War of Hearts

Whoosh. 

“Hell. NOT AGAIN.” A flurry of movement, and Sirat now stood in front of the target. The stupid target board on which she had been practicing her knife-throwing skills. Skills. What a joke. She was absolutely pathetic at this particular sport. 

She could always drop it and inform her father that she did not wish to master the art of knives and daggers. But Sirat wasn’t like those silly princesses who gave up on a feat even before attempting to accomplish it. And so, she plucked the knife from the adjacent wall—where it seemed to have landed from her throw, and shaking her head, went back to learn this nearly impossible art. 

Her long tresses had come out of their bun and fell down till her waist. The black soldier’s gear she was training in clung tightly to her lean body and sweat covered nearly every inch of her physique. 

Smack. 

An elegant dagger with a shining golden hilt stuck to the target board, right at the bullseye. Sirat whirled about, a knife balanced awkwardly in her right hand, her posture erect and alert. And then she let out an angry grunt as she noticed the unexpected—and unwanted—audience to her failure. 

Lounging about casually against the door, with a teasing smirk and glimmering mischievous eyes, was none other than the general of her father’s prestigious army—Armaan. With jet black hair, that always looked tousled—as if he had arrived straight from bed—and playful but serious blue eyes, he was practically looked like a Greek god. Several women simpered for him, and the barest of his glance towards them would send them in a flurry. 

Sirat, however, couldn’t care less. All she cared about was that he was a cocky, arrogant jerk who loved to make use of any chance he had to pick at her. 

“Aww, is someone unable to hit the board? Oops, does someone need help?” he exclaimed in a babyish voice. Sirat fumed at his words. The audacity of that rat. Did he just insult the princess of Jodhpur? 

“Honestly, Sirat, oops, princess, do you plan to hit even the side of that board in this lifetime?” he mocked her yet again. He enjoyed the blush of fury rise up and heat her face with anger as fumes radiated through her body. 

“Men like you shall never have the patience to understand that mastering an art requires severe effort.” She replied coldly. She would have pummeled him with her fists while wearing brass knuckles, but that would put her in bad favor with the king—something she wished to avoid. So, she settled on a verbal brawl rather than a physical fight. For the time being. 

As if you could take him on in a fight. Mocked her brain. She shut up her inner voice and shooting the last glare at the daft giant in front of her, began picking up her knives again. 

Alarm bells began ringing in her ears, and she turned towards the door, her eyes darting towards Armaan. He too was staring at the palace gate. Just as she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, his eyes snapped up to the mirror in on the adjacent wall, his blue irises alarmed as they met Sirat’s. 

She noticed it at the same time, the arrow that came whizzing towards her, and ducked just in time for it to embed itself in the opposite wall. She jumped up high and somersaulted towards the weapon table, as two more arrows were shot towards her. Intruders. 

From her peripheral vision, she noticed the young general draw out his sword. Idiot, she muttered under her breath. She had noticed that her attackers were hiding behind the west wall and the only way to take them down from this angle was to either climb the wall and attack from above or use a long-ranged weapon. A sword wouldn’t be advantageous in such a fight. 

A whip and a spear had made their way to her hand and she slashed at her attackers. A grunt left her mouth as she pulled at the first criminal whose leg had been struck by her whip. She pulled him towards her and stabbed him with the pointed end of her spear. Her second slash ripped apart the other man’s eye out. 

A painful howl sounded throughout the room and she turned to see the last attacker standing right behind her, a blade jutting out of his stomach. His hand was raised in the air, a knife clutched in them. Apparently, he had tried attacking her from the back like a coward. Piece of scum. 

The man fell onto the floor with a thud, and Sirat’s eyes traveled up Armaan’s body. A few more bodies lay littered on the floor, near the doorway, indicating that there were more than just the three criminals who shot at her. 

What attracted her attention the most was the long gash that had appeared on Armaan’s body, right from his waist till his chest. It was bleeding profusely as the anger melted from his eyes, but his guard stayed up. He let out a growl and stumbled towards the wall. “Are you all right princess?” he inquired; his voice filled with suppressed agony. She was hyperventilating slightly. Blood and gore were nothing new to her but somehow the injury on his body bothered her. More than she would have liked. 

