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It is a truth universally acknowledged in the kingdom of Khansaar that a man in possession of great power and position must wed. It has been this way since 1127; it is still this way today.
Depending on the position in question, a man might select from any number of suitors. Tradition dictates that suitors are normally presented by the 8 lords, or recommended by the governors beneath them.
Marriage in Khansaar is largely political, financial, or ideally, both. Arrangements regardless of gender, age and relation are not uncommon amongst the ruling class; affection is largely an afterthought, if considered at all.
If the position of an eligible single man is great enough, or the potential for power is alluring enough, he might forgo traditional courtship and choose instead to set up a Challenge.
A Challenge, as established in the Khansaar constitution, must be approved by the ruling body of the kingdom. In the past, it required consent from three tribal leaders; at present, with only two tribes remaining, only the king must consent.
Either through their own hand or through the selection of a champion, suitors participate in a challenge system to fight for their right to wed. By declaring to participate, eligible nobility must prove their worthiness as a spouse in bloodshed.
As the saying goes, the easiest way to a man’s heart is by sword.
In Varadharaja Mannaar’s 32 years of life, he has not seen someone choose such an option.
Or, he hadn’t seen it, until Devaratha Raisaar returned to Khansaar. He hadn’t seen Deva in close to 20 years, after he had aided the escape of Deva and his mother from Khansaar, away from the violence that had targeted their tribe.
A truth less universally acknowledged in the kingdom of Khansaar is the birthright of Devaratha Raisaar as the true heir to the throne.
An exiled prince, the son of the slain Dhaara Raisaar, Devaratha had come of age in an Indian village and only returned to Khansaar under 2 conditions. The first, to wed. The second, a much more complicated task, to “negotiate terms” with Raja Mannaar, the current king and Varadharaja’s father.
These conditions were dictated in that order not by Devaratha, but by the king himself, who offered Deva his pick of suitors, anyone in the kingdom, as an offering of goodwill and a stipulation of the return of political power to the Shouryaanga.
Raja Mannaar’s atrocities against the Shouryaanga tribe, which had resulted in the slaying of Dhaara Raisaar and his son’s forced departure from Khansaar, was in his own words, “A regretful decision of political strife; one that demands reparations.” (In the words of others, his second son in particular, it was attempted genocide.)
To be recognized as a member of influence in the kingdom, “to return the Shouryaanga to their former glory,” Raja wanted Devaratha to feel that his family was connected to Khansaar once more. A marriage would fulfill this easily, in Raja’s perspective.
However, in the king’s heart was a crueler intention: to buy himself time to make sure Deva never ascended.
To find a suitor amongst the lords and governors, who would undoubtedly put themselves or their many children forward, would require great time and even greater effort from Devaratha.
Raja Mannaar hoped to rig the Challenge for his own benefit, to ensure power remained his.
Raja Mannaar was a fool.
**
“What did you used to call him? A childhood nickname all your own. I doubt anyone else could make that claim.”
Varadha sucked his teeth and shrugged Baachi’s hand from his shoulder, his eyes trained on the display in front of him. The city square was crowded in a way he had not seen in years, the bright midday sun beating down on thousands gathered to see the returning Devaratha Raisaar.
“Mind yourself; we are not alone.”
Hidden amongst the crowd, Varadha felt like he was just another spectator, despite his connection to the men in front of them. Sweat dotted his forehead and dirt gathered at his feet, and in every direction, there seemed to be someone shoving him or touching him, clambering for a better look at the exiled prince, home at last.
Varadha couldn’t blame them; he was an impressive man to look at. Even as Baachi spoke to him, Varadha’s attention couldn’t be swayed away.
It had been nearly 20 years since he had seen Deva. The Deva from his memories had been just a child, strong for his age and even stronger willed, standing a few inches below Varadha but more than making up for his less-impressive size with his larger-than-life attitude.
The man everyone called Devaratha stood taller than the lords surrounding him, towering over even the King who had called him home. He looked stronger than any guard in the capital and his neutral expression seemed to only add to his intense reputation. Around him, Varadha heard murmurs that Deva bore a striking resemblance to his father. For Varadha, who remembered very little about the late Dhaara, he was simply… striking.
Varadha felt distracted, lightheaded, and Baachi insisted that this was the perfect moment to drag him down memory lane. It was moments like this that Varadha felt his age in every respect, too tired for childish musings, too jaded to joke of princes and claims upon them.
“But you had given Devaratha a nickname, a very strong one, very fitting, based on Baba’s story—”
“Hush,” Varadha insisted, “It’s not important.” He pushed Baachi gently away and gave him a warning look that he hoped conveyed that they should not, under any circumstance, draw attention to themselves. It was dangerous enough to be in the capital, and they were tempting fate by appearing in such close proximity to their estranged father.
The man in question, King Raja Mannaar, had just made an announcement; Varadha found himself frozen in disbelief at the words leaving his mouth.
It was to be a Challenge. Raja had declared it so on Devaratha’s request: Whoever could best Deva in combat could have his hand.
Challenges had fallen out of practice decades ago, before Deva or Varadha had been born, and were heavily criticized as belonging to a bygone era, a less civilized Khansaar.
When the subject had been brought up over the years, Varadha had always heard that the Challenges of the past had led to unnecessary disputes between provinces. Lords would get their feelings hurt, governors would suffer the consequences, and matches were determined more by who could afford the best champion than by a true connection to or consideration of the suitor. In a society like Khansaar, where marriage prioritized politics above all other details, starting a war over a wedding did not need to become more likely.
Varadha had assumed, based on this alone, that Challenges would remain a thing of the past forever, a tradition no longer honored, even if it was written in the constitution.
Caution had been thrown to the wind now, it seemed, and Raja’s intentions in allowing this to return felt nothing short of sinister. Varadha did not understand why Deva had chosen it, and yet he could not fault him for wanting only the best.
“I’m proud to see a tradition return to Khansaar that embraces the world-class warriors amongst us,” Raja declared, gesturing to Deva more as a piece of meat to be fought over for scraps rather than a prize to be won.
Varadha could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his hands made fists at his side. It felt wrong for Raja to look at him, to touch him, to call Deva back to Khansaar when Varadha had tried so hard for so long to avoid that.
Raja leered beneath Deva, all too satisfied to share the spotlight for now if it satiated a bloodthirsty agenda, “When will our challengers know that a winner has been chosen, Devaratha?”
Next to him, Baachi said something that Varadha didn’t listen to, his attention belonging only to the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in years.
“A token. The winner will have it in their possession,” Deva said simply. His voice was deep and low, barely above a murmur. It offered none of the theatrics one might expect from a man destined to be of the ruling class, yet the certainty behind it was everything Varadha remembered from their youth together. Deva, his protector. Deva, his—
“We should go.” Around them, the crowd seemed to erupt into noise, speculation and cheering, some jeering amongst them, and Baachi nudged Varadha’s shoulder hard.
He jerked his chin to the side and Varadha followed the movement towards one of Rudra’s men, moving towards them through a sea of bodies. As Raja’s only claimed son, Rudra had made it his mission to keep Varadha as far from the capital as he could, using every opportunity to chase him back to the province he had been banished to.
Varadha allowed himself one last look at Deva before he followed Baachi away. He did not allow himself to wonder if Deva had looked for him, amongst the nobility or in the crowd.
**
Home hadn’t been the capital of Khansaar for Varadha and Baachi for many years, but it didn’t hurt any less to leave.
Wandering through the streets like stray dogs, avoiding attention as much as possible, they slowly made their way to the Northern outskirts, towards Varadha’s governed province of Pathran. Wide paved streets gave way to narrower dirt roads and crowds thinned until only a few roamed around them, mostly men from Vishnu’s employ, patrolling the markets and hostels like self-appointed police.
“Gone to see your future king?” One of Vishnu’s trolls sneered in Varadha’s direction, stepping in front of them as they walked. Baachi startled and nearly lost his footing, a frustrated growl escaping from his throat that was met with a laugh.
“I heard the new Prince Charming was a friend of yours, Varadha. Pity he didn’t have a glass slipper on hand when he came sniffing around for you.”
When the words failed to inspire a response, the man continued, louder as if Varadha had not heard him. “We all heard about his challenge, too. Generous of Raja to treat an outsider like nobility. Will you unsheathe your sword for him, your majesty?”
Varadha had long since determined that responding to this behavior did nothing good. As a low ranking governor, as a son disowned by his father, there was nothing and no one to protect him if he stepped out of line. Still, it was harder to ignore comments made about Deva. Varadha stiffened and turned to stare at the man, an insult waiting in his mouth and a fist clenched at his side.
Behind the man, movement caught Varadha’s eye. There was a figure in the shadows, watching them from a nearby alley, and Varadha made the decision to hold his tongue. There was always someone lined up to make sure Varadha and Baachi knew their place at the bottom of the food chain. They were alone, but would never be left alone.
Varadha pushed past the man, checking him hard with his shoulder, and paused just long enough to enjoy the scraping sound of his feet stumbling in the dirt. If the figure in the shadows had anything to do with the man in the road, they did nothing to interfere. Varadha walked faster now, looking behind him only once to ensure Baachi followed, until they arrived home.
Baba watched them enter, asking immediately, “Did you see him?” before Varadha could catch his breath.
Baachi snickered in response, “It would be hard not to.”
Varadha gave Baba a curt nod as his only answer, unable to form the words to speak about Deva as his emotions washed over him, threatening to drown him. He stalked towards his room and hoped he would not be followed. He wanted nothing more than a moment of silence, collapsing onto his bed and allowing himself to be consumed in frustration and self pity.
For years, he had longed to call Deva, yearned to see him again, and mourned he had not escaped with him. He had thought he was doing the right thing, keeping Deva away, refusing to let himself call for him.
While Khansaar pretended to thrive in tentatively-negotiated peace, something nasty boiled beneath the surface. Varadha saw it every day; he had no privilege left to ignore it.
In the province he still held power, the word of a governor had been made entirely meaningless. Lords were always the loudest voices, and those who were like Naarang made his voice into a weapon, using it to deploy others, like his son Vishnu, to harass those beneath him. If it wasn’t Naarang or Vishnu, Varadha was tormented at the hands of his own family, his siblings drunk off of power that Raja too readily gave them.
Had Deva been here, had Deva been allowed to do what he promised, Varadha may have rid himself of this reign of terror years ago. It was a cruel thought, praying for rescue at the expense of Deva’s safety.
It hadn’t seemed fair to call him home to the place that had nearly killed him. He remembered Deva’s mother pleading for him to never return, and regretted how it broke her heart to watch Deva promise him instead that he would come to Khansaar again if Varadha called.
For you, I will be the bait, or be the shark. For you, my friend, whenever you call me, I will come back to this place.
Varadha closed his eyes and shook his head. Thinking of Deva had been hard before. He had struggled to imagine the man he would have been today, until he laid eyes on him in the city square. There was no doubting who he was.
They had both grown up, but while Deva had seemingly blossomed, Varadha felt as if he had rotted. He had built himself up enough in ego and appearance to scare others away, and still he had been unsuccessful in rising above Raja’s cruelty. He could carry himself like a lord, but he was one loss away from destitution.
