In the MAḶAI PŌTHU (evening hour/dusk) of the summer, the light burned like molten PON (gold), and even the wind carried the taste of dust.
Beyond the reach of the ŪRAR (village path/road), amidst tall, whispering PUL (grass), a small clearing opened — a perfect circle, as though the earth itself had been brushed clean by unseen hands.
At its heart stood a ŚIVALINGAM (Shiva lingam/stone icon of Shiva), worn smooth by time, glistening faintly in the harsh gold of the sun.
Though the far stretch held neither NĀṚ (people/men) nor VEEDU (houses), the Lingam bore fresh PŪVAI (a type of flower) blooms and traces of cool TANNĪR (water) — tended with care, day after day.
A few steps beyond, half veiled by MARANGAL (trees), stood an ILANKUDIL (small dwelling/hut) — small, whitewashed, its ODU SAALAI (clay-tiled roof) tiles sun-faded. The air around it was still, touched by the scent of VIBŪTHI (sacred ash) and MALLIGAI (jasmine).
Inside, everything was quiet and ordered: PAANAIKAL (pots/urns) gleamed, VILAKKUGAL (lamps) stood straight, and the floor shone faintly with dried SUDU MAṄṄU (white clay/cleaning clay).
It was not wealth that marked the place, but an unspoken AḴKAM AMAIṉṠU (inner household harmony/purity) — as though silence itself kept it pure.
The silence was deafening until someone cut through the PUL (grass), each step breaking the hush like a slow tear in still water.
The figure moved with measured grace, yet the SILAMBU (ankle bells/anklets) at his ankles betrayed a weight unused to uneven earth.
A shimmer of PURPURAM VESHTI (purple-coloured garment/dhoti) caught the dying gold of the MAḶAI PŌTHU (evening light), its edge traced with PON VALAI (gold border/gold threadwork), brushing against the grass.
Dust clung to the fold, to the hem of a man who was not made for wandering paths — the air itself seemed to hold its breath, unsure whether to bow or to question his coming.
-----
The small clay KALASAM (ritual bowl) rested beside the low AMMI (grinding stone), catching a sliver of light that slipped through the palm-leaf roofing.
The smell of SANDHANAM (sandal paste) hung in the warm air—soft, cool, strangely calm against the harsh summer heat.
Amogh's palm moved across the AMMI (grinding stone) in slow, controlled circles, though nothing in his body looked patient.
Every push and pull carried a quiet force, as if he was grinding back a thought he refused to speak.
The KOZHUNTHU (sandal paste) he gathered from the stone was pale, almost gentle.
But when he added a pinch of VENNAL (sacred ash) from the PATRAM (ritual plate), the colour deepened—turning into something that felt older, heavier, and unsettling in a way only he understood.
A faint shadow drifted behind him, long enough to fall over his shoulder, silent enough to vanish if he turned.
Amogh didn't turn.
"The elders call this the purest offering," he murmured, his voice low, the bowl steady in his palm. He swept another pinch of VENNAL (ash) from the PATRAM (ritual plate) beside him. "And this… people avert their eyes from it. Yet Eshaan accepts both."
The ash fell into the sandal paste with a soft breath of white, swallowing into the mixture.
A dry voice unfurled from behind him. "So restless. Your hands move even when your mind is somewhere else."
No reaction. Amogh's wrist turned, mixing slowly, almost peacefully.
"You're planning something," the figure said. "Are you thinking of revenge or—"
Amogh rose before the sentence finished, the KALASAM (ritual bowl) in his hand gleaming faintly. "Revenge is not mine," he said, quiet enough to sound honest, calm enough to sound untrue. He lifted his chin slightly. "Sometimes silence serves better than any blade."
A soft scoff. "Even your silence strikes like a weapon—"
The VĀSAL (doorway) swung open.
The shadow behind Amogh vanished in an instant, slipping into the dark corner of the ILANKUDIL (small dwelling) like breath into clay.
Amogh froze mid-step.
Framed by the light, Vaisen stood still for a heartbeat—sun on his shoulders, dust on his feet, eyes widening as though he had feared he would never see Amogh again.
"ANNAIYAN (elder brother)," Amogh said softly.
Vaisen's breath broke. He stepped forward and pulled Amogh to his chest, arms firm, almost desperate — not a greeting, but a confirmation that the boy he loved still existed. Amogh's hands hung still at his sides.
When Amogh didn't return the embrace, Vaisen drew back slightly, cupping his cheeks with both hands. "ILAM THAMBI (younger brother))… you're truly all right?" His thumbs brushed the faint streaks of paste on Amogh's skin.
"I searched everywhere… I—" His voice thinned, but he swallowed it down.
His gaze fell on Amogh's fingers — stained with the pale mixture.
"You didn't apply this to me," Vaisen said, lifting Amogh's hand with a soft attempt at humour. "And now you have it ready. Why not—"
Before the sentence finished, he swiped some onto his own forehead.
Amogh caught his wrist sharply. "ANNAIYAN (elder brother)—this isn't MANJAL (turmeric) or simple KOZHUNTHU (sandal paste). It's KALIMAA (ash-sandal mix). An AIYAAN (royal heir) must not touch VENNAL (sacred ash) during this phase."
