evcrfallen

[evcrfallen]

Time stretches thinly like a veil.

Devayani doesn’t know how long she stands there, waiting, but then again Devayani cannot yet understand gravity and the way time dilates the closer you are to the source. All she is certain of is the pull the other woman holds and the way her own feet seem inclined to orbit around her flowing figure.

“Do you feel that way, still?” Her revolution has brought her behind the other. Softly, she steps closer, “Or have you left all feeling behind?”

It is no secret how Amrita spends her days. She does not need her network to tell her that in a field somewhere under a warm patch of sun, the crown princess can be found lying fast asleep in the grass. Her hair a dark crown around her head, her eyelashes a fan concealing her gaze. Many years ago, Devayani sat beside her.

“Sometimes I wonder if one day you will go where I cannot follow.” A pause. “The day you wed Navghan I was half-convinced I would need to query favor with Yama. Receive a boon for your soul.” Devayani stands in front of her now, eyes shying away. Hesitantly her hand reaches out to take hold of the other’s sari, retracing the movement of the moment prior.

“I see now, you are beyond where I can reach you,” she murmurs.

Amrita flinches at the spray of saltwater, but a stray droplet still manages to sting her in her right eye. It tears, but she doesn't move, feet beneath her leaden with the weight of something she dare not pry. Perhaps it is guilt, or shame, or some kind of heaviness that cannot be given a name so easily. Like the heavy fatigue of your limbs after hours in the sun's blessing, or the uncomfortable stillness you hold as a loved one slumbers on your shoulder. All she knows is that if she does not know the words to speak of the way her heart constricts when she looks at Devayani, then she can convince herself it was nothing more than a phantom of her imagination.

Why? How does one even begin to answer? A single word stretched thin from abuse, one she has asked herself over and over — in the lapses of stillness in her mind; in the crevices of safety she seeks from every one of Navghan's rages; in the moments of quiet, where the soft flesh of her mortal body yields itself back to the dirt of earth. Every answer she has ever uncovered has never felt worthy in her palms, never enough to atone for the cracks in her most prized possession, whose precise value was unbeknownst to her until too late.

"Because I was afraid," is what she offers, the quiver in her voice unfurled in all its honesty. Her thumb finds a worn spot in her sari to worry. Seventeen years is a long time. "Afraid of the acerbity of tea steeped in excess."

The heaviness spreads to her jaws this time. I wanted to leave only the sweetness of tea for you.

[evcrfallen]

cw: animal injury

There can be no other truth to it, Mahadji was made for her to break. How easily she had almost done it.

Devayani watches with a sidelong glance as his eyes melt into righteous anger, the black of his gaze, deep and hallowing. Divayani feels the urge to drown in her own craftsmanship. She feels kin to her murtikara, understands the longing stare that precedes all offerings to her family, for what other satisfaction could compare to the sight of one’s own creation becoming before them?

His inability to mask his disgust makes her wonder: if she were to knock against his sternum, would it feel hollow? If she asked politely to hear the beat of his heart, echoing in that chamber of a body, would he let her in or would she have to pry his rib cage apart to know it still beats? The questions swirl in her thoughts as he looks at her with such rage it makes her fingers twitch. Would she run?

“Let me go.”

No, she wouldn’t.

“I refuse.”

Still, his pinky wrenches free from hers and his momentum does not stop, only hesitates. He grabs her by the chin and tilts her head so she must look up at him. It feels unnatural, this calculated loss of control. Her hands flex at her side, willing herself not to take the bait. Yes, she sees his indecision and savors it for what it has come to mean. What the action itself, had he allowed himself to be inspired by it, would have meant. What her retaliation might one day cause. After all, dogs who have seen cruelty know when not to bite, and today they are both good.

“I believe…” he begins.

His gaze softens and sincerity washes over her like a wake. Mahadji moves away, relinquishing his hold on her so softly she forgets she was being held. Her body releases its tension and fondness threatens to sculpt her expression.

He has the capacity to care for her in the same way all Nasra’ils must be. With devastating force and restraint.

She thinks of her father, his cruelty ordained by God. She thinks of her mother, distant and sharp and disappointed. She thinks of her brothers, blood-soaked, wine-stained, flint-steeled. She thinks of Amrita, sacrificial at the altar of devotion, her neck laid bare. She thinks of herself, bored and assessing, always observing. Always looking for cracks where she might slip through unnoticed. She thinks of Mahadji and all that he has endured and forced to be. How the weight of his existence must tire a soul like his.

