Sikander, Don't Die

chapter seventeen: Philip's son

Roshanak had heard of how love could make one go mad. To her, it was something divine like moon light and affectionate like a fire's warmth in icy winters.

Never did she think of it as the lunacy of a demon out of mythical pages.

She had witnessed the destruction of her clan and bloodied bodies, watched her lover die in her tender arms, and yet then, the cruel victor- Shah Sikander- was a man who had thought of the dying sun. He had cared of asking the reason behind her tears, perhaps half-knowing it was him all along. Roshanak had the heart to not see him as a villain who snatched her away from the safety of home and dreams. She dared to see in him a husband who would truly cherish her.

He had given her a child to carry. She was, in fact, united with him through bodies and not just holy mantras.

Now, it was all a lie. It was a lie she was living in vain.

Roshanak was unable to understand which was the real Sikander- the man who showed her the garden and admired the fragility of flowers, or the possessed beast declaring a battle against the world?

So many had lost their lives since the death of Hridayank. Doctors; their crime was being incapable of bringing the dead back to life. Servants; their crime was being ignorant of the workings of fate, not being aware of what killed the 'other half' of the Shah. And many more- little boys sacrificed to the gods, in an effort to appease the Olympians and gain back the soul from the Underworld. The severed heads of the cook and the churner of the wine were stored in brine, their skeletal remains buried unceremoniously.

From behind curtains, away from his periphery, Roshanak had seen Sikander sit in a pool of blood, carrying the one-day-old carcass. He thought the blood of the healers and the petty lives would resurrect the beautiful man.

No, not beautiful anymore. Not to Roshanak. She brought her hand to her nose and ran away. The stench could induce vomitting, and the sight itself was horrifying- the lifeless body was turning blue and the eyes, so hollow, stared up at the ceiling. She didn't want to harm her mind and thus the baby. Nothing that was happening was the baby's fault. It deserved none of this lunacy.

Odile had shut herself in a room. Roshanak had not seen her so scared. The woman had the courage to go against her husband in the past, aspired to kill the innocent. She couldn't blame Odile for choosing solitude now. Roshanak herself wasn't strong enough to go and stand in front of the Shah, even though he was her husband. Even though they shared bodies. Even if for a night. Even if under the magic of wine.

In the temple of Ahura Mazda, the supreme deity of Persia whose symbol was the Shah himself, there always burnt a holy fire, only to be extinguished when a Shah would die, but never if his Mitra died, or anybody else. It was the Shah's death that would cast an ominous shadow over a kingdom.

Sikander had ordered to put out the flame.

It was a tasteless, blatant expression of forbidden love. The Shah had made it clear who mattered to him.

Roshanak touched her belly. Dread washed over her, sweaty beads gliding down her spine. There was something true about fathers and sons. Philip wasn't very good to his wife and had revealed his colours soon. Sikander was the same man's seed.

"Will the Shahamsaram not eat today?" a maid asked.

She shook her head. "I don't feel hungry."

"In case you do, the kitchen is open for you all night," the maid said. She hung her head low, and after a brief pause, whispered, "Mothers need to be brave for the sake of their child. Women are never meant to be weak." She left with a bow.