Sikander, Don't Die

chapter seven: on uneven ground

It was time for Roshanak to leave her birthplace.

For one last time, she returned to her precious garden. This was the place that her father had created for her out of his deep, affectionate love. The men, like so many of his kind, struggled to express with a smile, but didn't back down from doing something so grand for his child. Now, Roshanak was to flutter away like a butterfly. The flowers of this garden no longer had the honey to feed her. She was now a rare butterfly, elevated from the position of a wild fledgling to a species of queens. She didn't deserve something so little. For her, Persia waited with bated breath.

"Will Persia accept me?"

This garden would cradle memories of her childhood upto this day, having seen the days of her first footsteps, witnessed her bright heartfelt giggles, and her meeting with a certain blond man. The Shah of Persia.

Was this not like a wild dream?

She exhaled. "Remember me. I will return as a bird, seeking to build my nest here."

Her heart sang a ballad to the breeze, her breaths entangling with the fragrance of wildflowers and leaving its foggy imprint everywhere. With her feet on the moist ground, she felt the tears of the earth. The daughter was leaving. The mother would miss her.

Hades had come to snatch Kore away. Demeter couldn't stop.

Roshanak ran her hands over the rough barks and felt the smooth green leaves. Dew drops bounced on their surface, reflecting off the myriad colours of the rays of the sun, splitting it into a rainbow in its small sphere. They shone like crystals on the crown of the fertile Earth. If this place was so divine, how far would the beauty of Persia excel this?

Would it make her feel at home?

"Sometimes, a home must be created. And we women do create several."

Lost in exploring the familiar curves of the garden, she stopped when she heard distant cries. It was mixed with a helpless groan, hinting at deep-rooted disappointment. She manoeuvred through the garden carefully. Hiding behind a bunch of bushes and a thick tree, she watched the Shah and the hazarahpatish conversing on the same rock where she had been on the day of meeting her husband.

The hazarahpatish was sitting on the rock while the Shah knelt in front of him. Hridayank had his face covered. He shook his head, yanking his arm away from the desperate grip of the Shah. The sun beams fell on Hridayank's face like molten gold. His skin glowed like a burning star on the verge of dying. There was the need to show brilliance for one last time before being forgotten by history, as if he were to be smudged forever. Messy curls, consequence of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning on bed, painted him akin to a glorious god crying over his burnt fate. If the Shah was a young boy heading to war, the hazarahpatish resembled the moon. He was manly, but there was a calmness in him like the blue ocean. He could be both the tide and the gentle nudge of the waves.

The Shah clasped his palm and brought it to his lips. Roshanak noticed her husband point at the ring on his left hand, matching it with the one on Hridayank's hand. It stopped the latter's tears. He hiccuped, averting his gaze away from the Shah.

Roshanak's nails dug into the bark of the tree she was bracing. The Shah had denied wearing a ring on his left for he already owned one. The hazarahpatish did too. She had assumed the latter to be a happily married man.

It appeared to be something different.

The Shah rested his head on the hazarahpatish's lap, who ran his fingers through his tousled hair. Few tears trickled down his reddened cheeks still, but he seemed to have calmed down.