“…only you would know.”

A strange thought blooms. It is the nagging feeling that she has seen this scene before.

Last year, a young deer found her alone. Its coat was marred with blood, though there was no wound. Its eyes were wide and unblinking, and met hers with something like fury, or plea. It did not bolt. Did not charge. It fell, like a newborn fawn. She turned, breath sharp in her chest, and ran. A prayer escaped halfway when the air shifted and looking behind her she saw only a field staring back.

Devayani notes the similarities.

His sincerity has disarmed her too often and too much not to be a diversion. He is playing her almost as well as she could have herself. She very nearly fell for it.

In spite of the realization, the fond expression sticks to her face like a mask. “Twice now, you have failed to give me a satisfactory answer.” She replies playfully detached.

Slowly, Devayani maneuvers herself further from his grasp. For each step he takes, she takes two more. With enough distance she can almost see the whole of him again. Pretend she can’t see his face clearly, as though she hadn’t memorized it already. Still, in this moment she wants to remember his expression, examine it in the morgue of her mind. Maybe she’d find, in the line connecting his jaw to his neck, the answers to questions she hasn’t posed yet. She exhales a shuddering breath.

“I will not keep you here, but I cannot reward you either. Ask for my answer, and I will tell you.” Her voice, sweet as honey, sticks to the roof of her mouth. She turns away from him completely, half the prayer still stuck in her throat. “Or leave, and hope one day you will know. I will not make the choice for you.”

This is your freedom. Take it.

The rest are swept aside — unknown, unmarked, unnecessary to the tale. Mahadji swallows the bile that has reached up to his throat, painfully, secretly, body taut with the effort. He is unwilling to show the monumental effect her words have on him, how it reminds him of the hundreds of nightmares he has suffered through where each step he took towards home only brought him back, time and again, at the Rajkumari's feet, knelt down and broken. Forgotten? Unwanted? Both. Tears begin to soothe the heat under his eyelids as he stepped away, only to be pulled back by her fingers on his, interlocked. She has always done this to keep him from running away. She has always done this to put him in his place. Yet another memory (which he fought to keep at bay) that reminds him: I am prisoner, I am property. Hers. He releases the breath he has been holding, and whips his head back, eyes meeting hers, face inches away. His title from her lips is mockery, a reminder that he is merely a symbolic pawn to the cruel dance of conquest. It angers him. She angers him. Makes his blood sing, makes his hands itch for her throat. "Let me go." He tugs at her finger, to pull his away, his hand swiftly moving up towards her neck. At the last second, with each fiber of muscle in his hand rigid, bones forced to lock in position by the only rational part of his mind, his hand hovers near her face and slowly. Resigned, he sighs as the tension unfurls and he curls his fingers underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Cage her in just as she had done him, for longest time, for years and years, for always. "I believe," he begins, answering sincerely, just as he had done for her, again and again, for always, "—it would be the same reason that has compelled you to keep me after all this time." He blinks and brings his hand down, gaze flitting away, stepping back. "Perhaps it is malice, Deva. Only you would know."

[evcrfallen]

Neelam Gill at Zimmerman SS 25

[evcrfallen]

Devayani sleeps through the servants carefully setting the food in front of her. The sound of the first bite being taken. The awful noise of Navaghan’s yelling. And while the chair splitting against the wall disturbs her rest, it is the goblet that startles her awake.

“You fool. That was a gift to mata.” The light reflects off the gold exterior, and Devayani discerns the rim is no longer circular but oblong. She sighs, “They must have thought offering it to you would keep them in your favor.”

Devayani does not rise from where she is nestled in a pile of pillows she acquired for her chowkis. She only reaches out a delicate hand to one of the many splinters of cedar that has made a home on the ground. Although she was not harmed in the altercation Devayani is aware that it was not intention that saved her but sheer luck. Still, she can’t help but laugh.

“Should we warm your slop in the pyre of your destruction?” She quirks one eyebrow at the mess he’s made. “Naukar, bring me his food and I shall see if his anger is unwarranted.”

With fearful reluctance the servant peels themself off the floor and brings her the still unharmed bowl. She scoops up the khichdi with her finger and plops it into her mouth.

It’s warm. Not hot. But not cold either.