She jerked back into reality when she noticed his removing his clothes from the waist up. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked. He turned towards her, his chest glistening with sweat and blood. “Trying to heal my injury. And before you start lecturing me about modesty, I couldn’t care less while dying.” 

Sirat muttered a few curse words and dropped her eyes to the floor. She certainly didn’t want to be caught ogling at him. No matter how chiseled he looked, he was dumb. 

“So, tell me princess, have you never seen a man naked before?” he daringly asked her, after a few minutes’ silence. She felt herself getting furious again. The nerve of this man. 

“I see you haven’t. Your expression clearly betrays how bothered you are by my...ah, lack of clothing.” He tried to rile her up, but she refused to give in. She so wished to give him a scar and pass it off as an accidental wound while fighting, but she owed him her life, and thus had to stand down. 

Her ears perked up as she heard him begin walking towards her. What was he going to do now? She thought warily. He stood in front of her, flaunting his body, as she gulped and closed her eyes. She was going to kill him one of these days. 

“Look at me, princess.” He whispered. She shivered but kept her eyes shut, her head trained towards the ground. She felt before she heard, the knife sliding under her chin and tilting her jaw up. Her eyes flew open to meet his, dark brown meeting blue and she swallowed. 

“Answer me.” He commanded huskily. She looked into his eyes and saw pain, of course, he would be in pain, alertness, a slight hint of playfulness, and another emotion she couldn’t detect. She felt as if her knees would give in any moment. 

Boom. 

Her eyes tore away from his as she bound towards the Antar Mahal. These things could wait. Jodhpur needed its best warrior right now. And she sure as hell would never allow these cowards to hurt her people. 

Everything else could wait. 

 ...

 

“Princess.” A low frustrated growl left her mouth as she turned towards the arrogant bastard again. “What. Now?” she asked, gritting her teeth in frustration. She was in an awful temper that day—well who was she lying, she was always in a bad mood—but today she seemed particularly snappish. This time though, she had a valid reason. 

The dumb man in front of her was the reason. Whatever nervousness and foreign feelings had emerged for him during the attack had dissipated as soon as he informed the King that she was in dire need of training with knives. The obsession he had for them, she had thought, shaking her head in denial to his statement and irritation at his claims. 

He had then gone a step further and offered to teach her himself, that little rat. Well not little exactly, but her manners had flown out of the window the minute he entered the throne room and started blabbering. He was already on thin ice with her and by successfully convincing the King that she was an incompetent brat, he had sealed the deal for his death. 

Back to the present, Sirat felt like smacking the smirk right off his handsome face as he casually stood against the wall, trying to communicate the fact that she was absolutely dumb. “You are doing it incorrectly”, he reprimanded, for probably the 100th time in the past hour. Sirat gave him a disbelieving look, and he sighed in exasperation. “You know how to wield a sword, a whip, a spear, hell even a bow, but you cannot master the art of using knives.” He commented. 

“Well, it’s not my fault that the Queen decided to keep me away from weapons until I was 10 years old. One can only ace as many weapons in 7 years.” She shot back, glaring at him icily. Armaan shook his head and pushed himself away from the wall with one foot. He strode towards her—limping slightly due to the wound he had acquired that day—and stopped right behind her. 

Slowly, trying not to alarm her, he slid his hand down her bare arm, his slim fingers moving against her smooth skin, and he clasped the back of her palm. She shivered, feeling his uneven breath at her nape, and the feeling of his skin against her. He pressed his chest with her back, sending jolts of electricity down both of their bodies. His other hand clasped hers, and he brought it to rest on her waist—his knuckles skimming across her bare skin. She cursed herself for wearing such a tight and rather revealing gear as she leaned into his body; unintentionally of course. “Let me show you how to do it correctly”, he whispered in her ear, his lips slightly caressing her earlobe. Her breathing had become erratic as she tried to concentrate on the movement of his, and her arm, which held the knife. 

“Breathe in princess,” he advised, and she took a shuddering but long breath, and took her hand towards the back, all the while guided by his arm along with hers. He hooked his right leg into hers and pushed it back slightly. 