Still, even in this dire state, Varadha didn’t struggle now to think of himself beside Deva. He dared to imagine a reality where a challenge was his for the taking; his blade pressed to Deva’s throat, warm brown eyes staring up at him, trusting that Varadha wouldn’t complete what his knife itched to do. A surrender earned, a token offered, a hierarchy destroyed.
Varadha touched his nose ring and remembered the smell of Deva’s blood, how it had lingered on the metal for years, a phantom of his friendship, an oath of loyalty. A vow.
“Someone is here for you.” Varadha startled, opened his eyes to find Baba standing over him, and sat up. Baba stared at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face, and Varadha raised an eyebrow.
“Who?” he asked, knowing the answer before the name was spoken. The figure in the shadows from earlier took on a shape now made familiar through Varadha’s fantasy.
“Devaratha Raisaar.”
**
Despite the midday heat, Varadha stepped outside and froze at the sight in front of him.
Disbelief had not crossed his mind until this moment, it had felt perfectly right that Deva was here, but finally, doubt had caught up with him.
In the street, as if he had been here all day, Deva stood and waited. His eyes were cast downwards, his lips wrapped around a cigarette, and he kicked at the dirt with his boot impatiently. His concentration was elsewhere, but his physical body was undeniably here in Pathran.
He hadn’t seen Varadha emerge, so Varadha took a moment to watch him. Even in the simple clothes he wore, there was an undeniable beauty to him. He seemed more like his Deva here, no longer under Raja’s conspiratorial gaze, away from the crowds that did not seem to remember he was more man than myth.
There was a determined crease between his furrowed brows, a deep pout settling onto his lips, and Varadha could think of a dozen occasions in their childhood where Deva wore the same concerned expression. He had always been so serious, and now his serious expression felt childish.
Varadha smiled and called out, “Deva.” The name felt so natural in his mouth. Varadha felt breathless saying it; he had missed him like a lung.
The man in the street lifted his head and stared at him, soft brown eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. His mouth twisted upwards, a very small smile, and Varadha bit back a laugh.
“Do you recognize me?” He couldn’t help himself, he felt as if he must look so different from the boy that Deva had said goodbye to. He tried to imagine how Deva would have reacted if their roles were reversed, if there would have been something that reminded him of the old friend he made his vow to.
Varadha tried not to think about vows, for now. He only wanted to think about Deva, who smiled a little wider and threw his cigarette down in the dirt.
“Your voice has changed, but the way you call me hasn’t,” Deva told him, approaching Varadha easily, the concern from his expression completely gone now. “Other than my mother, there is only one person who calls me Deva.”
Varadha could feel himself beaming in the warmth of Deva’s attention. He had grown so tall that Varadha had to lift his head when Deva met him where he stood. He peered upwards through his lashes, enjoying the rare occasion of feeling smaller without feeling threatened.
Deva embraced him then, murmuring, “Varadharaja Mannaar,” and Varadha wrapped his arms around him tightly. He closed his eyes and told himself that this embrace was one of few, something not to take for granted.
Soon, Deva would belong somewhere else, and Varadha would still be here. Varadha pulled away, shaking his head as if to clear the thought away.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. He thought of Vishnu’s man from before, how the claim had been made that Deva was looking for him. He was torn between hoping that was true and regretting not being the reason Deva was in Khansaar in the first place.
Did Deva think of him, when he had been called home? Had he thought of him before that?
Deva bowed his head slightly and murmured, “I… heard you control this land. It seemed safer here.” Varadha bit his lip.
“Only as a governor,” Varadha clarified, and seeing the crease return between Deva’s brows, added, “You are always welcome, but I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety. I’m not in a favorable position, I’m sure that much is obvious. This province is controlled under a Ghaniyaar lordship.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Deva murmured, shaking his head. “I’m an outsider everywhere, except with you.”
Varadha couldn’t argue with that. He led Deva inside then, ignoring Baachi’s balking and Rinda and Bilal’s wide-eyed stares, acknowledging Baba only to inform him that for now, Deva would stay here.
“Would this be known by… others?” Baba asked, and Deva hummed, noncommittal. Varadha offered Baba an apologetic smile, both of them knowing there would be no secrets under Naarang’s jurisdiction or Rudra’s constant watchful eye, and he sighed. “You should avoid coming between the lords and their challengers.”
Deva nodded at the advice, even though it was meant for Varadha, but said nothing. He looked almost regretful, like he had done something wrong. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, preoccupied, and Varadha wished he could unburden him.
He had never understood the games of matchmaking himself, nor was he allowed to participate in his current state of disownment, but Varadha especially struggled to understand how anyone could expect to best Deva in combat.
If Varadha allowed himself to be skeptical, this seemed chosen only to avoid the process entirely. It was almost laughable to imagine Deva submitting to anyone; the only person he had ever listened to, besides his mother, was Varadha.
When they were finally alone once more, in the room Varadha had invited him to stay in, Deva murmured, “There is something else. Another reason I’m here.”
His voice was low, hushed like a secret, and Varadha’s chest tightened. He turned to look at Deva and hoped his expression still maintained neutrality, that his eyes didn’t betray any expectation he secretly held.
Deva reached beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling a necklace taunt against his skin before he lifted it over his head. The end of the necklace, a simple chain, pulled together to hold a charm Varadha hadn’t seen before, weighted metal, carved and triangular. When Varadha tilted his head to look at it closer, Deva held it out to him.
“What is it?” Varadha asked, reaching for it instinctively, accepting it before he received an answer. The metal was warm from sitting against Deva’s skin and Varadha traced the design with his fingers as Deva chewed on his lower lip.
“You had given up something for me, a long time ago," Deva said, a tightness to his voice as he spoke that made Varadha shake his head. Still, he insisted, “I cannot give you Bharghat—”
“I do not want Bharghat,” Varadha said, quickly. He remembered throwing his bracelet into the street, his territory shed for Deva’s safety, his honor lost in Raja’s eyes forever. “That was my choice. It was worth making.” His words were harsher than he intended, but Deva simply nodded. He didn’t argue, nor did he seem to want to.
“I’m offering you this,” he said, gesturing to the chain draped through Varadha’s fingers. “A choice you can make, when you deem it worth making.” Varadha weighed it in his hands and considered that this was a debt being paid. He wasn’t sure he understood, but for Deva, he would try. When he didn’t speak, Deva added firmly, “It belongs to you, not to anyone else. You can do what you like with it, but keep it hidden until you make your decision.”
Varadha hadn’t adorned his traditional jewelry earlier, not needing to draw further attention in the midst of the crowd, so he slipped the chain over his head now and wore it on its own. Deva watched him, then reached forward to adjust the collar of Varadha’s shirt to slip the necklace beneath the fabric, like he had with his own.
As he pulled away, the tip of one of his fingers brushed Varadha’s skin, stroking where his traditional necklaces would sit. Rarely was Varadha without them these days, and never had he been touched there by someone else. His breath hitched and he cleared his throat.
“I will.”
**
In the initial days after Deva’s arrival, life almost continued as it always had; Varadha avoided Vishnu, looked after Baachi, and cursed his father’s name at the same intervals as he always did.
The notable exception was his audience; Deva became a permanent fixture at his side, no matter where he went.
The mistreatment continued as well, but the behavior of Vishnu’s men seemed particularly cruel now that they had someone new to put on a show for. Deva didn’t interfere, on Varadha’s request, hand grabbing Deva’s arm when Varadha was targeted, “Ignore them,” repeated in a low tone when they were met with sneers, or worse.
Thankfully for Varadha, their location further from the capital seemed to slow the start of Deva’s predicted onslaught of challengers. Deva himself took care of the rest.
The first few suitors, nearby governors who heard rumors of Deva’s arrival in their corner of Khansaar, had clearly not considered the Challenge appropriately. They cowered beneath Deva’s acknowledgement and often ran away before a single blow had been delivered. A half a dozen had not even unsheathed their weapon of choice.
The bravest of them, a champion fighter put forth on behalf of the governor of the direct neighboring district, had surrendered immediately when Deva’s blade struck hard and knocked her weapon from her hands.
Varadha didn’t blame them for losing their will, Deva was even more imposing in person than his reputation accounted for. Not only was he taller than most men in Khansaar, he was also built to match, impossibly broad chested, with the defined solid musculature of a Roman statue.
Standing face to face with him was awe-provoking; his eyes were strikingly dark and his face was handsome because of the rugged nature of his appearance, not in spite of it. Varadha found himself doubting that an equal existed anywhere in the kingdom, both in strength and beauty.
“When he is around, I feel as if I’m talking more to myself than to you,” Baachi said. Varadha shook his head.
“What?”
Baachi sighed, and gestured where Varadha’s eyes had been glued most of the day— towards Deva’s lounging form, napping in the garden like a stray dog, hand over his face to shield him from the sun.
“What is he here to do, if not to fight? Whether a suitor approaches or not, couldn’t we reap the benefits of your… connection?” Varadha narrowed his eyes and waved Baachi’s expectation away.
“That is not something I can ask of him,” Varadha scolded. “You know that as well as I do. Now is not the right time to instigate—”
“As if there will ever be a right time,” Baachi growled, loud enough to draw attention. Deva sat up, blinked in the harsh afternoon sun and found Varadha’s eyes almost immediately. Varadha shushed Baachi, wishing he would save this argument for another time, but he had lost authority even over his own brother. “I am tired of living this way, and I am sick of your inaction.”
Deva moved to stand, but Varadha shook his head, staring past Baachi to watch frustration pass across Deva’s face before his expression returned to neutrality. Baachi looked between the two of them in disbelief, rolled his eyes and stalked away.
Someone followed him, likely Baba, but Varadha was too focused on maintaining his own composure to pay attention. Somewhere buried inside him, anger sparked, demanding an outlet. Varadha denied himself the satisfaction of expressing it.
Finally, Deva stood, walked over to where Varadha was sulking and sat beside him.
“What can’t you ask of me?” His voice was low, but the tone was almost pleading. When Varadha shook his head, Deva insisted, “I’m already here. You didn’t even need to call me—”
“That is not fair,” Varadha interrupted forcefully. His nostrils burned and his throat felt tight. He cast his eyes downwards, so Deva reached for him instead, palm resting heavily on the back of Varadha’s clenched hand. “It’s not fair to ask you for your defense. They will make your life as much of hell as mine. It’s not worth the effort.”
He felt desperate, pathetic, and he pulled his hand away. Either his words or his actions must have struck a nerve, because Deva growled beneath his breath.
“How long do you expect to hold me back?” he demanded, and Varadha looked up. Deva’s eyes were on fire, burning through Varadha as he cut to the heart of his frustration, “I don’t care what is or isn’t fair. You should have called.”
Varadha bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The sharp metallic taste reminded him of home. He felt the weight of the necklace against his chest and wondered what choice he had.
He nodded, “I should have. I was weak.”
Deva winced and shook his head, “You were alone.”
