Sikander, Don't Die

chapter eighteen: a new beginning

There were two choices ahead of Roshanak– follow Sikander where he was gone, or retire to her room like a woman accustomed to not protesting. The former would be risky, and the latter would keep her marriage running as it was.

Sikander had married her for her valour. She knew what she had to do.

As soon as Sikander left on his chariot, she called for her own. Luckily, the Shahamsaram was given almost every luxury that the Shah could enjoy.

"Take me to him," she said.

The charioteer stared at her belly with widened eyes, then looked up at the moon hidden behind the grey clouds. "Shahamsaram, it's very late."

Roshanak heaved a sigh. "Do not worry for me. Your Shah is losing himself. I-I need to," she shivered, "hold him. I can't lose him, neither can Persia."

The man nodded. "I will take you, as you order me."

She climbed the chariot and draped a shawl around herself. The chariot raced, following the fresh track of the Shah. It was a very lonely night with no stars and a sad darkness, like the cosmic eye was devoid of light. The gelid breeze made Roshanak quiver. A fortunate wife would have gotten to be in the arms of her loving husband. Alas, queens like her knew no everlasting love.

Soon, they reached the burial site of Hridayank. The royals had poured his ashes here. The chariot of the Shah waited outside, and its charioteer was surprised to see Roshanak. He hurriedly climbed down and bowed.

"Wait here, both of you," she said.

"The Shah desired solitude. I wanted to go with him since he needs some protection, but he forbid me from coming."

She smiled. "Don't worry. I will be fine. His madness can't deter me from my path."

Sikander had, she noticed, left his sandals in the chariot. Perhaps he revered the soil where his beloved now slept. Roshanak felt a pang in her heart. With a heaviness inside, she left her sandals there too. The moist soil soothed her feet, the coolness seeping through her skin. The branches hovered above her, lurking close to her curls. She moved them gently and passed through the lush green. Crossing a line of bushes and shrubs, she was welcomed by a little pond. At its bank sat Sikander.

Unlike any other time, there was no crown atop his head. The golden locks fell helplessly over his shoulders. It was messy, but in a way the gods would admire, like the tangled climbers of nature or threads of thunder coiled in a stormy sky. Roshanak hadn't seen his body so deflated ever, bending so low and exuding such submission, as if he had failed to destiny. When she walked closer to him, she saw his glassy eyes. His face was smeared with the dirt of earth. He had rubbed it on his arms like an esoteric saint would do. In his grip was squeezed a lump of earth, the thirst of which he quenched with his tears.

Roshanak whimpered. In the silence, that little noise alerted the Shah. He turned back, shocked to see her. His puffy reddened eyes narrowed. "You are truly admirable."

"Why?" She stood beside him.

He let go of the earth in his hand. "You are courageous. To come here in the dead of the night, with a child inside, without company, is commendable."

"I am not entirely without company," she replied, looking at the slab erected that had Hridayank's name.

Sikander followed her eyes. "I see. Perhaps I am not company." He gulped. "It must be hideous to see a Shah in this state. You have hurt my ego."

"I think I like this side of yours more, than the one you showed me before coming."

Sikander's pupils enlarged. He clenched his fist, averting his gaze away from her.