~ "He is not just a boy. He is a memory of something older… something the world buried in its forgotten light."
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A quiet breath stirred the golden drapes of the Rajya Sabha Darbar as Samrat Vikramaditya Rajvanshi leaned forward, his palms rested gently upon his sinhasan[1]. The light of the late morning filtered through intricate jali screens[2].
His voice, when it came, was low—but it carried like scripture.
"I've heard those tales too."
The room listened—no longer to a monarch—but to a father figure, speaking of someone he held dear.
"How he treated plague-struck soldiers when even our Rajya-vaidyas had no answers. How he healed wounds no one else dared touch. How he crafted medicines with no formal training. How he fought—not for title, not for land, not for favor… but simply because it was needed."
He paused, and a quiet pride softened the sharpness of his features.
"His methods may be unorthodox."
A breath. A beat.
"But his loyalty… his service…"
He looked across the court, his gaze firm, steady, absolute.
"It is beyond reproach."
And in that moment, every person in the court understood: this was not a defense. This was a declaration.
Unshakable. Undeniable.
Final.
A pause. His next words came not from the throne, but from the heart.
"That boy… is the kind of fire this world has forgotten. One that does not burn to destroy—but to protect."
A wave of reverence swept over the Sabha Darbar.
Even Rudrapratap exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. His goblet, still half-full, sat untouched now on the table beside him. Pride danced in Vikramaditya's voice—bright, firm, unwavering.
But something else lingered beneath it.
Not joy.
Not relief.
But something.
A shadow passed across his eyes—just a flicker, a heartbeat's hush—no one noticed, but enough for Rudrapratap to notice. His seasoned gaze, always attuned to subtle cracks in armor, narrowed ever so slightly.
What burdens do you carry, Samrat?
What truths have the walls of this palace swallowed… in my absence?
But that question would have to wait.
For somewhere beyond the palace gates—in shadow or in light—the prodigy was already moving.
And destiny… was keeping pace.
"The meeting is over." Samrat Vikramaditya declared.
The nobles bowed low and slowly dispersed, their footsteps echoing off the grand marble floors. Morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting golden hues upon silken robes and jeweled crests. Whispers trailed behind them—laced with new reverence, fresh fears, and the name of a boy who had never set foot inside the Darbar.
But Rudrapratap Chauhan remained.
"Samrat." he said, his voice low, respectful, but resolute. "May I speak with you… alone?"
Vikramaditya hesitated. His gaze lingered on the jade table for a moment too long—then, silently, he nodded.
——————
They walked together through the ancient corridors of the Rajvansh Samrat Mahal. The sounds of the court growing distant behind them, replaced by birdsong and the gentle murmur of wind through latticed windows. The sky outside glowed a soft blue, the sun warming the white marble beneath their feet.
Passing through colonnades of white marble lined with flowering creepers and gardens perfumed with morning glories and sandalwood, they arrived at a secluded wing—the White Flower Palace.
Here, silence reigned like a gentle queen.
Ivy twisted up the alabaster columns, and a circular fountain whispered quietly at the center of a sun-dappled garden. Crimson rose petals floated across the water's surface, drifting like soft memories in the breeze.
A maid appeared, bowed, and offered steaming rose tea in cups carved from white jade. At a subtle wave of the Samrat's hand, she departed without a word.
The two warriors sat. Neither spoke.
Rudrapratap watched the emperor for a long moment—eyes searching, not judging.
"What burdens you, Vikram?" he asked softly.
The Samrat did not answer at once. His hand tightened slightly around the teacup.
Rudrapratap leaned forward and gently placed his calloused palm over Vikramaditya's.
"You forget," he said, voice low and paternal. "I raised you... alongside with my daughter. You, and Jaidrath, Mahendra, and Manoj. I taught you all to ride, to read, to rule. I was there when you first held a sword… when you wept behind the palace stables after your father's funeral."
He paused.
"Do you truly think I cannot see when something is tearing you apart?"
Silence lingered between them—longer than either intended.
The morning light streamed gently across the marble floor of the White Flower Palace, bathing both men in soft gold, as if the sun itself urged them to speak truths that had stayed buried for too long.
Rudrapratap's voice broke the stillness, low and sincere.
"Do you need my help?"
Vikramaditya's fingers curled lightly against the folds of his robe. His mouth opened, then closed. Words danced on his tongue but refused to be spoken. The weight of pride—of kingship—choked them.
He tried again, softly.
"Tau—"
He caught himself.
Rudrapratap glanced sideways, a small, knowing smile curving the corners of his battle-worn lips.
"Say it," he said gently. "In whatever way you must."
There was a pause.
Then—
"…Tauji[3]," Vikramaditya whispered. And the moment the word left his lips, his posture loosened, like a boy releasing years of heavy armor from his soul.
He looked away, his voice growing brittle.
"She's not well."
Rudrapratap turned, concern blooming instantly in his gaze.
"Pakhi?"
Vikramaditya nodded.
"The Mother of the Nation... ever since you left for the borderlands… her health has waned."
He exhaled slowly, the words reluctant and aching.
"There are days when she remembers everything—the palace, the prayers, the laughter. And there are days when she forgets her own name."
His voice thinned, shivering beneath the weight of helplessness no ruler was ever trained to bear.