**
Varadha selfishly wished they could have stayed alone together. It was not to be.
Before the day was through, the first of the lords made his Challenge known. Varadha knew it would be a Ghaniyaar, considering Deva now situated himself in one of their areas. It was only a matter of who.
Of the Ghaniyaar lords, Cheeka was a rare breed; he was younger than most in this level of nobility, barely older than Varadha, and he was primarily uninterested in matters outside of his provinces and jurisdictions.
Considering his youth, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to see him put himself forward as a suitor— it was not unheard of, especially given the longevity of the tradition, and yet Varadha had not thought Cheeka so ambitious as to participate himself.
When he approached and declared himself, standing in the town square with his weapon poised, Varadha could not hide the confusion on his face. To approach Deva before Naraang was either a choice made against the patriarch’s wishes, or was encouraged with express permission. Either way, Varadha didn’t like it.
Cheeka did not call upon them as the other suitors had, he chose to declare his challenge in the moment. It felt disrespectful in Varadha’s eyes, like Cheeka viewed this as something he was obligated to do, but not to take seriously. Jealousy and envy brought a look of visible disdain to his features and Baba repeated his prior warning from when Deva had first arrived, telling Varadha to avoid coming between them. The businesses of the lords belonged to the lords themselves; how Cheeka chose to conduct himself was not Varadha’s concern.
Just as Deva had been held back, Varadha now experienced it himself.
While Varadha had deemed this display disrespectful, Deva had little commentary of his own; he looked at Varadha before he approached, yet said nothing to him or even to Cheeka. As he turned to face his suitor, he raised his weapon, nodded his acceptance, and fought.
It was not a long fight, but it offered enough of a spectacle for onlookers in the square to linger. It was rare that violence in Pathran took place only for show or ceremony, and it was rarer still to see someone as effective as Deva yielding a sword against someone as trained as the lord he sparred with.
Despite his frustration at his lack of formality, Varadha found no faults in Cheeka as a fighter. He had done what he could and had failed as Varadha knew he would, with a strike across his arm from the tip of Deva’s knife. The blade hovered at Cheeka’s throat as he dropped to his knees in the dirt, and only then did the lord concede to being bested.
Varadha watched the display silently, unable to speak even as Baachi told him, “He fights well, your Deva. Cheeka will wear a scar on his arm for the rest of his days.”
Varadha wanted to be satisfied by such a statement, but he knew he would have only been satiated in his jealousy if Deva slit Cheeka’s throat instead. It was an ugly and unrealistic desire, yet Varadha hungered for it nonetheless.
Before Cheeka took his leave, he said something to Deva, his voice low, too quiet to be heard from where Varadha stood. Whatever had been said, Deva nodded graciously, looking over his shoulder to Varadha before he gave his reply. Varadha could hear him speak, but could not make out the words.
Deva returned to him moments later, unharmed and mostly unaffected by his fight. He sheathed his knife and stared at Varadha for a long expectant moment.
All Varadha could manage was a single statement, “You fought well.” Deva nodded and did not speak again until he bid Varadha goodnight that evening.
**
Varadha dreamt of Deva that night, of the sound of his blade singing through the air as he struck his opponent, and awoke the following day to the low murmur of his voice.
There was a hushed conversation happening in the hall and Varadha could not hold himself back from listening, his ear pressed to the door.
He heard Baba first, giving a warning, “He is the son of a lord, he will not be denied his opportunity.” Varadha closed his eyes, frustration bubbling up inside him, and listened to Deva’s silence, the quiet sound of a suffering sigh.
“Would you consider him a worthy challenger?” He chose his words carefully, the meaning behind them heavy with implication.
“He is a strong fighter,” Baba warned. “But more dangerously, he is without morals. He takes what he wants, he always has. Truthfully, we are not the only ones he targets, there is a village—” Varadha pulled his ear away and opened the door, wanting to hear nothing more. Baba cut himself off, offering Varadha a pitying look, and sighed.
“When?” Varadha asked sharply, and Baba shook his head.
“This evening, before sunset,” Deva answered, his jaw clenched. “He has requested an audience.” He sounded cautious, confused, and Varadha could not stop the bitter laugh that bubbled from his throat. He wished he had the privilege of being confused, but this was a cruelty he knew all too well.
Vishnu planned to take it too far, as he always did, and he wanted to embarrass Varadha in the process. He had done this before and he would do it again, taking his egregious behavior beyond the victims beneath him to aim upwards, to grow beyond his lord-in-waiting status.
Varadha didn’t need to explain this to Deva, and yet he found himself coming back to the topic later, watching Deva move through his house in restless waiting as the sun rose, and thinking again of Deva’s mother, somewhere in the mainland, likely waiting for him to come back.
She had never wanted Deva to return. Amma had lost more in Khansaar than a younger Varadha could fathom. As he had grown older, as he had made his home with Baachi as a chosen family, and now as he invited Deva to stay, he empathized with her more than ever.
His individual strength was nothing if he could not protect what mattered most. All he could do was warn Deva, but he could not fight his battles for him.
“Vishnu is a big fish in a small pond,” Varadha explained, later, cleaning his karambit just to have something to do with his hands, just to do something that wasn’t staring at Deva. He pressed the short curved blade to a whetstone and Deva watched him silently.
Varadha had wanted to offer to clean and sharpen Deva’s knife for him, the kukri he had pressed to the soft flesh of Cheeka’s neck, but it felt too intimate. He imagined his fingers curled around the hilt, feeling the warmth from where Deva held the long, imposing weapon, and his palm started to sweat. He couldn’t meet Deva’s eyes, even as Deva sat across from him and stared.
“Naarang has promised him that he will inherit his lordship before the year is through, but he sees himself as more of a prince. Rudra has put thoughts in his head, treated him more as a brother than he ever considered Baachi and I, and Vishnu has run with this. It will disappoint him to lose.”
Deva snorted, but Varadha continued, “It will be easy for you; he is too proud to select a champion. Others may put up a tough fight, but I’m certain none of the lords will be worse than Rudra.”
Deva’s spine straightened and Varadha stole a glance. Deva’s eyes were dark beneath the hard line of his clenched brows and he worked his jaw. He slipped his hand beneath the collar of his shirt and paused, like he was searching for something. His eyes dropped to Varadha’s necklaces and he exhaled slowly.
“But Raja—” he started to say, and Varadha shook his head, a sharp stiff motion.
“Rudra must be Raja’s choice for you, now that Radha has wed. He’s strategic about this, he always has been. I'm sure Rudra has already been informed where to find you, but he likely won’t challenge you himself. He will try one of his prized champions.”
The only person Varadha had seen match one of Rudra’s men had been Deva, as a reckless child, defending Varadha against all odds. Thinking of it made Varadha’s nostrils flare, his hands clenching harder around the knife in his fist. Rudra did not deserve Deva.
“What about you?” Deva asked, and Varadha froze. He dragged his knife against the stone once more and then forced himself to look at Deva directly. Deva’s eyes followed the movement of his hands, before he returned to Varadha’s face.
“Me?”
Deva nodded. “Has your father not found a strategic match for you?” Varadha swallowed hard and offered Deva a wry smile.
“His strategy is that I will not marry at all,” Varadha said, pressing the edge of the knife to the tip of his finger. It was sharp enough now, but he mourned the excuse to focus his attention elsewhere. “Marriage means alliances, land exchanges, heirs.” He shrugged, and added, “Happiness, if one believes in that.”
Deva barked a short laugh, and Varadha let himself be bolder, “Raja is an old man now. Nothing terrifies him more than the idea of who will claim next in line, be it infant, outsider, or his own son.”
Varadha sheathed the knife and laid it beside him. It felt dangerous to speak this way, too hopeful for future glory, dismissive of the sorry state of Varadha and Baachi’s current lives. Deva was silent for a moment, like he could sense the discomfort in such a statement. He leaned forward, his breath blooming against Varadha’s skin, his face inches away from Varadha’s.
“He fears it would be you?” he asked, finally. He lowered his chin and looked at Varadha with narrowed eyes. Briefly, Varadha considered if this was genuine curiosity from a friend, or the evaluation of a competitor.
Varadha chose his words carefully, “My ambition is my own, as flawed as it may be. It would not be the first time I betrayed him.” The words sat heavy between them, silencing them both.
Varadha reached beneath the collar of his shirt and lifted Deva’s chain enough for it to be seen. Deva’s fingers curled around his wrist, stopping him from lifting it higher, almost possessive. Varadha let it fall again, felt the weight of it against his skin and thought of his bracelet years ago, laying in the street.
Deva didn’t move his fingers from Varadha’s wrist for a long time, as if he was thinking of it, too.
**
True to his word, Vishnu requested an audience before the day was through. He demanded that all of them watch, and he specifically requested that Varadha had a front row seat to his assumed victory.
Deva attempted to object to it, but Varadha insisted he not bother, holding Deva back in the only way he could, by sending him to his suitor and hoping it would be over soon.
Vishnu was not a laughable opponent, size and strength considered, but he treated everything as a game. His moods were mercurial, his ambitions were obscene, and his attitude inspired nothing but disgust from Varadha.
They had not gotten along from the very beginning. Naarang spoiled his son rotten and allowed him free reign of Varadha’s province. He was allowed to have everything his heart desired, and as it turned out, those desires were to target the women of the nearby village and to taunt Varadha at any given opportunity.
Deva’s Challenge was easy to weaponize, and Vishnu aimed to make Varadha feel like a fool. He had assumed rightfully that Varadha would have a vested interest in the results, and he took the first opportunity he could to remind his men that Varadha was not to move an inch closer, was to honor the Challenge as tradition dictated and could not interfere.
The two squared off as the sun began to fall, and the fight was not fair from the beginning. If blood was spilled, the first wounded was supposed to surrender as Cheeka had, and yet Vishnu did not stop, even as the ground splattered red from a deep cut across his chest. He forced Deva to continue, demanding that he would not be bested by a “superficial strike.”
Deva did not waste his opportunity to wound now that he had encouragement, his knife slicing not only at Vishnu, but at one of his interfering men. It was another traditional rule broken; challengers were supposed to fight alone, but Vishnu’s true strength was in the sheer numbers of braindead followers he had amassed. Blood flowed between them as Deva’s blade struck skin and Pathran turned red around their feet.
Finally, as Deva’s frustration at being held back for so long came forth and he pulled Vishnu towards him, Vishnu grabbed Deva's throat in desperation. His hands searched for something and his voice became frantic to the point of being unintelligible. Deva struggled to push him away, but Vishnu would not let him go.
Baachi called Varadha’s name, fearful and uncertain, but Varadha did not answer, his eyes fixed on the scene in front of him. He could not find it in himself to want to interfere with what felt inevitable, with what he truthfully did not want to stop. Baachi called for Baba next, who simply shook his head and followed Varadha’s inaction with his own.
Varadha did not understand what Vishnu was doing with his hands, nor did he learn. Deva stabbed his kukri through the younger man’s throat and killed him in the street.
