Words - once spoken can only be forgiven. The irreversible nature of them have always made the oldest caution the young lest they carry the regret like their ancestors. Alas! No one learns this lesson until it is too late.
(Blurb to be edited)
Vāc i...
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The corridors of the palace carried a hush, the kind that settled before something important came to an end. Abhijishya walked with careful steps, the dull ache of her injury throbbing beneath the layers of her garments. Nakul, ever insistent, had refused to let her move alone. He had not said much, but his presence was resolute, steady—an unspoken command that she would not argue with.
“If you refuse to leave me be, then at least make yourself useful,” she muttered under her breath, reaching for his arm.
A small huff of amusement left him, but he obliged, adjusting his pace to match hers. Together, they moved toward the outer courtyard, where Jatashya and Leelavati stood in the shadow of departure.
She turned first to Leelavati, who stood still as a statue, hands cradling her sleeping son. There was no resentment on her face—only something colder, a composed finality.
“I owe you an apology,” Abhijishya said, her voice even.
Leelavati regarded her with that same stillness, an impenetrable shield of restraint. “And what will I do with your apology, Abhijishya?” Her voice was not sharp, but neither was it forgiving. “You orchestrated all of this. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Abhijishya inclined her head. “Yes. And I will bear the weight of my choices.”
Leelavati’s expression did not change. “I will not stay in Indraprastha. My son will not grow up in this world of whispered loyalties and shifting shadows. My brother has already left for the infirmary, under the guard’s watch. There is nothing here for me.”
The words carried something final, something irrevocable. A mother’s choice, absolute.
“You are a good mother,” Abhijishya said.
Leelavati’s lips pressed together, as though she did not wish to acknowledge it—whether the truth of the statement or the fact that it had come from Abhijishya, she did not know. Instead, she only nodded once before turning away, as if already beginning her departure.
Abhijishya exhaled, shifting her gaze to Jatashya. His posture was relaxed, yet something about him seemed lighter, unburdened in a way that had not been there before.
“A formidable opponent to have,” Jatashya murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips as the wrinkles around his eyes grew pronounced. “And a fierce protector of Indraprastha.”
Abhijishya scoffed, unimpressed. “Do not say such things as though they are praise.”
“They are not praise,” Jatashya said simply. “They are truth.”
For a long moment, they stood as they had once before—not as adversaries, not as players in a political game, but as colleagues who had once worked side by side. She thought of the infirmary, of late nights spent stitching wounds and saving lives, of quiet conversations exchanged over the scent of medicinal herbs. A time before all of this. Before politics had tangled their paths.
