MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

HORIZON OF DARKNESS

The day after their arrival bled into the next with a stillness that felt almost sacred — or cursed.

No one came.

The heavy wooden doors of the guest chamber remained closed, untouched by the feet of Indraprastha’s princes. Servants came and went in silence — a tray of food in, an empty one out, though never fully empty.

Duryodhana had not touched his portion.
Only the smaller bowl — Lakshman’s — ever left the table clean. The rest remained as it had been set: rice growing cold, lentils congealed with time, the fragrance of ghee fading into the still air.

The walls, golden and pristine, began to feel like a cage. The lamp burned too steadily, the air too perfect, the quiet too sharp.

Duryodhana sat on the floor beside the low bed, one knee drawn up, his hand absently tracing the curve of the bronze water pot. His son sat cross-legged before him, small fingers playing with a wooden bird toy carved crudely from a branch — something he had made himself weeks ago during their wanderings.
Lakshman’s laughter had always been soft, but now even that sound was shrinking, contained by the marble walls.

Each time Duryodhana looked at his son, guilt twisted deep inside him — that quiet, relentless ache that had been his shadow since the war ended. He had brought his son here under the promise of safety, yet here the boy was, caged again by his father’s fear.
He could not step out into the open corridors, not into their city, not into their eyes.

He had seen enough of those eyes in battle — burning with judgment, righteousness, pity. He didn’t need to see them again.

And yet, as evening melted into night, and the silence grew heavier, Lakshman’s small face turned toward the window with that innocent, longing gaze — the kind that children wear when they see stars for the first time.

The boy leaned against the window frame, his dark eyes wide, reflecting the glow of the moon.

"Pitashree" he whispered "May we go out, please?"

Duryodhana froze.

The words and the plea were soft, hesitant, almost shy — yet they struck like an arrow through his chest.

He looked toward the door — the one no one had entered since yesterday — and then toward his son’s eager face.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His hand tightened against his knee.
His son’s hope was fragile. Too fragile to be broken by his fear.

"Only for a little while" he murmured finally.

The boy’s eyes brightened. Duryodhana’s heart ached at the sight.

When the palace fell silent — when the footsteps faded, and the torches burned low — Duryodhana lifted his son into his arms and quietly opened the door.

The corridor was empty. The air was cold. Every sound — every creak of his sandal, every whisper of cloth — felt dangerously loud in the stillness.
He moved carefully through the shadows, his hand steady on Lakshman’s back, until they stepped into the open garden at the heart of Indraprastha.

Moonlight dripped over everything — silver and soft. The air smelled of jasmine and wet stone. The trees stood tall, their leaves whispering faintly in the breeze.

It is beautiful. Too beautiful for a man like him.

Duryodhana stood there for a moment, uncertain, before setting his son down onto the grass. The boy’s bare feet brushed dew, and he laughed — that light, unguarded laugh that shattered the night’s stillness like bells.