His blood spilled faster as Deva retrieved his weapon. Vishnu collapsed to the ground, large and limp like a butchered animal. The troglodytes who followed Vishnu like a god trembled at the sight and lost their faith before Deva could turn to face them.
It was only then that Varadha dared to approach and found that his only true concern was if Deva had been hurt at all. His hand touched Deva’s shoulder and he pulled him gently back from the corpse. Deva was unharmed; not a drop of the blood that covered him was his own.
He remembered, years ago, how Deva had nearly killed one of Rudra’s men just to get Varadha’s nose ring back. Somehow, even now, Varadha had underestimated him. Considering the horror of those around them, he forced his expression into something neutral, biting back a smile. Deva blinked at him and incorrectly perceived this as Varadha being upset.
“I’m sorry. I had to,” he said, and Varadha nodded.
“I could have stopped you. I chose not to. Well done.”
**
Although violence was Khansaar’s strength and frontier justice was a commonly accepted practice, the murder of a lord-in-waiting was not to be tolerated. Word spread quickly: Vishnu had been killed at Devaratha’s hand and more intolerable still, Governor Varadharaja did nothing to stop him.
They would be called to the Capital tomorrow and arrested until a decision was made. If his siblings got their way, Varadha would not see the next sunset. If Naarang got his way, Deva likely would not either.
Varadha lay awake that night in a state of agitation, staring at the ceiling and searching for an answer. He thought again of Deva’s knife in Vishnu’s throat and wished to wash the blood from the blade. His memory focused on the grip of Deva’s hand on the hilt and he yearned to be held in the same firm fashion.
Deva’s words rang in his ears. I had to, he had said, and beneath it all, Varadha could supply the rest. I had to, for you.
My Salaar. Varadha had not allowed himself to call Deva that in years, even in his own thoughts. He repeated the word over and over in his brain, his fingers clasped around the end of Deva’s necklace, tracing it with his thumb.
Had Vishnu been searching for something, as he clasped at Deva’s throat, or had he hoped that asphyxiation would lead to victory? Varadha had watched his hands move, like they could not find a proper hold, like they could not find what they were searching for. He pulled on the chain gently and did not allow himself to hope.
Something caught his eye in the dark and Varadha jolted out of his thoughts, unsheathing his knife and finding himself holding Deva at the end of it.
“Sorry,” he murmured, a hushed whisper given the late hour. “I could not sleep.” Varadha lowered his knife and shook his head, sitting up to look at him better.
“I don’t blame you,” he replied, offering Deva a place to sit beside him. Being close to him like this was a warmth Varadha did not deserve, and yet he relished in it like a cat in the sun. Deva’s hand brushed his as he sat down, restless and shifting, and he resisted the urge to grab it to hold him still.
Hoping to unburden Deva’s conscience, he murmured, “When they bring us to the Capital tomorrow, let me speak to Naarang. I allowed this to escalate, I should answer for it.” Deva blinked at him in the dark and shook his head.
“You and Baba both have revealed his true nature to me,” he explained. “Would you have let me kill him, even if he had not challenged me?” Varadha nodded, finding no reason to lie, and Deva exhaled slowly.
“You wanted to, and I wanted you to,” Varadha said simply. He rubbed one of his eyes, feeling the lateness of the hour, and gently tucked his head against Deva’s shoulder.
Earlier, he had watched Deva strip himself out of his soaked shirt, the fabric unrecognizably red, and rinse the blood from his body. He smelled still of the soap he had used then, but Varadha wondered if he were to press his nose to Deva’s skin, if he could detect what happened still, beneath it all.
Deva was silent for a long time, but when he finally spoke once more, his hand slipped beneath the collar of Varadha’s shirt as if it belonged there.
“I wanted to from the moment he laid eyes on you,” he clarified, and Varadha found himself at a loss for words. Varadha detected a slight edge to his voice when he said it, possessive, and the thought of Deva feeling such a way made his breath hitch.
He lifted his head from Deva’s shoulder and Deva let his hand slip further, finding the ornamented end of the necklace and then pressing his fingers to the skin beneath it. When Varadha shifted against his touch, Deva’s mouth followed, dragging his lips across his racing pulse and nuzzling his nose at Varadha’s chin. He nipped at the soft skin of his neck and Varadha tensed and whined.
“Do you want me to stop?” Deva asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and Varadha shook his head. Deva’s mouth drifted lower and his hand fisted in the fabric of Varadha’s shirt, pulling it upwards and finally off. Varadha turned in Deva’s grasp and tried to kiss him properly, but Deva infuriatingly interrupted.
“Will you ask me to stop?” he asked, and Varadha’s response was immediate.
“No.” He practically threw himself against Deva’s hesitating form, kissing him in a heated passion that Deva returned beyond Varadha’s fantasies. He kissed him hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Varadha’s lips burned from the friction, and Varadha held Deva as close as he could, hands tangled in his hair, shifting so he leaned into Deva’s lap.
Only when Deva pulled away to catch his breath did Varadha see the pained expression on Deva’s face.
“Tell me to stop.”
Varadha blinked at him, “Why?”
He didn’t understand, couldn’t understand why it had ended as soon as it began. It felt as if the ground had opened up to swallow him into hell, denied at his last opportunity to have what he wanted. Deva’s hands were still touching him like he did not want to let go, but his eyes were elsewhere, ashamed. Varadha bristled and dropped his hands from Deva’s hair. He exhaled harshly through his nose and started to move away.
“Varadha—”
“Saving yourself for your challenger?”
Varadha could not help himself, anger and jealousy sparking through him, the question spat from his mouth to hide the shame of his rejection. Deva was silent, his fingers curled still beneath Varadha’s chin. Varadha could feel his pulse throbbing against his hand and wondered, if he didn’t do as he was told, if Deva would punish him and squeeze.
Finally, Deva looked up at him, eyes dark and clouded, nostrils flared like a snarling animal. Varadha wanted to demand an explanation, but found himself paralyzed at the receiving end of such an expression. He did not fear Deva, but he was terrified at the thought of hurting him.
Varadha swallowed around a lump in his throat, “Stop,” and Deva did. Varadha didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He dropped his eyes to the floor and commanded, “Get out.”
The cruelty of his question still rang in his ears, and Varadha regretted using his envy as a weapon. When he took a deep breath, the pendant of Deva’s necklace swung against his chest and Varadha resisted the mercurial urge to tear the chain from his neck. It meant nothing, and yet it meant everything. All Varadha could manage was to clutch it in his fist.
Deva left before Varadha could find the strength to look at him again, leaving behind only a murmured apology. Varadha attempted to punish himself the remainder of the night with the idea that someone would have Deva in a way he never could, that he had fooled himself with the belief that protection and servitude were signs of a deeper devotion and had ruined everything.
As day began to break, Varadha considered that there may be fates worse than not living to see another night.
**
Even in the face of certain death, Varadha found it almost funny that he still had the capacity to feel embarrassed.
He couldn’t meet Deva’s eyes the following day, even as Deva found every opportunity to look at him. Varadha could feel him staring, and wished he could feel flattered. Instead, he felt ashamed, reliving the night before with the knowledge that he had thrown himself at Deva and had gotten nothing in return.
Deva may have wanted his body as a comfort on his final night alive, but the heart that governed him wanted something else.
Deva had played Raja’s game on his own terms, had chosen how he wanted his heart to be won; he wanted someone who could prove their worth either by themselves or through their selection of a champion. Despite his own strength and training, Varadha was not foolish enough to think he could ever defeat Deva single-handedly. The only champion for Varadha would have been Deva himself.
“You could have stopped him.” Baachi practically spat the words in Varadha’s direction, fearful to the point of anger, frustration watering his eyes.
The arrest of Varadha’s family had been a formality, according to the acting officers who brought them to the Capital. Looking at Baachi now, Varadha struggled to believe that was the case. He had protected him for so long and yet he still felt as if he’d failed.
“Sorry,” Deva apologized, a single word that did little to quell Baachi’s anger, even in its earnestness.
“You will get him killed,” he told Deva simply, pointing at Varadha’s bound wrists to further prove his point. Varadha could feel Deva looking at him again, a softness to his expression that Varadha could not stomach. It felt like pity. He shook his head.
“Remember what I said before,” Varadha murmured to him, keeping his voice low. “I will speak to Naarang.”
If Deva agreed, he did not say. He kept quiet until they were led to face their trial. Varadha prayed it would be merciful, whatever their fate would be. Naarang had other plans.
To call it a trial was a stretch even by Khansaar’s terms. There was no jury, only the lords and their attendants, sitting like audience members above them.
Naarang was given the option to hear what Varadha had to say and Varadha had foolishly depended on that being a likely choice; instead, Naarang only wanted his sword. He did not want to hear why Vishnu had been killed or what made Varadha stop himself from interrupting; he only wanted an eye for an eye.
Naarang advanced on them slowly, his blade dragging against the ground, metal singing against stone, and his gaze sought Varadha specifically. He had made his choice; his distaste for Varadha had always been as personal as Vishnu’s. He would relish in killing him. His eyes burned, bright and bloodthirsty, and Varadha wondered where he would aim.
Before a movement could be made with the blade, Deva stepped in front of Naarang, his hands stretched towards him, his shoulders hunched forward as if to make himself smaller. Varadha called for him, but Deva did not listen. His throat was tight and it hurt to repeat himself, straining as he called for Deva again.
“Don’t touch Varadha, sir.” Varadha could not see his face, but he knew Deva was pleading. He raised his voice and the syllables seemed to splinter at the effort, “Do whatever you want with me.”
Naarang did not acknowledge Deva, except to shove him away. He stumbled to the side and Varadha saw a desperation in his expression that was all too familiar. The shame of recognizing it flooded Varadha’s veins like ice water.
“Deva, stop,” Varadha commanded, but it was as if words no longer had meaning in the state Deva was in. He stepped in front of Naarang again, pleading for Varadha’s life, and Varadha could see several of the lords in attendance lean forward to watch.
Entertainment must be sparse in such a time of peace, Varadha thought bitterly. He glared back at them, but none had enough shame to look away. They wanted their spectacle, and Deva was giving it to them.
“Do not touch Varadha, please,” he begged, reaching to touch Naarang and getting struck by the handle of the blade for daring to do so.
He crumpled to his knees on impact and Varadha stepped forward. The guards followed his movements, surrounding them, and he froze. He watched Deva grab for Naarang, using him to stand by clasping his hands around his shoulders. Naarang glared at him, nostrils flared, and Deva gestured in front of him with his shackled hands.
“I killed Vishnu with these hands, sir. Do not touch Varadha—”
Deva’s words were cut off by Naarang’s fist. His knuckles cracked across Deva’s cheek, splitting his lip, and he pushed past him once more, finally reaching Varadha. He brought his sword up behind him, poised to strike, and grabbed for Varadha’s shirt with the hand that now wore Deva’s blood. He clasped the fabric hard enough in his fist that he took Deva’s necklace with it, yanking on the chain and making Varadha choke.
Varadha never found out how Naarang planned to kill him.
