious laughter bubbling up as she reached out and lightly poked his arm.

"Oye, Mister Serious!" she teased, her grin wide and mischievous. "Have you been watching me twirl this whole time? How do I look?"

Duryodhan’s stern expression softened for a moment, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Still, his gaze held a weight of concern. "You look... energetic," he replied, his voice low, observing her carefully.

Anya gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her heart in mock horror. "Energetic? Just energetic?" She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes playfully as she leaned in. "Duryodhan, I expect nothing less than ‘stunning’ or ‘ravishing’ from my dear husband, and all I get is energetic?"

A smirk played on his lips, though his mind still lingered on the doubts she had voiced the night before. He knew her too well. She was hiding behind her usual playfulness. "You're always beautiful, Anya," he murmured, his voice soft yet weighted with meaning. "But today, you're a bit... noisier than usual."

Anya clutched her chest with both hands, as though deeply wounded by his words. "Noisy? Me? Oh no, my fragile heart can’t take such cruel insults." She fluttered her hand dramatically toward her forehead, pretending to faint. "Woe is me! My husband thinks I’m noisy!"

A deep chuckle escaped Duryodhan, vibrating in the air between them, but it quickly faded. His large hand gently caught her wrist, pulling her closer with a tenderness that contrasted his usual fierceness. His eyes bore into hers, an intensity she couldn’t escape. "Anya," he said, his voice low and serious, "why are you pretending everything is fine? What’s really going on?"

Her playful demeanor faltered. She hesitated, her gaze dropping as her fingers traced the intricate embroidery on his tunic. "I trust you, Duryodhan," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I really do... But sometimes, I get scared. Scared that one day, you’ll feel trapped by the weight of the throne, by the expectations placed on you. What if—"

He cut her off, pulling her closer, his arms wrapping around her protectively. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she could hear the steady beat of his heart. "Stop," he whispered fiercely, his grip tightening. "You will never lose me, Anya. No one else could ever take your place. You belong to me, and I will never let anyone come between us."