Vaisen paused—truly paused. Then, quietly: "How can something so pure be forbidden? Didn't Eshaan accept it before any of us?"
Amogh didn't answer, but the small tilt of his lips carried something unreadable.
"Why did you come?" he asked instead.
Vaisen's expression cleared like rain off stone. "To see my ILAM THAMBI (younger brother)."
"I didn't mean it that way—"
"I know," Vaisen said, smiling with his eyes now softened. "I came because… I want to ask if you'll join tonight's VIRUNDHU (feast)."
Amogh withdrew his hand, firm but without force.
"APPAN (Father) won't trouble you," Vaisen added quickly. "I'll speak to him myself."
He pinched Amogh's cheek lightly, playful, trying to hide his worry. "At least answer properly. I won't eat even a single NEYAPPAM (sacred sweet) if you refuse again."
Amogh finally met his gaze, fingers closing around Vaisen's hand to lower it gently. "…I'll come."
Vaisen blinked, surprised by how easily Amogh said it—then smiled, a soft unguarded one. "I'll wait, then."
He drew Amogh into another embrace. Amogh stood still, but he didn't move away.
Vaisen stepped back, turning toward the doorway. Halfway out, he halted — his shoulders stiffened slightly, as if some presence brushed past his senses. He turned halfway, eyes narrowing at the quiet behind Amogh.
"You aren't going?" Amogh asked, voice steady.
Vaisen's doubt flattened into a smile. And he walked out of the ILANKUDIL (small dwelling), the shadow inside settling back into its corner as the MANAI-VIZHUNGU (earthen threshold) closed behind him.
The moment the KADAVU (door) shut, the shadowed man drifted out from the dim corner. Something slipped from his hand—a MUTHU (pearl) rolling across the floor until it tapped softly against Amogh's foot.
Amogh lowered his gaze and picked it up, the cool sphere resting in his palm.
A voice rose from the darkness, quiet but edged. "You're going?"
Amogh didn't answer. His fingers tightened around the MUTHU (pearl), eyes fixed on it as if it held more weight than its size allowed.
The figure scoffed, mocking, a curl of disdain twisting through his words.
"You're too MUNRIYAN (ill-natured one), for your own goods you know that?"
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The ARANMANAI MANRAM (royal open yard) glowed in the torchlight, the night alive with laughter. MAKKAL (villagers) sat in neat rows on the floor, banana leaves spread before them, piled with food. The air carried the smell of rice, meat, and fresh KAL (toddy).
At the dais stood arasan paranarasan. His voice rang out, strong and proud:
"Eat well, rejoice!"
A roar of joy swept through the ŪR (village). Hands clapped, voices rose in praise.
Yet in that moment, Vaisen felt himself drifting away. His eyes searched the whole hall, moving over familiar faces, checking every corner. Seeing everyone eating brought him a small relief — but something inside him stayed tight, uneasy.
Then suddenly, ARASAN paranarasan swayed. His hand clutched his chest, his vision faltered, and blood spilled from his mouth onto the stone floor.
Startled, the NĀṚ (men) and PEṆ (women) rose at once, their laughter collapsing into fear.
Vaisen rushed forward, catching his father before he fell. His voice broke:
"APPAN (father)!"
He held him close, shouting for the MARUTTUVAN (healer). Guards bolted across the ARANMANAI MANRAM (royal open yard).
Through the blur of panic, something pulled at Vaisen's attention — a patch of stillness in an ARANMANAI MANRAM (royal open yard) full of movement.
While bodies rushed, while voices cracked with fear, one figure did not move.
He stood rooted like a pillar carved into the floor, shoulders relaxed, breath steady. The torchlight flickered across his face, but nothing in him reacted to the king's collapse — not shock, not concern, not even curiosity.
Only a slow curl at the corner of his lips.
A smirk that did not belong in a moment like this.
A smirk that felt like a blade dragged across Vaisen's spine.
Vaisen's heartbeat stumbled.
Only then did recognition settle over him, heavy and unwelcome.
Amogh.
-----
The crack of a slap split the room.
Vaisen's head snapped to the side. Fingers dug into his cheeks, forcing his face upward before he could steady himself. He tasted iron.
VĒNDAN THĀY (queen mother) stood before him.
THEEVATTI (torch) light caught the red in her eyes, sharp and burning. Her chest rose once, hard, as if holding back something far worse than the blow she had already delivered.
Vaisen didn't lift his gaze.
Heat throbbed across his skin, his jaw aching under her grip. Moisture blurred his vision, gathering, stinging—but nothing fell.
VĒNDAN THĀY released him with a shove.
"I had warned you," she said. "I had told you not to call that sinner to VIRUNDHU (feast)."
She laughed once, hollow. "Tell me—what is my word to you? Air? Dust under your feet?" Her finger stabbed the space between them.
Vaisen's shoulders stiffened. He stayed silent.
She went on, her voice rising now, cutting. "Amogh."
The name left her mouth like poison. "He slaughtered trust. He deceived everyone—this ARASU MAALIGAI (royal palace), this NAADU (land/kingdom)."