In the blink of an eye, Deva severed Naarang’s hand with a stolen blade. Naarang’s blood splattered between them and the older man dropped his weapon to clutch at his severed limb. He fell to his knees and Deva followed him, bringing the sword across his neck.
Naarang’s head landed at Varadha’s feet. The dead man’s horrified face stared up at him and Varadha thought of Deva’s threat to Rudra years ago.
“Touch his nose ring again and it won’t be a wire in my hands, it will be an electric pole.”
He had always been a maniac, and Varadha had given them all enough warning. They deserved whatever reckoning befell them now.
In theory, if they went by a precedent Raja set himself, Deva could take Naarang’s lordship by this act alone. Varadha mourned that Raja wasn’t here to witness what he could not stop. He certainly had everyone else’s attention.
Varadha realized, belatedly, that Deva was not finished. He watched Deva use the bloodsoaked blade to break the cuffs that bound his wrists. Deva then stepped in front of Varadha and did the same to his own restraints. Varadha wiped Naarang’s blood from his face. It had gotten on his nose ring when it had splattered between them. The sharp metallic scent made his nostrils flare.
Deva stole a glance at him, dark eyes made even darker by blown out pupils, and then dropped his gaze to the chain still hanging around Varadha’s neck. He reached out to touch him, then stopped. Varadha slipped the necklace back underneath the fabric of his shirt himself and Deva watched.
He turned to face the remaining lords now, daring to be challenged. No one stepped forward.
Several of them looked past Deva to grimace in Varadha’s direction and Varadha ducked his chin to hide the smile that threatened to spread across his face. When he looked down, he once again met the lifeless eyes of the corpse beneath him. He hummed quietly and Deva glanced over his shoulder at him. He seemed pleased with Varadha’s barely concealed amusement, like a cat presenting a killed pest on its master’s doorstep.
“No one touches him,” Deva declared. He pointed at Varadha and added, through clenched teeth, mouth stretched into a growling grimace, “I kindly request.”
**
Miraculously, Varadha lived to see another sunset. Unfortunately, he saw it through the bars of a jail cell.
In the face of what Deva had done, the lords of Khansaar had run to Raja and locked Varadha and Deva away, waiting for the judgement of the king. Varadha could not blame them for being afraid to decide for themselves; most of them had taken over their lordship in a time of peace and had no experience governing beyond their daily tasks.
Perhaps they feared what Raja would do if they made a decision without him, or maybe they simply believed Deva would employ himself as royal executioner if they didn’t call upon a higher power to stop him.
Unfortunately for Varadha, Raja relished this opportunity to reclaim his parental responsibilities for one night only, forcing Varadha to be brought to him as evening came.
Deva was not allowed to accompany him.
“It is a cute nickname you have for him,” Raja observed. He repeated it simply, “Deva,” and commented, “I should have figured Varadha Mannaar would not feel the need to honor the name a father has given.”
Varadha bristled at the implication, but held his tongue. Even without Deva present, it felt wrong to speak about his father to Raja.
Instead, he said, “I have called him that since we were children.”
He shifted in the chair Raja had told the guards to sit him in, confined at Raja’s table like an unwelcome dinner guest. The cuffs that had been replaced across his wrists bit into his skin as he moved and he winced. Raja sat across from him, slowly spinning the glass in his hand as if it were a toy.
“Such good friends you are still,” he murmured, falsely endeared. “The heir apparent has become your personal attendant, it seems. I have heard from several governors that he has not left your side since his arrival. Perhaps the guards need not restrain him, if you already keep him on a harness and lead.”
His tone was playful, mocking, and Varadha let his words remain unaddressed for longer than was comfortable. His silence made Raja visibly frustrated, his eyes narrowing and his mouth twitching as if he barely suppressed a snarl. Varadha lifted his chin.
“He is not kept. He asked for a room and I provided it,” Varadha explained, finally. “Despite being your invited guest, he did not feel safe in the Capital.” He kept his tone calm, refusing to satisfy Raja’s desire for an argument. He didn’t fool himself into thinking this would prevent one from starting.
“Yet he feels safe in the slums of Pathran, of all places,” Raja replied sharply, fixing Varadha with a hard stare. “Perhaps he receives accommodation from you that he would have to pay for elsewhere.” Varadha could not stop himself letting out a short laugh.
“Is this why I’ve been called here?” As crude as Raja’s accusations were, Varadha knew that much more was at stake than his pride.
Raja smiled, sharp and sharklike, bearing his teeth predatorily, and shook his head.
“I admire Devaratha’s performance today,” he explained, gesturing vaguely across the room as if he addressed a crowd. Varadha could not resist following the movement of his hand, searching for shadows hidden around every corner, figures waiting in the wings. “I’ve heard enough lords and governors express their fear of how he treated Naarang, but I have little against it. Would you agree he deserved it?”
“His intention was not to invoke fear,” Varadha said cautiously, avoiding answering the question. Raja snapped and pointed at Varadha. Varadha stiffened in his chair, held at the end of Raja’s index finger as if it were a poised weapon.
“No, his intention was to protect you,” Raja agreed, practically sneering. “Your attachment to one another seems… highly emotional.” When Varadha opened his mouth to dismiss the claim, Raja raised his hand to silence him and sighed. “My attachment to your mother was an emotional one; it was regrettable to pursue. I thought, considering your tenuous relationship with your elder siblings, that I would not need to explain how emotions complicate these things.”
Something inside Varadha twisted painfully and he found himself frozen as Raja glared at him, fearful of him in a way he had vowed not to be. He shook his head and Raja clicked his tongue dismissively, as if Varadha were a misbehaving child.
“I have negotiated with Lord Ranga for the return of Bharghat under Mannaar control,” he moved on, as if the subject from before was no longer worth discussing. “He has agreed to forfeit his right to it so you may have it instead.”
Varadha blinked and shifted again, his shoulders tensing. Ghaniyaar affairs had been disrupted enough already, and discussion for further power changes alarmed him.
“Why would Ranga part with Bharghat now?” Raja shrugged as if it surprised him as well.
“He has been asked to,” he explained simply. He shook his head at Varadha’s cautious expression and added, “That province does not suit him anyway; that area is a Mannaar birthright, it always has been. But he will be well compensated for his sacrifices, just as you will be.”
“As I will be?” Varadha asked. He sensed again that he was being watched, but he resisted the urge to search the room again. He did not want to appear paranoid, but more than that, he did not want to know who he would find if he dared to sneak a glance over his shoulder.
“Devaratha Raisaar has been promised to Rudra, in my authority as Mannaar patriarch and Khansaar’s king. Rudra will prepare his challenger and declare himself a suitor in the coming days, and Devaratha will be awarded a lordship as a gift for his cooperation, just as Radha’s husband was.”
Raja stared at him cautiously, clearly anticipating an argument against his arrangements. Varadha had many, but held himself back. “I imagine this will be painful for you, so I am offering a compromise; Ranga has agreed to a marriage and Bharghat will be yours.”
Varadha balked. “I do not want Bharghat,” he said forcefully. The knee-jerk reaction was undeniable and he shivered in the aftermath of his sudden outburst, disgusted with Raja’s suggestion.
Raja rose from his chair and stepped in front of Varadha, any remaining camaraderie slipping away and the familiar contempt that Varadha had remembered from his earliest childhood memories taking its place. He leaned forward, close enough for Varadha to feel his breath.
“You are otherwise engaged, then?” He appeared unamused, until Varadha shook his head. Raja snorted dismissively and murmured, “You make your disgrace complete for a man who cannot even promise you himself; you are a fucking fool.”
Varadha swallowed hard, but said nothing. Anger sparked within him, urging him to fight his restraints, and his fingers itched for his knife, resting still at his bedside where he had left it the night before. In his frustrated silence, Raja crafted his next round of insults, relishing the opportunity to bring Varadha down to the level he belonged.
“There was a time, even recently, that I believed you were much more promising than I had given you credit for,” he said bitterly.
“I heard of your impressive tolerance in your shitty little district and I thought you had become a man worthy of my respect. You gave up the honor I bestowed upon you, but I had let time cloud my judgement. And then, I heard word of Devaratha and the remaining Shouryaanga, and it all became clear again. You will pledge fealty to an outsider before you acknowledge your king. You will vow yourself to someone who will not propose before you accept a match your minor authority deserves.”
“You have made your point,” Varadha said firmly, refusing to acknowledge Raja’s words beyond the visible disgust on his face. “If you plan to kill me, I am already in your custody.” He gestured with his bound wrists and Raja laughed, shaking his head.
“I’ve been told it would be a bad idea to attempt that; the blood in my courtroom has not even dried,” he said snarkily. “You are alive because I do not want to upset him. He is alive because he is useful to me.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice, his lips against Varadha’s ear, “I would hate to see anyone who relies on you get hurt, but you are testing my patience. Do I make myself clear?”
Varadha nodded. “Thank you for your advice.”
**
“He will get us all killed.”
Varadha tried to listen to Baachi’s rightful concerns, the bulk of which centered around the man who was normally Varadha’s favorite topic of discussion, but he struggled to focus. In the wake of Raja’s threat, being at home was not the comfort he had imagined it would be.
He had too much to drink, just to try to shake the feeling of impending doom. What was supposed to be wine with dinner had become an entire bottle without an appetite for much else. Talking of Deva with alcohol reigning over his mental faculties spelled trouble.
They had let them go. Or, more honestly, Raja had banished them back to Pathran. It was expeditious; it was fleeting. Hours before, Varadha had felt nothing but satisfaction watching Naarang’s head roll to his feet. It felt like an offering. It was too good of a feeling, and therefore it could not last.
What was at stake had never been clearer. Accept how Raja had planned things, and live in misery until Ranga or another lord got away with killing him. Deny him, and be kept alive just long enough to watch Deva and Baachi die. The burden of the decision had been left for him alone, because Raja knew already the sacrifices Varadha was capable of.
The anger inside Varadha could burn all 101 districts to the ground.
“Varadha, what are you thinking? Surely, there’s a plan,” Baachi pleaded, reaching for Varadha’s hand almost childishly. He was scared. He had every right to be.
“You cannot expect that they will let what happened continue without punishment. Raja already knows, he will respond to such an act.” Baachi raised his voice a little higher as his fear escalated, and Varadha tried and failed to hush him. It was late, and Varadha wished he had ended this day already.
“He is right—”
Varadha put his hand up to silence Baba’s commentary. He did not need to be told what he already knew. Baachi had spent his entire life consumed in Varadha’s consequences; Varadha had spent almost his entire life pretending he could provide enough to make up for it.
A wave of nausea hit him hard and Varadha inhaled roughly through his nose. The only thing in his stomach was alcohol, and his body rebelled against this decision. He clenched his fingers hard enough on the chair he sat on that he could feel the wood splintering against his nails.
He wished Deva would join him, yearning for a buffer between his family, his feelings and his failures, but he had dismissed himself for bed hours before. Varadha had not spoken to him since he was called to meet with Raja, and he had offered him little reassurance beyond telling Deva this was not his fault.
Thinking of Deva made his stomach twist again, painful and sharp. How he spent years without him felt impossible now; being apart from him for a few short hours had left Varadha pining like a widow.