“Bhrata, is this really worth it?” Devayani pushes the food away from her and rolls onto back and closes her eyes. She’s tired.

location: house nasra'il's eating quarters with: @evcrfallen

"ONE JOB," he was roaring, raging and fuming as per usual. He made one very very simple request. Fucking, heat up the damn food. That was it, he was courteous, he had extended his patience. And yet what did he get? A bowl of cold slop again. Had he not already been magnanimous and generous? So what the fuck was this disrespect?

Something within him snapped, and once the anger began - it raged like a fire until he got tired. Most of his servants were accustomed to his volatile temper and knew well of his fury. Yet this one, whoever this servant was, clearly was beyond incompetent.

And then it came.

The flying chair - it tumbled through the air, barely missing the attendant's head. The legs broke upon impact, sending bits of wood flurrying around like a storm. The lethality in which he used his full strength to chuck it, if it had impact, would have severed their skull from their neck. Immediately, the attendant was whimpering, on the ground on their knees, mumbling forgiveness and the likes. "My fucking food is still COLD. IT'S STILL FUCKING COLD," and he proceeded to fling a goblet in the same direction, the water splashing onto the ground leaving a mess. He was beyond incense, his wrath at an all time high.

[evcrfallen]

It has been seventeen years since Devayani was found, drowning. Restless hands peaked through the staccato of the currents waving furiously to God or Shiva or some other deity for help. What found her instead was something similar — more worthy of devotion.

Devayani can still feel the press of Amrita’s fragile body. Her delicate arms hooking under hers and dragging her to shore like a sailor with her catch. The way her hands caressed her face as she pried her mouth open for a deluge of water to spill out. Unflinching despite the effort of it all. How Devayani had clung to the young girl, shaking and filthy and worried that for the first time she had wanted something so badly, she reached out.

She still feels that day in her mouth, in the distance that exists between them now. But here, Devayani, a creature made to touch and be touched in return, dares not disturb the stillness between them. Worries that movement would compel her into the mould of the other’s arms they had once filled before.

In many ways, Amrita’s position in the family was secured even before her vile brother sunk his claws in her.

“Is that so? Then why does the cold cling everywhere but my skin?” In that moment a sly gust of wind slips between them, and the ocean spray kisses their cheeks. Devayani had been numb before, freezing to the point of warmth, but now she feels the ice acutely. 

But rather than comment, or do what her body remembers, Devayani folds in on herself like a crane. She stands at the bow of the ship waiting for the other to come to her. 

“You made your choice.”

She rolls the question in her mind like a marble in sand. The thought manifests itself before it can be buried completely. “Why?” She regrets asking.

where: on the ship deck when: prologue - on the way to santicarno who: @evcrfallen

She finds Deva by the bow of the ship, a solitary figure against the expanse of blue — a fierce, defiant image, Amrita thinks, against the whips of the Arabian winds. She waits a beat, then two, until worry fades into indecisiveness, and indecisiveness melts into the trembling calf of courage.

As she approaches Deva, she thinks of the sweltering summers of their youth, the sticky heat of two bodies huddled under the shade of a tree, yielding to the hazy spell of slumber. She had always wished for the hint of a cool breeze then, oblivious to the incoming storm of winter that would freeze the very warmth of Deva's heart.

"Deva," she calls out gently, eyeing them from a distance, yearning to close the gap between them. Which is worse? A stranger or an enemy, both wrought from the same friend? And what does one say, when memories have been mangled and twisted, quenched into a horrible, disfigured sentiment of reality?

"It's cold out here," is all Amrita manages, when all she wants to say is come back in, hold my hand, pull me close, again.

[evcrfallen]

His words did harm her, aimed as bored as they were said. Still, his presumption, the mere idea that he did not understand her brother’s violent hand, had her questioning whether he did not care for the House of Nasra’il or if he knew little of it. Either was sufficient cause for her to jump back in surprise.

“Well, how bold of you. Birds rarely mimic us, and when they do, it is always what we least wish to hear.” It is not a warning or a threat. Merely a statement. Her eyes trace the outline of the silhouettes keeping to the border of the room. Their masks hiding their own gazes. I will come out unscathed, she thinks kindly, I always do. She thinks of touching him again, to see how he would react. To calculate how much pressure his composure could withstand before he snapped. Her hand is halfway to his face when a thought strikes her and freezes her movement.

“Then again, it need not be my brother. Another house might suffice. Who among them has the heaviest ledger of sin? Or perhaps, who among them has yet to begin writing theirs? Are we like God in this way, weighing the faults of others?"

