Krishnapriya Devashree

103. Decisions and resolves

 And then... they dance. Not like the innocent swaying of the trees in the wind. No. They press against him, their hands roaming, their bodies arching into his touch. He lets them. He revels in it.

Like he had any right. Like they had any right. 

Tanu blinked again, a confused little hiccup escaping his lips. His hands, so tiny and warm, clung to the edge of my angavastra like he understood more than he should. Like he knew.

I pressed my lips to his forehead. "Your mother is no damsel in distress, Tanu. But I think these people have been developing the misconception that I have no courage of my own. They call me Jagjanani—Mother of the World—and assume that means I must be endlessly gentle, endlessly kind, endlessly forgiving. That no matter how deeply they wound me, I will simply smile and bless them, like some hollow idol carved from stone."

My fingers traced the curve of his cheek, my touch feather-light, though my soul burned with something far from softness.

"And perhaps I was, once. Perhaps I let them believe that. But there is a limit to everything, my love. Even a goddess's patience. I dare your father to come back. If your father thinks he can return and find me waiting with open arms, then he does not know me at all."

*****

Krishna flopped his head on the wall of the palace grounds, beating it. He was sitting on the ground at the back of the palace wall, nursing a glass of madira in his hand.

Mortals were very fond of that substance. And maybe it would work on him to forget the ache he was feeling. 

But damn it!

It didn't work.

Krishna groaned and let his head thunk back against the wall again, raising the glass to his lips.

The liquor burned going down, just like Shree's tears had burned his skin when they'd fallen on his hands. And did nothing to burn away the ache in his chest. No amount of the mortal drink could dull the echo of her sobs in his ears.

He had never felt more unworthy of the goddess who had once called him hers.

Krishna pressed the glass to his forehead but the cool rim was a poor balm. His lip still throbbed from Bhrata Dharmendra's blow, but that was nothing—nothing—compared to the wound her words had left.

 Nothing could compare to the devastation in Devashree's eyes when she'd said—

"Am I not your Lakshmi?"

His hand trembled.

"I protected what was yours."

"I have never given my love to anyone else."

He squeezed his eyes shut and slammed the glass down on the stone. It shattered. Shards skittered away, catching the moonless night like fractured stars.

Let it cut him. Let him bleed. What did it matter?

Gods weren't supposed to feel this. Not like this. Not the way he did when she looked at him like he had betrayed her very soul.

Krishna tilted his head back, resting it against the rough stone of the wall, gazing up at the stars. The night was moonless as if even the heavens couldn't bear to witness his shame.

Krishna bowed his head and muttered bitterly, "You fool. You absolute fool. God of love? Protector of dharma? Destroyer of evil?"

A hollow laugh caught in his throat. "What a joke."