Her finger pressed firmly against Vaisen's chest.
She leaned closer. "Now look at where that love has led. Tell me—do you feel shame?"
Vaisen's chin lifted a fraction. His voice came out low, frayed.
"But I believe him. He couldn't have—"
The word cracked through the air.
VĒNDAN THĀY's eyes hardened. "Speak one more word," she said quietly, "and I'll show you who I am."
Vaisen's gaze dropped at once.
Her finger rose again. "If anything happens to ARASAN Paranarasan (king)," she paused leaving half the threat,
"Remember this moment." She turned away, then stopped.
"When the crown is yours," she added, without looking back, "will you rule with your eyes open—or let your heart decide who deserves truth?"
Her footsteps faded down the MAALIGAI PAADAI (palace passage).
Vaisen remained where he was. His eyes fixed on the KAL THARAI (stone floor), its veins and cracks swimming before him.
His throat tightened, breath shallow, the weight in his chest pressing down until speech felt impossible.
-----
Days slid past the ARASU MAALIGAI (royal palace) like an illness that refused its end.
Sunlight entered ARASAN Paranarasan's chamber freely, pale and unwavering, crawling across the walls as the POZHUTHU (passing time) turned.
Incense was renewed before its scent weakened. Yet the air remained heavy, as though OOZHI (fated time / destined end) itself had settled within the room.
VĒNDAN THĀY (queen mother) stood beside the bed.
Paranarasan lay unmoving, his breath thin beneath the cloth, rising and falling like a flame near extinction.
His face, once firm with rule and ARASU VALIMAI (royal authority), had sunken—skin drawn tight, lips drained, eyes shut as if he had withdrawn from the ULAGU (world of the living).
VĒNDAN THĀY watched without motion, her hands locked at her waist, fingers pressing into her own flesh.
She reached out, hesitated, then adjusted the cloth at his shoulder.
"Hold on," she said, low.
No answer came.
Her jaw hardened. She turned, her steps restrained, controlled, sounding softly against the KAL THARAI (stone floor of the palace chamber).
At the VAAYIL (threshold), she paused—no longer than a breath allows.
Then she left.
The door shut with a dry sound.
Silence claimed the chamber.
Sunlight remained.
Behind the bed, where light weakened,
brightness thinned unnaturally.
Not a form.
Not a body.
Only a gathering—where light refused to stay.
It spread without sound along the floor, climbed the bed's edge, like smoke without wind.
The shadow around Paranarasan's head deepened.
Something pressed down.
His fingers twitched once. His legs shifted beneath the cloth, scraping faintly against the bedding. His breath caught, sharp and broken. His mouth opened.
Nothing emerged.
The sunlight quivered.
Then—stillness.
When the guards returned, nothing appeared changed.
Sunlight filled the chamber.
Incense continued to smoke.
And Arasan Paranarasan no longer breathed.
VĒNDAN THĀY descended the stone steps alone.
The KAL PADI (stone staircase) curved downward, cool beneath her feet. Her anklets chimed softly, each sound clear in the empty MAALIGAI PAADAI (palace passageway).
Midway, she slowed.
Not a sound.
Not a sight.
Only the weight of being observed.
She stopped.
Behind her, the passage lay bare. Sunlight poured in through open arches. No movement. No footsteps.
Only stillness.
Too complete.
VĒNDAN THĀY frowned and continued.
Her pace tightened. With every step, the pressure returned—closer, heavier.
Sunlight stretched unnaturally along the walls as she passed, shadows lengthening against order.
She reached the lower landing and turned.
Nothing stood there.
Her breath released slowly. She dismissed it and moved on.
Behind her, where her shadow should have fallen, another slid—elongated, distorted, keeping exact distance.
VĒNDAN THĀY stepped onto the MADIL MEEDU (upper palace rampart / raised stone platform).
Day wind struck her face, cool and sharp. The sky lay pale above, the sun veiled thinly by high clouds. Stone pillars stood unmoving, parapets marking the palace's edge.
Her footsteps echoed.
Then stopped.
The presence returned—undeniable.
VĒNDAN THĀY turned.
"Who stands there?" she called.
No reply.
Beneath the pillars, shadow gathered against daylight, folding into itself, thickening where it should not.
The air pressed close.
Her heart struck hard.
"Kaaval!" (Guards!) she cried. "Kaaval!"
She backed away, eyes searching.
The shadows moved.
Not in haste.
Not in attack.
Advancing.
VĒNDAN THĀY turned and ran.
Breath tore from her chest as she crossed the MADIL MEEDHU (Top of fort wall / rampart), SHILAMBU (anklets) clashing, cloth pulling against her stride.
She cried out again, raw.
"Go!" she shouted, turning halfway. "Leave this place!"
The darkness surged.
A force struck her side.
Her body lifted. The world overturned—sky, stone, wind twisting together.
She screamed.
The MADIL MEEDHU (Top of fort wall / rampart) vanished beneath her, her cry tearing through the open day—
"ARGHH—"
The sound ended.
Below, the palace stood unmoving, sunlight resting upon its walls, unaware that another life had been taken by what should never walk beneath the sun.
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