“Do you want me to ask him to leave?” His words slurred slightly when he spoke. He did not want to dismiss Deva, he’d sooner leave at his side, but he knew that their time together was fleeting as it was.
He felt older than his years, beaten down and bothered by the never-ending conflict his life had become. It had been easier to accept his plight without Deva’s audience; now, it was obvious that everything he held onto in his life had claw marks from his desperation.
His offer was one of desperate guilt, and Baachi saw right through him. Baachi shook his head reluctantly, and avoided his brother’s gaze in an almost submissive display of shame.
“His affection for you cannot stop armies,” he murmured. “As strong as he is, he is only one man.” A defiant growl caught in Varadha’s throat, making him cough, but when he reached for his glass, he found it empty. He sighed in frustration, but still Baachi pressed on, louder, “You should not let your heart govern for you. Even if he loves you—”
“That is not what this is about,” Varadha interrupted sharply, his voice clipped and harsh.
He knocked the glass over as he spoke, cracking the lip of it against the table, and Baachi reached across to drag the ruined cup away from him. He looked at Varadha like a concerned parent; in the far recesses of Varadha’s memory, he was thankful he could still see similarities between his mother and Baachi’s features.
“This is what this has always been about,” Baachi insisted. He sounded like his patience had worn thin, as if he did not see the point in explaining this at all, as if Varadha was being unreasonable. Maybe he was; Varadha could not tell, and Baachi did not plan to give him the time to consider it.
“He would not be here, if not for you. He resides in your province, sleeps in your house, trains with your men, enters your room at night.” Baba made a sound of protest and Varadha winced, accused a second time of something he had never had and ashamed of how he felt only envy at the thought, but Baachi continued, careless of any imprudence.
“He has spilled blood on your streets and in your name, and yet he is brought to heel at your side.” Varadha could not look at him, even as Baachi’s words and gestures seemed to beg for his attention, acting out for an unwilling audience. His face felt warm and he could feel the fire of frustration burning in Baachi’s eyes when he asked, “If it is you or Khansaar, do you believe it will be you?”
Varadha did not know how to admit that it was the only thing he believed in. He did not have to; Baachi read it in his face.
“I hope you’re right,” he said, simply. He seemed to settle, limp in his chair like the winds had gone out of his sails. “You are hopeless in love. I yearn to be happy for you, I will be happy if you ask that of me, but I’m afraid of what Rudra will do when he discovers he has lost what our father has no doubt promised him.”
Defiantly, Varadha rolled his eyes. “He has not lost. If he would like to challenge, Deva is not hard to find.” It was only a matter of time before he sought them out anyway. Varadha struggled to imagine Deva’s reaction to such an event.
“Even if he were to win, Deva would never accept him,” Baachi replied, almost smug. There was a certain attachment in his voice that Varadha knew only existed for his benefit, to comfort Varadha in his choice of affections. Then, with a kindness Varadha did not deserve, Baachi observed knowingly, “You didn’t deny it.”
Varadha rose quickly, the legs of his chair protesting against the floor, and he found himself wavering when he stood. The nausea he felt did not subside, worsening when Baachi looked at him with pity.
“What difference would it make? Be happy for me if you wish to, or join me in my misery, it doesn’t change that the challenge is not mine to win.”
He spoke with finality, but Baachi opened his mouth to argue anyway, a certain disbelief in his expression that reminded Varadha that once upon a time, he was someone worth looking up to, someone worth defending. What a horrifyingly inspirational thought. Varadha lifted his hand to silence him.
“I will not raise a sword against him, even for my own cause. I love him too much. I couldn’t bear it.”
**
In his drunken state, Varadha sought a comfort he did not believe he deserved.
“Did something happen?”
Deva had never been a heavy sleeper; Varadha assumed rightly that he would be awake, either from the fighting beneath his room or the stumbling steps Varadha took towards his bedside. Deva sat up, rubbed his hand across his face, and blinked at Varadha in the dark. He waited for an answer to his question. Varadha did not give him one, just stood stiffly and stared.
He didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, so Deva chose to present an offering. He shifted over on the bed and gestured for Varadha to sit beside him as they had the night before. It felt like eons ago, and yet the wound of rejection was fresh enough that Varadha perched next to him uneasily, didn’t let himself get close enough to touch.
He did not know how to begin, so Deva tried to fill in the blanks left by his silence.
“You shouldn't be made to answer for my actions, not to Naarang nor to Raja.” He kept his voice low, but an uneasy anger simmered underneath. His assumption seemed to rest in perceived anger again, when Varadha harbored none. “I warned him not to touch you; he paid no heed.”
Beneath the uncertainty he felt, Varadha allowed himself a moment of smugness. He was justifying an action Varadha needed no explanation for; he would have let Deva kill Naarang a thousand times over, if given the opportunity. His only regrets now resided in his previous conduct with lords like Naarang, his permissiveness and his submission. He had been afraid for so long, and that fear had given him nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Deva said, and Varadha shook his head. After a pregnant pause, Deva observed, “It does not bother you. This is something else, then.” Varadha slotted his hands between his knees, lacing his fingers together as if he planned to pray, but God would not deliver what he wanted to ask for.
“I fear I will be put in a position where I have to act drastically,” he said, hoping Deva would read the warning between the lines. “I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone.” Deva worked his jaw in discomfort, but did not interrupt.
“Don’t be angry with me,” Varadha murmured, the wine getting to his head and making him suddenly, stupidly insecure of what he needed. His voice wavered and Deva leaned closer to listen, patient even as Varadha tested him.
He unwound his fingers and reached to rest one of his hands on Deva’s shoulder, an uncertain grip around unyielding muscle. Deva stared at him, his face drawn, and Varadha squeezed hard. Deva did not flinch, but instead shifted closer. In the dark room, his eyes were nearly black, but there was a softness to his gaze that Varadha boldly believed only belonged to him.
Although Deva’s love did not mirror his own how he wished, Varadha still was trusted, relied on, and believed. Against all odds, it made him feel brave.
“Why would I be—”
“You must promise me that nothing will happen to him,” Varadha interrupted, hoping his vagueness required no explanation when there was little doubt Deva had heard the fight below his bed. “Raja has made my fate clear, and I cannot submit to his reality, but you… are in a different position than I am. If it comes to it, I need you to protect Baachi in my stead.”
A stricken look crossed Deva’s features and he started to shake his head, then stopped himself. He looked away from Varadha for a moment, and when his eyes returned, he looked willful, determined.
“I would not let anything happen to him, nor to you.”
He sounded certain and Varadha yearned to believe him, but he knew himself to be in a danger Deva did not yet understand. He thought again of the fearful tone of Baachi’s voice and could not help but doubt. He reached beneath the collar of his shirt and plucked the necklace from the fabric. Deva stiffened.
“Promise me.” He gestured at Deva with the pendant at the end and Deva stared at him. His nostrils flared and his mouth twitched, struggling to maintain a neutral expression, so Varadha pushed harder, “You cannot give me Bharghat, but you can give me this, right? Whatever this means to you, Baachi matters just as much to me. I am not above begging.”
Deva’s eyebrows knit together, his expression pained. “What did Raja say to you?” he asked, and Varadha shook his head forcefully.
“Nothing,” he lied. He chose to support his dishonesty with the truth, explaining, “Naarang is not the only lord who has been encouraged to be my enemy, and as valiant as your efforts are, I cannot ask you to defend me from every person who seeks to settle a score. I am asking for your word. If it comes to that, please care for him.”
Deva stared at him for a long time before he nodded, the movement singular and solid. “You have my word.” He clenched his jaw, visibly holding himself back from saying more.
Varadha did not push it further; it was enough.
Relief washed over him and exhaustion followed with it. He closed his eyes and Deva pressed his hand to his cheek. His fingers felt cold, but Varadha knew it was his face that burned instead.
Shamefully, he vowed to himself to practice restraint when he sobered, to not throw himself into every touch with the passion of a lover. But for now, he let himself dream and pressed back against Deva desperately. He shifted closer and leaned his head against Deva’s shoulder.
He wondered, if he had followed Deva to bed earlier, if he had told the truth of Raja’s threat on his life, if Deva would have taken pity on him and kissed him one last time. He swallowed hard to wash the bitter taste of rejection from his mouth and pressed more of his weight against him, defiant against the memory of Deva’s dismissal. He was a fool who could not will his love away for even a single evening.
He bit his tongue until he tasted blood to stop himself from speaking it aloud, from confessing his heart’s deepest and longest held desire.
Deva shifted gently, pulling his shoulders back and shifting his legs beneath him. He cradled Varadha’s shoulders easily and let him lay his head in his lap. Pride called Varadha to move away, to rise and go to his own bed alone, but exhaustion and affection won.
He closed his eyes when he felt Deva’s fingers brush through his hair and slept more restfully than he had in a thousand nights.
**
Varadha woke up warm, bathed in sunlight and pressed against a familiar form. It was a dream to no longer be alone, to be held close instead of pushed away. It took Varadha longer than it should have to realize he was not dreaming at all.
“Did you sleep well?”
Varadha started and lifted his head to stare at Deva. Deva didn’t move from his position beside him, only raised his eyebrows expectantly.
There was an alertness to his expression, as if he had waited for Varadha to wake. The intimacy of that thought brought a stifling heat to Varadha’s face and he forced himself to move. He sat up too quickly and was rewarded for his anxiousness with a sudden jolting headache, pain throbbing behind his eyes. He groaned, pushing his forehead into his hands.
Deva exhaled quickly through his nose, amused, and he sat up alongside him. One of his knees pressed against Varadha’s thigh, one of his hands rested on his shoulder, and Varadha resisted the insecure urge to pull away further. He fumbled for an excuse for the intimacy.
“I drank too much.” Deva hummed, trailed his fingers across the slope of Varadha’s shoulder, and said nothing. Varadha felt awkward in the silence between them, so he elaborated, “I’m sorry for falling asleep here, I was… overwhelmed.” Deva shrugged and seemed to catch the hint, keeping himself still to avoid overwhelming Varadha further..
“I don’t mind,” he said simply. Then, after a short thoughtful pause, “Your company is always welcome; I’m glad mine is… something of a comfort. I hope you didn’t feel like you had to avoid me, before.” His voice sounded apologetic, guilty. Varadha instinctively shook his head.
It was a lie to deny it; he had avoided Deva since his rejection, even as they shared a jail cell. It felt embarrassing for it to have been so noticeable. He shook his head again, as if to deny his own denial.
“It is not your fault,” he murmured. “I know being here is difficult, and I don’t mean to make it worse by distancing myself.” Deva smiled at him softly, almost pitying, and Varadha’s chest felt tight.
“Being here is not what is difficult,” Deva clarified gently. “It’s also… not as I expected. Although, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I decided to return.” He spoke carefully, not regretful but thoughtful. Varadha tried to read between the lines and found himself struggling to reconcile certain details.