"I've summoned every healer I could find. From within the empire… and beyond. From Roygadh to the salt-cloaked temples of the Eastern Isles. The wisest sages, the most gifted vaidyas—none could name her affliction. None could heal her."
He shook his head slightly, a rare gesture of defeat.
"It's not a curse. Not even a disease. Just... something that slipped through the cracks of her soul. And I don't know how to help her."
Rudrapratap's heart clenched.
He had known Pakhi Vikramaditya Rajvanshi (Pakhi Srivastava before marriage) since she was a child—brilliant, radiant, kind beyond measure. The jewel of the Rajvansh court.
To imagine her, like his daughter, fading like the final notes of a beloved rāga[4]…
"I should've been here," he muttered.
"No," Vikramaditya shook his head. "You were protecting the empire. I was here, and I could do nothing."
His shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight of crown and sorrow. Then he inhaled—slowly, firmly—reclaiming some measure of steadiness.
"Tauji… tell me about the boy."
His voice steadied with purpose now.
"Tell me everything. Every detail. I want to know who he is… what he became… in those three years beyond the capital's gaze."
Rudrapratap paused. The flicker of memory touched his expression. He leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The sunlight casting soft shadows across the carved patterns of the marble bench.
"He was barely eleven when I found him."
"Found?"
Rudrapratap nodded.
"A lone figure walking through the snowfields of Gamunotri… bloodied, injured, half-starved. He carried the body of an injured soldier on his back, another dragged behind him tied to a wooden slab. A child. Carrying men thrice his size. I thought he was a ghost."
The Samrat said nothing—his eyes wide, breath caught like the hush before a monsoon.
"He wouldn't speak for days. Just sat by the fire."
Rudrapratap glanced toward the lotus pond beyond the courtyard wall, where dragonflies skimmed the water's surface in lazy spirals.
"But every night, he'd write. Pages upon pages, covered in ancient glyphs and strange drawings—battle formations, spirit seals, medicinal compounds. I sent for the scholars. None of them could understand what he was creating."
"Where did he learn all that?"
"He never said. Only that he 'remembered.' As if the knowledge wasn't taught—but returned."
Rudrapratap's voice softened with wonder, tinged with something like reverence.
"He built barriers around villages where even seasoned enchanters failed. Fought alone when others fled. Never once asked for rest. If he ate, it was barely enough to survive. His nights were spent stitching wounds and boiling herbs, his days on blood-soaked battlefields."
He hesitated.
"There's a scar," he added, voice dropping. "Down his spine. Jagged. Deep. As if... someone once tried to tear the very life out of him."
The Samrat's knuckles whitened on the armrest, where hummingbirds flitted among the flowering vines.
"No child should suffer that," Vikramaditya whispered.
"And yet he does."
They sat in silence, both caught in the weight of that truth—
No longer surrounded by courtly grandeur, but by still air and golden light filtering through temple bells that chimed faintly in the distance.
"He doesn't wear that mask because he's afraid," Rudrapratap continued.
"He wears it so others don't fear him. Because when his eyes go blank… when the glyphs burn across his skin… it's not just power—it's something else. Something older."
The Samrat looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
Rudrapratap hesitated.
"There are moments—rare, fleeting—when he speaks in a voice that is not his own. When ancient chants escape his mouth that even our temple priests can't place. I've seen wind bend around him. Fire flicker and kneel when he weeps."
"You think he's…?"
"I don't know what he is, Vikram."
Rudrapratap's voice held both awe and worry. "Only that he's not just a boy."
The emperor slowly stood, walking to the garden's edge once more. Beyond the flowering hedges, the imperial flag stirred in the noon breeze—its crimson crest catching full light.
"And still they call him a Rakshas…"
"But in the borderlands," Rudrapratap said, standing now beside him, "they call him Kesari Rakshak—and they would give their lives for him without hesitation."
Vikramaditya turned, grief and awe woven in his gaze.
"I need to meet him."
Rudrapratap bowed slightly, sunlight glinting off the silver in his beard.
"You will. But not yet. Let time decide. He is a storm in disguise… and still, just a boy untouched by the world."
The Samrat looked up at the pale sky.
"Then let us be the ones to show it to him."
Silence settled between them—gentle, resolute.
The sounds of the garden filled the space between them—birdsong, wind, and the faint echo of a temple bell in the distance.
Vikramaditya's eyes remained on the distant sky, where clouds drifted like memories too stubborn to fade. For a long moment, it seemed as though the conversation had ended.
But then—
Something in him shifted.
Not loud. Not sudden.
Like a door opening inward, into chambers long sealed.
His hand lowered from the railing, falling loosely at his side.
He didn't look at Rudrapratap. He didn't need to.
The wound had opened, and the truth—tender, buried, long-denied—rose to the surface like breath after drowning.
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[1] Sinhasan (सिंहासन): Sinhasan = Throne — especially a royal or divine seat of power, authority, and dignity.
[2] Jali screen(s): Ornate latticed panels used in Indian architecture, often made of stone or wood, allowing air and light to filter through while creating delicate patterns and preserving privacy.
[3] Rāga: A melodic framework in Indian classical music, each raga evokes a specific emotion or mood, often associated with a time of day, season, or spiritual essence.
[4] Tauji: A respectful term for one's father's elder brother or friends; often used to refer to him (or them) with affection and reverence, especially in North Indian families.