“Focus on the target now, and when you throw, take your right leg back at its original position.” He explained. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck, as she held her breath, waiting for him to continue. “Release”, he commanded, and she threw the knife with full force, his fingers once again helping her aim correctly. She directed her body as he had taught and flung the knife at the exact center. A few seconds passed and she blinked widely when she saw the knife embedded exactly at the bull's eye. 

“Woah”, she exclaimed, “well, you did it.” He completed for her. She turned towards him; all animosity forgotten. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she blabbered, “Thank you so much, Armaan, I believe I have finally got the hang of it. It’s probably the wrist movement which I was messing up with—” A huge crash cut her off as the marble flooring beneath them shook. Sirat struggled to regain her balance, but Armaan, completely caught off guard while admiring her cute expressions tumbled directly into her and they were sent sprawling down onto the ground. 

They rolled a little and stopped, simultaneously, the palace had stopped vibrating too. A voice inside her mind told her that she should go and investigate the source of the blast, however, she shut her dumb—but practical—inner voice and looked up at Armaan. Their bodies were now pressed together, with Armaan on top of her and her comparatively tiny body pinned beneath his mass. 

“Are you okay?” he inquired. She silently nodded her head, her eyes refusing to leave his. A stray strand escaped from her tightly coiled hair and blew into her face. His fingers swiftly brushed it aside, caressing her cheek as they traveled downwards, and he withdrew his hand before it came in contact with her neck. 

For a few minutes, neither of them said a word as they reveled in the feeling of being in contact with each other. He leaned a little towards her, and she shut her eyes, anticipating what, she didn’t know. Her breathing became fast as he said, “Princess…” 

“You reek of sweat.” What. The. Fuck. Her eyes flew open to see him sporting a smug smirk. She pushed him off of her, irritated. “You— “By this time, he was clutching his stomach and laughing his ass off. 

“I hate you so much,” she said, seething in anger, fury laced in every word she spoke. He continued laughing as she picked up a knife and aimed it straight at him. For a quick second she admired his laugh, the soothe melody almost making her forget what had just happened. 

One quick throw and the knife was now pinned just behind his back, a millimeter away from his ear. He stopped laughing, looking stunned. His hand flew to his ear, noticing a little blood. She had chipped off slight skin. She smirked at him this time, and made her way out of the hall, mocking him. “You reek of fear, dear general.” 

 ...

“Why are they continuously attacking us? As far as I remember, there was a truce between Jodhpur and Bikaner. What’s gotten their knickers in a twist this week?” she inquired, wiping the sweat off her brow. The council members gave her a disapproving look, but she dismissed it arrogantly. The map room was suffocating, and humid. She was nearly bathed in her sweat as she studied the map along with the King, the council of war, Armaan—the general—and his assisting commander. 

Armaan gave her a side-eye as he leaned down and scrutinized the map. He knew every place on it by heart, yet he consulted it before turning to address the audience. “I believe they will be attacking from the Southern part of the kingdom, through the village.” 

At this, everyone excluding Sirat gave him an incredulous look. She merely turned her eyes towards the large sheet and tried to understand the reasoning behind this declaration. 

“He is right.” She announced, taking everyone by surprise, including Armaan. Sirat gave him an inconspicuous smirk before she turned towards the others. “By attacking the Eastern and Western fronts they have given us reason to increase security at these points. There is heavy scrutiny at the Northern border as it is the direct trade route of Jodhpur. However, the southern front is mostly left unguarded, and now more so since we need manpower for the other areas.” She elaborated in detail. 

The King was slightly stunned, realizing that his daughter was cleverer than he gave her credit for. He turned to look at the general, who was nodding in agreement. 

“Precisely why we should deploy the Special Forces on the Southern border and let the regular army patrol the east and the west.” Armaan continued from where Sirat had dropped off. He looked up at the Council of War, asking for their approval. One by one they all nodded and the King clapped his hand to disperse the meeting. 

As soon as the King stepped out Armaan turned towards Sirat, who was oblivious to everything around her except the map underneath her fingers. He walked towards her back and just as she turned, calling him, “Armaan”, he pinned her to the table. 

