MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

OATH OF ADORE

The world had always told Arjuna that the eldest Kaurava is his rival. His enemy. The dark mirror to everything noble, everything just.

Yet the first time Arjuna truly noticed the eldest Kaurava - not on the battlefield, not in the court, but in the silence between words - something shifted inside him like an arrow loosed before he could name its aim.

At first, it was a fleeting thing. A quickened breath during arguments in the royal hall, the sudden press of heat when their eyes clashed across the sabha. Arjuna told himself it was hatred. What else could it be? Hatred was simple, expected, allowed. Love was unthinkable.

And yet, hatred never made the air thicken like summer dust, never made the sound of another's laughter echo inside the chest long after it had faded.

The days marched on, as steady as drumbeats of war. Arjuna carried his bow, his vows, his pride - and always, at the edge of it, the figure of Duryodhana lingered. The clink of his bracelets, the measured strength in his stride, the blaze in his defiance.

Whenever they faced each other in debate, the air itself felt sharpened, as if invisible threads pulled them taut. Arjuna would return to his chambers afterward, restless, the words of the quarrel replaying in his mind not with anger, but with a strange hunger he could not confess even to himself.

He told himself it was rivalry. Rivalry could explain the way his gaze followed too long, the way the pulse in his throat quickened when Duryodhana entered the room.

Rivalry excused the strange dreams in which his enemy stood beside him not with mace drawn, but with eyes unreadable, closer than any ally had stood before.

Still, the heart knew what the mind refused.

-------------------------------------

The wedding shattered all illusions.

Hastinapur's great hall was drenched in light that day, each lamp blazing as if to mock his shadowed thoughts. Banners of crimson and gold swayed against the marble pillars. Conch shells echoed, flutes sang, and the air was thick with incense. It was a day of triumph, of celebration - the union of Hastinapur's prince with the princess of Kalinga.

Arjuna stood among the gathered lords and kings, his bow absent but his warrior's poise unshaken. His eyes, however, betrayed him. They sought only one figure.

Duryodhana

The groom walked like fire caged in human form, his ornaments catching the light like flames devouring the hall. The crowd roared its approval, but Arjuna heard only the steady beat of his own heart, each throb a drum of war. He told himself he was here only as witness, as cousin, as opponent.

Yet as he watched Maharaj of Hastinapur lift the garland, watched Bhanumati's shy but steady yet unsure gaze meet his, something inside Arjuna cracked.

It should have been simple - a political alliance, a kingly duty.

But the moment Bhanumati's hands entangled with Duryodhana's, Arjuna felt the truth strike him harder than any arrow. The twist in his chest was not rivalry. It is not hatred. It is longing.

He could not breathe.

He thought he understood his feelings, it was just mere emotion of celestial wedding but now. Now it doesn't seem like that anymore.

The chants of the priests rose, the mantras filling the air like smoke. Garlands fell, vows were spoken, the crowd rejoiced. And Arjuna - mighty Arjuna, wielder of Gandiva, hero of countless battles - felt himself unravel silently, piece by piece.