He wondered if she suffered from delusions or some sense of self professed grandeur. Cesar would have shaken off her touch immediately but he had reminded himself that they were still in a public setting and it was indecorous to shake her off like she was an insect leeching off of him. “Ah. That explains absolutely nothing.” He had little idea of what she was going on about. It had been nearly ten minutes and he was just as lost as when it started.

“Should I be worried or honored that you’re so invested in my fate?”

He pondered what he was still doing here, entertaining the conversation that was going into an infinite nowhere - or so, that's how it felt.

“Noted. I’ll treasure it as much as I do a mild headache," he murmured with faux deference. He was rather indifferent to most of her statements, finding them to be mostly incessantly odd and completely bizarre that his mind tired from trying to make out a clear understanding of her ramblings.

Cesar barely masked his irritation as she yanked him down, an eyebrow arching in silent protest. He settled with a deliberate slow sigh, shifting just enough to look her dead in the eye without breaking his usual cold composure. “You want to sacrifice the court jester? How very ambitious of you.”

[evcrfallen]

Devayani. He speaks her name with such derision she feels it borders on affection. It’s impertinent in its warning, and that is the only explanation for why Devayani’s face feels split from grinning. His voice is melodic, she knows this, she's always known this. She could listen to it until the sun falls and rises again and again and again. But why she frequently forgets this fact feeling would require something she cannot give, reflection. She almost turns around in jest to make sure no one else is privy to their conversation, but his gaze confines her and so she stays.

A breeze blows through the hallway and Devayani swears it's incendiary.

“But it is always the heroes and the fools who survive, is it not? Or, at the very least, they are remembered. The rest are swept aside — unknown, unmarked, unnecessary to the tale."

She imagines what would happen if she grabbed the back of his neck, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his shoulder, bringing his gaze down to hers so she could look at him in equal measure. Study him as she knows he has always studied her. But Devayani was never one for arduous work, nor does she feel compelled to recognize this inherent violence for anything other than simple curiosity.

"Satisfied? Now move, troll. You have your answer."

His voice seizes her. It's terrible, she thinks, that even if she were made blind, she could recognize him from sound alone.

Before Devayani can reply, his shoulder hits hers. She reaches out for him to steady herself, wants his upper arm but catches the tips of his fingers instead. Better. She curls her pinky into his, locking them into place. It’s a practiced movement from some years before.

“And what if I told you I could help you as a demon, Rajkumar? Worse still — what if I asked for your help?” She murmurs his title as one would a sigh, a forgotten memory. “No matter. I am a troll today and trolls, as you know, demand riddles in threes. You have answered but one. However, your indulgence has warmed me and so I shall ask only one more of you.”

(Even practiced, even by her own design, her hand is burning. Even with her own self-imposed imprisonment next to him, she feels the need to flee. To chase. To subdue. Devayani holds tighter, oppressively, and knows there is a lighter patch of skin developing where she pins him.)

Her head turns and she breaks his gaze, forcing him to search for her. “What reasons might I have to save you from myself?”

What does it mean when the blood underneath your skin burns simply from a meeting of eyes? The question lingers in his mind, unanswered, a taunt shackled through force of will, kept at bay. Mahadji has never allowed himself to ponder what it meant when he felt what he felt. It was more trouble than it was worth, because feelings are rarely more important than facts. And the facts are: the Nasra'il princess stands before him, beautiful, calculatedly disheveled, and blocking his exit. She must be bored, he posits, even when he knew it was folly to assume to know what she was thinking, or feeling. It was easier to see through what she was doing, because those have evidence, those things he could see. Nevermind him admitting that he has observed Devayani so much in this lifetime that he can see through her actions. She cages him in and he glares, the heat in his eyes scalding. He speaks her name, like a warning: "Devayani." And yet, he remains standing in front of her. Why? Why does he not turn away? What is it that compels him to heed her, always? (The answer is he could never resist her. And he will sooner sacrifice himself to a demon than admit how stimulating he found her, how he enjoyed her cracking him open and pulling at him until he unravels.) "It would be easy to believe that is exactly what you've done. Claw your way out of the depths to walk among humans," resignedly, he kept his feet planted and crossed his arms. His eyes never left her face. His own unmasked. "I think — whichever God these people believe in is dead, and the voice is only giving us time because it wants to toy with us." He sighs, and looks down at the stone floors, imagining her crawling out of the ground in a malignant form, transforming into what she is at present, in front of him. His eyes trace the ground at her feet and up to her face, taking his time before he lets himself speak. "Only heroes or fools would attempt to thwart a demon, and I am neither. I would not stop you." He pauses, contemplating. "Nor would I serve you." Irate eyes look down at her. "Satisfied? Now move, troll. You have your answer." He shoves her aside, pushing her away to get past.