Her heartbeat became erratic as she stammered out, “What, what are you doing?” He observed a drop of sweat trickle down her forehead and travel down her neck, disappearing between her gear. He gulped and looked up, “So the princess agrees with me, for a change.” 

Sirat breathed in nervously, trying to control the sudden urge to pull him down and kiss his lips— 

She pushed him away suddenly, and he jerked back, his back hitting the wall. She stalked towards him and it was her turn to pin him beneath her. “I never said I agreed with you, Armaan.” She whispered sensually, her lips barely brushing against his. He sucked in a breath and a slight blush crept up his neck. “I agreed with the General of Jodhpur.” This sudden boldness stunned both of them, and they felt tingles in their body. Armaan’s hands circled her waist as he bent down towards her. She leaned on her tiptoes, one hand on his neck and the other on his chest. 

The air around them was humid and sweat covered every inch of their bodies. Just before their lips could meet, a loud voice interrupted them. “Princess Sirat the King asks you in the Throne room immediately.” 

They both had jumped apart at the intrusion and now stood 10 feet away from one another. The maid-servant left, her head bent down. Well, she was not going to dare to snitch about this. Sirat was well known for her abilities with a sword. If the maid valued her life even a little, she would keep her mouth shut. 

“You should ah, go—” Armaan broke the silence, not meeting her eyes. She grinned at his shyness and swept out of the stuffy room. It was going to be hard for her to visit this room without these memories clouding her mind. 

 ...

“Fuck this shit.” “You didn’t have to come you know.” “Excuse me. Don’t tell me what I should and should not do.” “I never said—” “Shut up.” 

With this Armaan shut his mouth as Sirat grumbled about the blazing heat. Both of them had journeyed down to South of Jodhpur to check upon the Special Forces. It had been 3 days since they had deployed them and an attempted invasion had been reported the previous night. This confirmed the pair’s theory that something indeed was off at the Southern border. “This heat is killing me.” She sighed as she finally stopped grumbling. Armaan was busy eyeing her, watching her damp clothes clinging to her body. She turned to him, noticing this, and sighed yet again. Then, without a warning, she kicked him in his balls. 

“OWWWW” he yelled out, pain shooting up his groin. It was sheer willpower that stopped him from falling onto the floor and curling up like a baby to cry. 

“Why did you do that?” he questioned, limping slightly, as he made an effort to walk. Sirat rolled her eyes, “You were being a pig. Have some shame, eye-raping the princess of Jodhpur can get you into trouble.” She smirked and walked faster. 

“This girl is going to be the death of me.” He muttered as he followed her. For the next half an hour, they walked in companionable silence. It was nice to not have to come up with sassy remarks and cutting replies. “Ouch,” Sirat grumbled a little as a tiny piece of thorn entered her foot. She stumbled slightly and Armaan’s hand shot out to hold her waist. “Princess?” he questioned. “Fucking thorn,” she replied without looking up at him, trying to put her foot down onto the earth. 

He stared at her intensely for a moment, before he offered to pick her up. “WHAT? No thank you I can walk perfectly well by myself, I am in no need of your—” without allowing her to complete her sentence, Armaan picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. “Why do you have to be such a stubborn ass all the time?” he asked, playfully slapping her butt. 

“Hey!” she reprimanded him, wriggling in his arms to get out of his hold. “Will you stop?” he asked irritatedly. When she continued to punch his back and demand him to release her, he let out a short, annoyed sigh and dropped her onto a rock, albeit gently. 

She glared at him as he squatted and took her foot in his hand. “Don’t” she told him. She didn’t need his pity or sympathy for such a small—barely noticeable wound. He shook his head in exasperation and snatched her leg. She jerked forward from the momentum and his other hand settled down on her waist, keeping her from falling off the unsteady rock. 

She was mere inches away from him, her face so close that one tilt of her head and her lips would brush his. She backed away though, as he cleared his throat and gave her a small smile. He removed her boots and softly massaged her leg a little. She embarrassingly was unable to hold the moan in and he looked up at Sirat surprised. Her cheeks flushed with color as he looked away biting his lip. 