“Where is Amma?” Varadha asked, carefully. “I cannot help but notice you came alone.” Deva’s smile wavered and he shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
“She is waiting for me, in Gujarat,” he explained, his gaze shifting away. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and Varadha imagined the distance was difficult for him. He had always been as protective of her as he had been of Varadha, his only surviving blood in a tribe nearly destroyed. “She will not come unless I send for her, unless I have the authority to. I cannot guarantee her safety until then.”
Varadha raised his eyebrows, surprised. It was strange, suddenly, to realize Deva was talking of ambition, of his own goals. Even though it was on everyone else’s tongue since he returned, Varadha had yet to hear Deva declare a personal intention for the throne, or even of a lordship.
“You have a claim to Naarang’s seat,” Varadha said truthfully. He hoped Deva would not ask how he would obtain it. He hoped Deva would not want to obtain it. As if he could read Varadha’s thoughts, Deva frowned and shook his head.
“That is not enough,” he replied, and Varadha hummed sympathetically. He didn’t know what else to say, because a lordship would not be enough for him either. He had wanted more, he always had, and Deva knew this as much as he did. He allowed himself a sick sort of comfort of thinking of Deva rejecting Rudra’s wedding gift and exhaled quickly through his nose.
Deva shifted closer to him, his hand dropping lower to Varadha’s back, and Varadha’s thoughts of anyone else slipped his mind.
“If I fail, I don’t know how I will face her,” Deva admitted quietly, his face drawn. “I suppose I should fear for my life, but I don’t. I fear her anger more, if Raja gets away with it all; her disappointment.” His eyes were gentle when he met Varadha’s gaze, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
He looked so much like his mother at that moment, thoughtful beyond articulation, and Varadha could not stop himself from smiling fondly. He missed Amma almost as much as he had missed Deva. She had been the closest person to a mother that Varadha had known himself. She had cared for him beyond what was owed to a son’s childhood friend; she had treated him not like a prince but like the innocent child he used to be.
In a perfect world, Varadha would have found himself in her family. He let himself imagine that she would have been pleased, had it been him.
“You will not fail,” Varadha murmured, leaning his weight into Deva’s hand and knowing that he may not live to see such success. He dropped his voice lower, playfully conspiratorial, “But if you have to leave, I will come with you. We will go to her together. We can share that.”
He pretended he was not being selfish. This, too, he wanted all for himself. To escape was to leave all that he had ever known, all he had ever loved, except for Deva. It would be worth it.
Deva blinked at him, emotion overwhelming him, and Varadha forced himself to maintain eye contact even as his confidence wavered. His pulse raced and his breathing quickened. He wondered if this silence was a rejection, but suddenly, Deva laughed. It was so rare of a sound. Varadha’s chest ached and his throat tightened.
“She would be happy to see you,” Deva said, a slight tease to his voice when he added, “She adores you. You could do no wrong in her eyes.” Varadha allowed himself a smug smile. “It was only because of you that she allowed me to come back. She knows I couldn’t stay away.”
The admission gave Varadha pause. He stared at Deva uncertainly and managed to ask, through the white noise of his own surprise, “But it was Raja who brought you back?” Deva dropped his eyes again and his smile turned shy.
“His strategy invited me,” he clarified, choosing his words carefully, “But I would not have returned if not for you. I wanted you to call, but I never heard from you. When I received Raja’s notice, I had feared—” He paused, took a deep breath, and then hesitantly clarified, “It hurts to hear you talk of anything happening in your stead. I waited for you; I did not wait to be without you.”
Varadha swallowed roughly and reached to touch Deva’s free hand. He wished he could grab and hold it, but it felt suddenly childish. He wished for the drunken boldness of the night before, now reduced to a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He settled on covering the back of his hand with his own.
“I wish I had not left you waiting,” he admitted, “I thought of you all the time. I cannot help but wonder if things would have been different, for both of us, if I told you how much I missed you.” His heart felt heavy, and he could not stop himself from admitting, “I never meant to hurt you.”
Varadha began to pull away, ashamed, and Deva grabbed his hand. He lifted it and pressed his lips to Varadha’s knuckles, adoration and affection in his actions that overwhelmed Varadha completely.
“Deva, you confuse me.” Varadha couldn’t hide the pain in his voice. He felt exposed like an open wound, raw and bleeding. “I wish I knew what you wanted, but I am left with more questions than answers.”
Deva shook his head. “What I want doesn’t matter if I have no true indication of your feelings. Varadha, do I have no hope of succeeding?”
Varadha pulled his hand away hard and demanded, “Succeeding at what? I threw myself at you, and you demanded I put a stop to it.”
He expected more resistance, but Deva gave in quickly, releasing his fingers and dropping his hand from Varadha’s back. Frustration brought an uncomfortable warmth to Varadha’s face and he felt a tear fall to his burning cheek as he blinked rapidly. Deva looked stricken and it made Varadha feel even more desperate to see him that way.
“I did not want you to stop,” Varadha said emphatically, his breath catching and making his voice waver. “You told me to stop you, as if you could not stop yourself. I felt like I had pushed you into it, I was embarrassed.”
“I did not want to stop,” Deva admitted, his tone forced and desperate, “but I couldn’t let myself when you had not accepted—”
“Had not accepted what?” Varadha interrupted, raising his voice loud enough that he knew there was no privacy left to be had.
It might as well be a household affair; Baachi and Baba already witnessed a pathetic drunken confession, and he had no doubts that Rinda or Bilal had observations of their own. Even outside of Pathran, word had spread; as far reaching as the capital, Varadha’s hopeless affections were already known, yet Deva acted as if they were too complicated to decipher.
Perhaps Varadha really was a fool. He wiped at his face roughly.
“What did you think I was giving you?” Deva asked, gesturing to Varadha’s chest. He was so rarely loud, to hear him raise his voice to meet Varadha’s felt as if they were back on trial. “I thought you were still considering my proposal and I did not want to pressure you. Last night, you seemed to finally understand the depth of what I feel, but you’d rather frighten me with the agony of losing you than allow me the hope of having you.”
Varadha blinked. Whatever this means to you… he had not wanted to say it last night, even in his drunken state, for fear he would be wrong. It had been on his mind for days, a suspicion that was the only salve to his wounded heart, a hope that not even Raja could dismiss from him, and yet he never truly believed it. He had convinced himself it was a delusion, but instead, it was a declaration.
He reached beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled the pendant taunt on its chain.
“I did not challenge you. I did not earn this.”
Varadha lifted it over his head and Deva stiffened, watching as Varadha studied it. He had worn it constantly since it had been given to him, even when he bathed, believing that parting with it would bring some sort of bad luck or loss to either of them.
Deva was a man of little adornment and the Shouryaanga were not fond of traditional jewelry like Varadha had worn as a Mannaar since early childhood. This pendant was familiar to Varadha only because he had seen Amma wear it, years ago, and had forgotten until now. Considering Deva’s emotion now, he did not have to guess the significance.
The token the challengers had sought had been in Varadha’s possession the entire time. Vishnu had known what he was looking for, the others likely had as well, but no one imagined it had already been given away.
“Me?” Varadha asked, still disbelieving. When Deva nodded, he argued, “You didn’t tell me. You forfeited the challenge you chose, before it even began.”
He tore his eyes away from the token to look at Deva. It seemed as if he had missed so many things. Deva’s expression, frustrated and pleading, confirmed as much.
“When I arrived in Khansaar, there were many things you did not tell me either,” he replied, an observation more than an accusation. Varadha offered him an apologetic look and Deva clicked his tongue. “I know this is all about control for Raja. I offered him an open season and familiar prey.”
Varadha must have looked as alarmed as he felt, because Deva shook his head and firmly continued, “No one will be able to defeat me, and you know that. I bested Rudra’s best men even as a child, because you gave me the strength to do so. I survived a declaration of death on an entire generation of my people, because you sacrificed for me. There is no challenge, there never has been. I bought us time, because what you and I want is the same.”
Deva reached out for him once more and Varadha surrendered just enough to give him his hand. He plucked the token from Varadha’s fingers and held the chain taunt.
“If you want Khansaar, I will take it for you,” he said, running his thumb over the end of the necklace. Varadha wondered if it still carried warmth from his skin, as it had when Deva had first given it. “I want you to have it. It will belong to you, the same as I do.”
“But it is yours.” Varadha’s voice wavered.
Wanting Khansaar had been inevitable; Varadha could not deny the ambition that haunted him his entire life. It was all he had thought of since it was taken away from him, every moment of dismissal had only motivated him further.
Wanting Deva was not only inevitable, but constant; he had never stopped. It began so young he could not even place it. Khansaar was in his blood, but Deva was the air he breathed. He would not have one without the other.
In dreams, it was Varadha on the throne, with Deva at his side. He had been told for so long that no one could rule together, that Raja’s singularity was the only cause of Khansaar’s peace. Impossible as the lie was, Varadha had believed it.
Deva seemed to read his mind, and said matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t matter what they think; what decision will you make for yourself?”
He leaned closer and held the token out to Varadha.
Varadha stiffened, and admitted, “Raja does not believe your challenge either; he basically told me so. He has promised you to Rudra regardless, and has promised me to another lord. He has offered me Bharghat as a wedding gift.” Deva’s eyes burned and he dropped his hands.
“It’s Ranga, isn’t it?” he asked, not waiting for Varadha’s answer before he explained, “Cheeka told me he had his eye on you, after his challenge. He said I should be careful. I did not… understand.” There was a possessive frustration in his expression that part of Varadha enjoyed looking at, even as another part of him revolted at the idea of Ranga being a consideration at all.
“Will you accept him?” The question seemed to visibly pain Deva to ask and Varadha resisted the urge to look at him incredulously. He shook his head.
“I do not want Bharghat,” he said. “I have already been promised an entire kingdom.” Deva stared at him, almost disbelieving, and Varadha nodded. He tilted his head towards him, closing his eyes, and Deva returned the token where it belonged.
Varadha could feel his breath, the warmth of his body against him, and he leaned closer. Deva nudged his nose to Varadha’s cheek, almost teasing. He held himself back from anything else, an awkward shyness that brought a smirk to Varadha’s features. Varadha reached for him, hands on either side of Deva’s jaw, and he held him there. He pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Deva’s mouth and stopped him from pursuing it further.
“Not yet,” he murmured quietly. “I need your help with something.” Deva made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
“Use me how you’d like,” he conceded, and Varadha allowed himself a sharp exhale through his nose.
He opened his eyes to find Deva had closed his own. He gifted himself a moment to stare, emotional and attached in every way Raja had told him never to be.
“Deva,” he said finally, and Deva opened his eyes obediently. “Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
**
In Gujarat, Deva’s mother did not allow weapons in her home.
“She said I tend to be too violent. It was not worth the risk.”
Varadha hummed and did not agree or disagree. A severed head in the Capital and a butchered corpse in Pathran proved she may be right, but Varadha did not find a problem with that. In fact, “too” was the only word he took issue with.
He figured a difference in opinion with his future mother-in-law was not worth discussing when Deva had a gun in his hand.