[evcrfallen]

Location: East Wing with Mahadji @gildedcrownx

What most people did not understand about want was its required sacrifice. To voice a desire, even in the private confines of your heart, was to make known to the world a vulnerability within yourself. Devayani had no wants or desires.

Life for her was a dream she drifted through like a flower petal falling. Nature was not kind to everyone, but at least she would fall softly. The soft matter of her mind was a cushion to cruelty. What one did not recognize as vicious couldn’t harm one, after all.

But, Devayani mused, if she did feel want or desire, it might be to steal Mahadji once more.

Here in the East Wing, Devayani cornered him with the only exit behind her. She was not an imposing creature, with her mask still dangling from her neck and hair in half-fallen from its styling, but she knew he would see through this attention to detail with all the precision of a kingfisher. Still, she could not change, not even for him.

“What are these gates made of that demons are kept from entering?” she asked, dispensing with a greeting. “Does their protection reach the heavens, does it plunge deep into the earth? I think, if I were such a creature, I would rise from the soil beneath our feet and slip in unseen.”

She leaned her shoulder against the wall, fabric scraping against the worn stone, and looked up at her pet from beneath her eyelashes. “How would you stop me?” she asked softly.

[evcrfallen]

Devayani once thought she knew it, this yawning boredom, but the events of this night had categorically altered her perception of it. To a large degree, she welcomed the omniscient voice’s decree. At least it stopped the monotony of the masked ball to the degree it had.

The rajkumari had barely affixed her golden mask to her face. She let it hang around her neck like an albatross, a warning to others to never become royalty lest they be saddled with dull duties like the one she had found herself in now. Of course, only those in attendance were of some royal occupation or other but that hardly mattered when above all Devayani saw herself as apart from and not included in.

So was it any wonder when the hysteria heightened and the royals fled to their families that Devayani would seek a familiar face for herself? To indulge herself the way so many others were with beauty and debauchery?

“There are those who would believe angels have abandoned us.” She mused aloud walking behind him, “behold, here I am.” Her smile was small and teasing as she turned him around, her hands wrapped around his upper arms as she did so.

“As for you… you are a demon. Tell me, ought I cast you out, or grant you pardon?” She let go of him with a pat to his arm and drifted away like a leaf in the wind until she found rest on a nearby chaise. Devayani sighed as she relaxed into its form until she too became one with the furniture.

“I believe I should still like you, even were your soul tainted by a demon’s touch.”

Cesar, although he would never admit it, had become something of a second family to her. A brother she could replace her own vile sibling with. Stoic. Indulgent to her questioning. Yes, he was everything her father wanted Navghan to be, but failed.

She sat up and moved to him like a fluttering bird.

Quickly, she pulled him down and chirped in his ear. “What if we were to sacrifice Navghan?” She did not release him.

location: banquet halls with: @evcrfallen

He swore he was going to have a headache. How ever did he end up in a conversation with someone so annoyingly insufferable? God knows, he had been minding his own business, at least that was what he was convinced of.

"Have you ever considered speaking with a royal physician?" He interrupted her with little memory of whatever the hell she was rambling on about. Perhaps she had rocks for brains. He didn't know, but he wished he could tell her to kindly, fuck off.

But he was in the presence of another royal and he had to compose himself as a proper prince. This whole fiasco was for show and he wished they had never stepped foot into Santicarno. "Demons aren't real," he muttered. Perhaps the cardinals and the likes of all devoted religious practicers were convinced this evening the end was coming, but in all practicality, none of it made any sense to him. There was certainly no logistical explanation or proof that the whole scenario was really true.

"I don't understand what you are stating," that was a lie. He did, but he thought his ears were about to bleed out of his head if he kept allowing her to continue on. Where was her family? Were they not concerned that their princess was wandering about chatting to him when certainly, everyone else was panicked beyond their own wit's ends.

[evcrfallen]

EVCRFALLEN —  a dependent muse blog affiliated with redsnowrp, as understood by november.

WRITING. rajkumai devayani nasra'il of jayanthi —    about

[evcrfallen]

Neelam Gill at Giambattista Valli Couture FW 24 Backstage