He went on to examine her wound. Seems like the thorn wasn’t as small as she had assumed. It was nearly 5 inches long and had gone all the way up her foot. Blood was oozing out and she felt the injured area slightly burning because of the pain. Armaan swore as he applied pressure and tried to pull out the piece of thorn. Sirat tried to control the ache. She had gone through worse. 

“Is it hurting?” he asked. She shrugged noncommittally. “I am fine.” He nodded, still looking downwards, and then suddenly, he swiftly pulled out the prick asshole. 

“Ah”, she gave a very childish squeal. Blood had started flowing in torrents as he ripped a piece of cloth from his robe and tied it on her foot. “You should be all right now, Princess.” He spoke. His eyes moved upwards and met hers, concern shining in those dark pools. 

“Thank you.” She whispered. For a split second, she felt herself go limp and weak. “Hey, Princess what happened? Talk to me? Are you okay?” he asked her as her shoulders sagged. 

“I don’t know Armaan. I don’t know anymore.” She began. He held her shoulders and tilted her chin upwards. Tears glistened in her eyes. “No one has ever taken such good care of me as you have. Father, mother, none of them showed this much kindness as you have and it scares me.” 

Hurt flashed across his eyes. “You are scared of me?” She vigorously shook her head, “No. No, I am not afraid of you. I am afraid of this longing, this, this, all this I feel whenever you are nearby. I am afraid of this foreign warmth, this sense of safety, this unknown power and strength I acquire in your presence.” 

He felt his stomach churn with anticipation, as he waited with bated breath. “I need you around me. This is happening too fast for me to comprehend anything rationally but I need you.” She confessed, her barriers breaking. Armaan felt himself tearing up slightly—and unashamedly. He had finally succeeded in breaking down her walls. Maybe not all, hell not even a few, but this was a start. He felt heartbroken to see her in such a miserable and vulnerable state. Then again, she had trusted him with this aspect of her life. 

“Sirat, look at me. I know there isn’t much I can tell you. All I am going to say is that you have a beautiful soul. You have me in awe of your strength, your courage, your determination. I did not know when I fell for you, but if I had to reverse time and go back to that moment, I would still fall in love with you, perhaps harder. I know this sudden turn of events is overwhelming for you and you don’t have to reciprocate my feelings—” 

Sirat kissed him. 

It was as simple as that. She interrupted his rambling and locked her lips with his in a bold move. Was it impulsive? Yes. Was it inappropriate? Maybe. Did she care? Not in the slightest. 

This was her first kiss, but she felt her heart soaring with joy as his calloused hands came to cup her face and he kissed back, after getting over the initial shock. Their lips moved together in perfect synchrony as he bit at her lower lip. She moaned a little, and they continued until they had to move away due to lack of breath. 

“Promise me.” She huffed. “Promise me this is forever.” He watched her red face, her swollen lips, and messy hair. She was angelic, to say the least. 

“I promise. Princess” he said and moved to cup her face again. There might be a war on the borders of Jodhpur, where they would have to fight as the General and the Princess. But for now, they were two young people, finding a haven within each other. To them, it was the only perfection they could find on here. 

 ...

“Princess.” She heard him call her, probably for the third or fourth time but she chose to ignore him. She was in no mood to bear his rubbish philosophy. She was sick and tired to the bone, but she refused to show it, choosing to be strong. Not because she didn’t want to appear weak, but simply because she couldn’t afford to. 

Love was a luxury that was not in her destiny. 

“Princess, please, look at me.” He pleaded, his voice sounding lower. She felt horrible for making him go through this ordeal and giving him a silent treatment, but she had promised herself to not succumb to her fears and agony, especially not in front of him. 

And the way he looked at her, with his intense black eyes, she would feel as if she were melting into a puddle right then and there. 

“Go away from here Armaan, let me train in peace.” She commanded, with her deadliest tone and a sharp gesture of dismissal. Here she was, standing in the middle of the soldiers’ training grounds, wearing muddied clothes and wielding two heavy swords at the same time. 

Armaan had found her in this disheveled state and promptly stood in front of her until she stopped. He had made several attempts since then, to get her talking but to no avail. 