“It’s a bolt-action rifle.” Deva shifted the gun to his shoulder and held it with an uneasy grip. Varadha reached toward him and adjusted Deva’s hand, fingers guiding his knuckles. “Imported, model 70, best for hunting. Baba gifted it to me years ago; he believed it would be helpful to learn about the world outside of Khansaar in a context I understood.”
When Varadha lifted his gaze from his hands, he found Deva staring at him. “Killing something is the same, no matter where you come from.”
“What are we hunting?” he asked curiously.
“Large game,” Varadha quipped.
Varadha had still not told him his plan, even hours later. He had led Deva out to the garden instead, brought the gun out of storage, and methodically showed him how to load it. Varadha had forgotten his passion for such a weapon, but relished in the excuse to reignite it. Obediently and with care, as he did with all things concerning Varadha, Deva listened.
For a short while, Baba had watched them, no doubt trying to reconcile Varadha’s drunken depression from the night before with the confidence he saw before him. Varadha offered little explanation for what he was doing; much like Deva, Baba did not press and allowed him to do it. It almost felt like a lie, to withhold the truth of what had changed between them, but Varadha knew it would all become apparent soon enough.
Perhaps Deva’s affections were as obvious as Varadha’s own. Now that they were alone together, Varadha could not deny how their desires were, in every respect, the same.
Trusting Varadha to elaborate as was needed, Deva lowered the bolt on the gun, flipped off the safety and aimed. His eyes focused on a tree Varadha had pointed out for him, a marker in the distance he was to treat as his target. He hesitated too long, fingers frozen at the trigger. Something was on his mind.
When Deva looked at him once more, Varadha murmured, “I see that you do not plan to let me out of your sight. I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Deva shifted the weapon again, appearing nervous. Varadha saw through him now, and recognized the discomfort of yearning, of wanting and having and not knowing what comes next.
“You cannot fault me for wanting to look at you,” Deva said, shrugging.
Varadha ducked his chin, felt his face burn from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and scolded, “If you don’t hold it correctly, it will hurt you on the recoil.” Deva lowered the gun and Varadha tapped the correct position on his shoulder with two of his fingers.
“I prefer a shorter distance weapon.” Deva sounded almost petulant. Varadha sighed and nodded, trailing his fingers across Deva’s shoulder as he walked to the other side of him. His other hand encouraged him wordlessly to lift the gun again and Deva obeyed easily, led to the right position, a little stiff in his grip.
At Deva’s back, Varadha pressed himself closer and said, “I’ve noticed, but I think one should have options, if they have been put to task. I have not found use for this gun in several years; perhaps you can find something to do with it.” He used his small height disadvantage to tuck his nose against Deva’s neck. He smelled warm, musky.
Deva fingers twitched around the weapon and murmured, through clenched teeth, “Spell it out.”
“It doesn't bother a hunter if he cannot find prey, but not being able to hunt would kill him,” Varadha said vaguely. “You said you offered Raja an open season, and I’m proposing an amendment to it.”
Deva turned his face over his shoulder, eyes attentive, focused, and Varadha continued, “I held you back, before. I pretended not to notice your true nature. Now, I turn you loose. I will even offer something in return.” He nudged Deva’s attention back to the target with his nose.
“What would that be?” Deva’s voice was quiet, his gaze focused but his mind elsewhere. His breathing hitched and he straightened his shoulders beneath Varadha’s hands.
As he shifted his weight and aimed, Varadha explained simply, “If you bring me Rudra’s nose ring, you can have me however you’d like.”
Deva pulled the trigger. A bullet buried itself in the trunk of the tree.
**
The plan was a foul one; Khansaar was to run red. Varadha did not mind the color; he thought it suited the kingdom better than the black stain Raja’s cruelty had created.
It started with Rudra, because some things could not be forgiven. Trying to possess what did not belong to him had been Rudra’s sin since childhood.
He had taunted Varadha for years, claiming he and Baachi were undeserving of what the Mannaar tribe had inherited. Considering the fate Varadha and Deva planned for them, Varadha allowed himself to shed the envy from his youth; his Mannaar blood would be different, and he was glad to be left out of the family lineage, by both disownment and Deva’s favoritism.
Varadha could behave himself only long enough to let Deva kill Rudra himself. And then, when that task had been completed— and the few unlucky men of Rudra’s who fled gunfire met the business end of a sword— Varadha did what he should have done from the beginning and called Deva home.
“Do you want to see it?”
If it had been any other question, Varadha would have struggled to entertain it, pressed as he was against the front of Deva. He looked up at him, saw the blown pupils of Deva’s dark eyes, and nodded.
Deva reached into his pocket and pulled from it the ring Varadha had requested, the metal speckled with red, held between Deva’s still-bloodstained fingers. His body was a mess with the violence Varadha pulled him from, the evidence still riddled across his arms but Varadha had insisted it wasn’t needed for him to bathe.
If he had the opportunity, he would have had him when Deva had been painted in Vishnu’s blood as well. He could not deny the appeal, and allowed himself to reveal the unbecoming desire at Deva’s encouragement.
“Did he struggle?”
Deva stared at Varadha for a moment, one eyebrow twitching. He shrugged, dragged one of his hands across Varadha’s shoulder and into the collar of his shirt, and smirked.
“He was still alive when I took it from him,” he answered simply. He pulled Varadha’s shirt over his head, then pressed two of his fingers against the soft skin at his side, right below Varadha’s ribcage. “One of the bullets had struck him here.”
Varadha sucked his teeth, almost sympathetic. “Painful. Slow.”
Deva nodded and pulled his hand up higher, fingers crawling until they reached the pulse point at Varadha’s throat. Varadha tilted his chin upwards and Deva pressed a quick kiss to his waiting mouth.
“After I stole his nose ring, I put your knife here and pulled across.” Varadha’s eyebrows raised, and Deva admitted, “I stole it from your bedside. Sorry.” He looked almost guilty, but Varadha only shrugged, pulling him impossibly closer.
“That’s more than fine,” he murmured. “What’s mine is yours.”
He kissed him harder then, dragging Deva back towards the bed, and yanked at the shirt Deva wore as he moved. A few bruises and scratches covered Deva’s torso and Varadha ran his finger over one that inspired a hissing inhale.
“Do you want me to stop?” Varadha asked gently, fingers hesitating at Deva’s side. He was not bleeding, but the injury gave Varadha pause. It was unnecessary; he was met with nothing short of a growl, pushed onto his back on the bed and pinned easily beneath Deva’s hands.
“Never.”
Varadha grinned at him wolfishly, yanking Deva down to join him and spreading his legs to bracket his hips. He hesitated before their next kiss to admire him, long limbs and built muscle, dragging his hands across his shoulders and down his chest. He kissed him again and again, until Deva whined softly, impatiently. Varadha moved his fingers to his waistband and pulled at the fabric.
“What do you want?” Varadha felt almost foolish asking, watching Deva watch him as he unbuttoned his pants and dragged the zipper down. His pupils were blown, his lips parted, his breath panting. “Or, how do you want me?”
“I want to see you,” Deva murmured. “Like this. It will hurt more, to hold you down here.” Varadha hummed.
“Do you worry you will hurt me?” When Deva nodded weakly, Varadha shifted his hips, dragged his own waistband down, and murmured, “I have waited for you, but I am not naive. Give me your hand.”
Deva’s eyes wandered below Varadha’s waist, lingering at the length of him, before he surrendered his hand willingly, without question. Varadha brought it first to his mouth, the slightly metallic taste of stained fingers on his tongue, and then between his thighs. He shifted his hips and Deva slipped a finger inside him easily, then another. Deva swore beneath his breath, his eyes wild when he looked at Varadha.
“When?”
Varadha clicked his tongue and squirmed impatiently. “Something to do while you did as you were told.” Deva’s brow raised and Varadha coaxed, “I can deliver on my promises, too. Have me as you’d like.”
Deva groaned pathetically and pulled his fingers out just long enough to strip Varadha down. He spit against his hand, slicking his fingers in his mouth as Varadha had and using the excess to drag across his cock. Varadha watched wordlessly, if impatient in the small whining sounds he made, and finally, Deva shifted against him, pushing Varadha down to the mattress as he pressed himself between his thighs and thrust his hips forward.
Varadha bit his lower lip hard to stifle a yelping cry and wrapped his legs around Deva’s waist, exhaling hard and fast through his nose as he adjusted to the feeling of Deva inside him. His eyes squeezed shut and he shifted his hips again, letting Deva all but bend him in half on his next thrust.
Every movement became a rough, hammering thrust, and Varadha pulled Deva impossibly closer, sinking his teeth into Deva’s shoulder as he snapped his hips. He smelled musky still, fresh sweat and dry earth feeling so comfortingly familiar, but the unmistakable metallic sharpness of death clung to him as well, blood, gunpowder, smoke. Varadha lost control with his nose buried at the pulse point of Deva’s neck.
In the midst of his orgasm, Varadha sucked a soft fragrant stretch of skin beneath his teeth and bruised Deva, a deep red welt that stood out from his tan skin and left the stubble on his neck glistening with spit. Deva felt Varadha spill out between them and shifted his hips back, only for Varadha to pull him closer once more.
“Don’t you dare,” Varadha warned breathlessly, and Deva stifled a short laugh.
He stayed where he was, continued the rough thrusts of his hips, and moments later, whimpered Varadha’s name as he finished inside him, warm and wet between his legs. Varadha dragged Deva’s mouth to his own, kissed him breathlessly until Deva pulled away to look at him.
His eyes were extremely dark, pupils blown, but his gaze was soft. Had it always been so transparent, this affection? Varadha struggled to find a starting point for when Deva looked at him this way, when it may have begun.
He could not resist asking, “What would you have done, if I had not realized?”
He tried to imagine what the plan had been initially, and if it had accounted for a version of himself that hadn’t been too blinded by his own affection to see it mirrored back to him. Deva shifted onto his side and pulled Varadha with him. He hummed, noncommittal.
“I assumed you would understand, eventually.” His words were calm, certain. He cleared his throat softly after a moment and added, “I always planned to be with you, and always planned on… getting rid of Raja. The steps in between have changed, but what is best for Khansaar, what is best for me, has not.”
He dragged his fingers up Varadha’s side before he wrapped his arm over him. It felt like a protective measure, in a way; bracing. Varadha looked up at him curiously
“It will be good to be rid of him,” he agreed. He did not want it to sound easy; he knew it would be the opposite. It would be a matter of time before what happened to Rudra would be known across the kingdom, and Deva did not want to stop at just pruning Khansaar of its overgrown lords. “I am tired of artificial peace.”
He pressed his forehead to Deva’s, let his eyes flutter closed, and added softly, “But most selfishly, I want him gone so no one can take you from me. Forgive my possession, I want you all to myself.”
Deva pressed back against him, gently and almost childishly, “You have me.” Varadha smiled.
“Are you still my Salaar?” he asked, almost shy. Deva exhaled a short amused breath, a noise of recognition, and nodded. “You would indulge me with my childish nicknames, Devaratha?”
“You can call me whatever you like,” Deva murmured. “I will answer.”