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Would this world allow her even a fleeting moment of acceptance? She wasn’t sure, nor did she have the strength to linger any longer to find out. Over and over, life had insisted on making it clear that she was born into this world alone, with no one truly hers. And today, as she stood on the edge of leaving it, the world affirmed its message once more.
All around her, devastated pairs of eyes were fixed on her. A few of them, she might dare to call family. Three pairs, in particular, held her reflection—sisters, their eyes marked by years of longing. Their gaze was familiar, though older, creased with lines of worry and weathered by burdens they had inherited in her absence. She had known these eyes since they had barely opened. If they were to meet again in another decade, she would still recognize them in an instant. But today, there was fear in those eyes—a tremor that she couldn’t quite understand. Could there be a fate more dreadful than her present reality? What could they possibly fear?
And then, three other pairs watched her, though she doubted any would meet her gaze directly. If asked, she wouldn’t even be able to recall their colour. Instead, she would remember the downward slant of their eyelids, so familiar in their averted shame. One of these pairs held a peculiar place in her heart, belonging to someone who had taught her motherhood long before she ever bore children. She knew these eyes too well, eyes that had once guarded her in empty fields and lifeless forests. She had never seen the pain in them—not when she had cast her accusations, nor when she claimed they looked at her with something other than respect. Lust, she had said, they looked upon her with lust.
But she had missed the anguish in those downcast eyes when she uttered those words. And as they silently turned away from her that day, accompanying her to be abandoned, she hadn’t even glimpsed the guilt that had likely been buried beneath those lids.
Her senses seemed sharpened, alert to every sound, even the faint drops of tears hitting the ground. These tears belonged to three pairs of eyes, so tired, so worn from years of witnessing rather than intervening. They had seen everything, every moment that could only be observed, never altered. One pair wept more heavily than the rest—and perhaps rightly so. She knew they must be blaming themselves now, haunted by the chain of events they had set in motion when they fixed their gaze upon the throne of Kosala, envisioning it for their bloodline.
Blood—she felt a pang as she noticed two youthful pairs that bore a resemblance to her own. They were her only blood relatives, the only family she could truly claim. These young eyes looked back at her with a kind of bewilderment, far too innocent to grasp her meaning. So full of life, they had lifetimes ahead of them—futures offering more than this life they had barely begun to witness. They would grow up, as she had, surrounded by every comfort imaginable, a childhood abundant and safe. They would never know the uncertainty of where tomorrow’s sustenance would come from. They would have everything they could dream of, and most importantly, a family—a father they could gaze at endlessly, enraptured. Three grandmothers, their years of love ready to be showered upon them. Three uncles and three aunts who would fret at even the thought of them being out of sight. An entire kingdom, the people of Kosala, all waiting to welcome them.
She could only hope that all of this might be enough, that it might make up for her absence—for the fact that they would never find her anywhere on this earth. She knew those young eyes would search, that they would trade every luxury just to see her face once more, living and breathing. But she was weary, bone-deep weary, her spirit worn by the weight of this world.
If only she could have witnessed these young eyes growing wise, slowly marked by experience. Already, there was the slightest crinkle at their corners—a hint that, in time, they would grow to resemble his.
She turned to him, seeking confirmation of her suspicions, and there it was—a flood of tears, brimming from his eyes, a cascade of disbelief. Why such shock? Had he expected a different outcome? If he truly believed she would comply with this entire ordeal, then he might as well have been a stranger to her. He had always been just that—a stranger, almost. She had never dared call him hers; he was everything but. He was a son, a brother, and above all, a ruler, long before he could be hers. The people of Kosala had a greater claim on him than she could ever dream of.
For him, the eyes of society mattered more than the voice of his beloved; he had never been much of a listener anyway. Unless, of course, duty was speaking. Bound more tightly to his principles than to any bond of love, he was tied to his rules in a way that left her pitying him deeply. And, oh, how she pitied him. He seemed to fall short in every role he undertook, even as a ruler. But she no longer cared. She would not dwell on it—his eyes told her he had already done enough for both of them, and more.
She was weary. She wished her father could witness the undoing of all he had set in motion, yet she doubted she could bear to meet his gaze if he were here. She was too worn, too tired. She was ready to go home, no longer driven by a need to set an example, to prove something, to anyone. She was exhausted. And as she surrendered, she felt home reaching out for her, its molten arms stretched open, ready to take her in.