“Princess.” He strode up behind her and grabbed her shoulders, spinning her towards him. She struggled in the hold of his arms, not wanting to look up into his eyes and see the warmth that she probably didn’t deserve. He tipped her chin upwards with his finger and he forcefully made her dark brown irises meet his dark black ones. He could see anguish, pain, resentment, and fury rolling in them and the intensity nearly frightened him for a second. “What happened,” he asked softly. 

She refused to break down in front of him and prove that she was vulnerable. Her shield began stretching higher up and she pushed him away, waves of anger flowing down her body. She threw a sword at him, and he caught it from the handle, neatly cutting an arc through the air. An unspoken agreement passed through them and they lunged at each other. The air around them crackled with electricity. There was nothing sweet or gentle about this duel. It was brutal, their blades swishing through the air gracefully, aiming to wound. Armaan was mostly defending, knowing that this was Sirat’s frustration making its way out of her. 

So, he withstood the attacks as she threw the entire weight of her sword onto his, and stumbled, falling to the ground. Her sword raised high in the air, and her long hair braided elegantly, she looked like a painting of a war goddess, coming alive. She struck the blade onto the ground, tip first and he pushed himself away, his flimsy shirt ripping in the process. A few cuts forged themselves on his back but he ignored the biting pain as he used his infamous tactics and pushed behind her leg, causing her to fall back. He caught her and spun her around, his chest meeting her back and he pressed the tip of his sword beneath her throat, his other arm encircling her neck. 

“Calm down there, milady.” He watched her try to hit back yet again and kept holding onto her until her shoulders slackened. The fight in her died as she fell limp and slid onto the ground. 

Her shoulders shook with despair creeping right back in, the pain not enough to wipe it out. She resisted the torrents of tears that unleashed themselves, and her body trembled. 

“Easy.” She heard Armaan try to calm her down, making small patterns on her arms. His palm slid across her arm, trying to comfort her. She leaned into him, knowing that fighting was not what her heart and mind wanted. She pressed her face into his chest, venting days’ worth of frustration and sadness. 

“Why do I always have to be the mature one?” she mumbled into his chest, her cries turning into sobs. “Why do I have to stand tall and proud when I am the one breaking all over inside? Tell me, Armaan. Why?” 

Armaan’s heart broke into a million pieces as he watched her writhe under the burden of being ever-strong and powerful. No one, not even her family stopped to think that she too was a young girl, with dreams and aspirations. She too needed someone by her side, to hold her in times like these. 

Tears inevitably made way to his eyes and he wiped them swiftly, not wanting to depress her further. He murmured sweet nothing into her ears and kissed her forehead. 

Taking her face in his palms, and for once, treating it delicately, he answered, “Because you are a Queen, Sirat. Because there are people out there who will be ready at all times to cause you harm. And you have been sent here to fight. I don’t believe in God, my love. But I do believe that whatever created us sent you with the power to fight against these evils, and to rise every day, proving that you are perhaps much more than a Queen. That they are testing you is because they are peeling off every layer of yours to allow the goddess in you to emerge.” 

She merely stared into his eyes, trying, without words, to convey the entire love in all of the universes to him. He caught the hint and smiled at her. “Now give me a smile.” He whispered quickly. “Your nose is all blotchy.” He continued, chuckling. She too felt a small smile creep up her mouth and he handed her a handkerchief to wipe off the snot and tears. 

On impulse, Sirat hugged him and tensed as he hissed slightly. Feeling guilty about the scars she had given him in her fury, she made to pull away, but his grip was like iron, keeping her in place. 

“I am sorry.” She whispered against his shoulder. 

She felt him smile against her ear as he whispered back softly, “Anything for you, my love, my princess.” 

Darkness enveloped the entire castle, as Sirat retired to her chambers. It was way past midnight, and the moon was shining up in the sky. It was a full moon’s night and she felt an alarming sense of distress as the events of the day flashed in her memories. 

After a rather ugly spat in the throne room with her father and Armaan, Sirat had spent nearly 7 hours training relentlessly, trying to push the anger out of her body. 

Both those misogynistic bas—bloody idiots had barred her from going for patrols at the southern border. Well maybe because somehow, she had let the wound on her foot get infected, and the dumb royal physician had prescribed fewer long walks. It was rather unfair, how Armaan got to fight and continue his duties as the general even while he was severely injured. And here her father and that dumbass thought she couldn’t handle a scratch? 

Male chauvinists. 

With a grumpy expression on her face, she closed the curtains around her bed and let the light breeze ruffle them. She wore short blouse and light trousers since it was extremely warm that day. 

A few minutes after she had lied down and closed her eyes, she felt a presence in her bedroom. Without making any jerky movements that might alarm the intruder, her hand inched towards the dagger underneath her pillow. 

Assholes, couldn’t even let her sleep for few hours. She felt the shift in the air as the figure moved towards the left-hand side of her bed. Just as they drew back the curtains, she lunged at them, the dagger aiming for their heart. 

“Shh.” Whispered the man, swiftly catching at her wrist and twisting it in a way that she was forced to drop her knife. He somehow gently pushed her back into the bed, and climbed in, closing the curtains behind him. “I had no idea you hated me so much, Princess.” Sirat stopped struggling against his iron grip and relaxed into the comforter. “What reaction do you expect from someone who is under the impression that she is being attacked?” she pouted childishly. He chuckled at her behavior, marveling at her cuteness. 

She caught him staring at her in awe, and blushed slightly. But when she recalled his behavior in front of her father, she pushed him away and frowned. As if able to read her mind, he smirked, trying to rile her up. Two could play the game, she thought and tried to move to the other side of the bed. 

He, however, was faster, and his arms shot out to encircle her waist. He pulled her back into his chest, his arms in contact with the bare skin of her midriff. “So, what was the Princess saying?” he spoke in her ear, biting her earlobe to tease her. His slim fingers drew patterns on her bare skin and she shuddered. The wrong choice of clothing, she chided herself. 

Then again, it wasn’t every day her lover climbed into her bedroom in the middle of the night. “Go on.” He purred into her ear, all the while tracing patterns on her waist, her back, her arms. She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. His irises were dark with lust, but worry and care shining as well. Without preamble, she locked her lips with his, and they began kissing fervently, arms everywhere, legs tangled in the sheets. His back hit the pillow this time, as she climbed on top of him and continued kissing him. 

Desire coursed through their veins and they broke apart quite a while later. What was that?” he panted, grinning at her sudden boldness. She tried to stop the color flooding into her cheeks and turned to look at the moon instead, calming her racing heart. 

“I want to be able to fight as well.” She replied, sometime later. She felt him shift a little, sitting up and slipping his arms around her as she lay her head on his chest. “Such minor injuries should not hinder my progress. When I said I am ready to fight, none of you should question me. I do have the authority too you know.” She looked into his eyes, trying to convey her point. 

He sighed and stroked her hair as he said, “I know Princess, trust me, you are one of the most courageous people I have had the chance to meet. It's just that, I—I do not like seeing you in pain.” “Neither do I.” she argued. Yes, they had got together a few days ago, but this feeling of despair at the other’s pain had existed for a long time. Perhaps yet another sign of their love for each other, which they had overlooked. 

“Our job, is to fight, Armaan. Isn’t that what we are born to do? As warriors, as people whom the citizens trust to keep them safe? We all need to learn to live with our pain Armaan, as awful as it may sound, we cannot and should not try to “protect” our loved ones forever. Sometimes, we may cause harm more than anything.” She tried to explain. She took his palms into hers and looked at him. 

“All I want you to know is that when you are out fighting by there, I will be by your side. I will not let you go through anything alone, but you have to trust my strength. I want to be someone you can rely on, not someone you feel you need to keep away from the world.” 

They gazed into each other's eyes, their silence speaking volumes. It is never easy to watch your loved ones in pain, but you can't control fate. The future is inevitable, but sometimes, all you need is the presence of someone whom you can trust, whom you know would never let go of you. 

“You are right.” He relented. He knew Sirat was brave and strong, stronger than a lot many people he had known. 

“I am sorry.” He apologized. She merely shook her head at him, to convey that it was all right. She tucked herself into his chest again, her head and a palm resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, as they gazed out of the window at the pale moonlight dancing in the night sky and the curtains around them blew with the wind’s bliss.