Genre: Fluff

The hut was stuffy, the heady perfumes of the flowers trapped inside locked windows and thatched roof, unable to escape. 

The only reason that no one had fainted from the overwhelming aroma was the single open door at the entrance of the house, from which the bright morning light streamed in and a gentle breeze rustled the thin petals. 

With delicate precision, Sita threaded a tiny silver needle through rows and rows of flowers. Thick garlands of jasmine, tulsi, and marigold were stacked on the rickety table next to her. 

Silently, Sita created the varmalas she would use for her wedding without truly feeling anything. 

 In the background, she heard Urmila and Mandavi's bantering. The booming voice of the procession horns. The clip-clops of the horse feet and the droning sounds of half-loose carriage wheels rolling on the ground.

And of course, she listened to the names. The names, one of whom soon wouldn't be a stranger anymore to her, but her husband. The man meant to be the most dear to her in her life.

She never once looked up to see the princes passing by, to enjoy her final moment of anonymity before the next day. To match amiable names with disagreeable countenances. Pick her personal favorite from a crowd of unfamiliar people.

Marriage at first sight. 

None of their names stuck with her. She couldn't imagine calling any of them her future husband. 

Laying out their clothes for them on the bed. Handing them their swords before they went out to battle. Watching any of them lovingly from her chambers. Embracing them. Whispering giggly words of love to them in their ears that she'd only ever heard of in poems and classic stories. 

She couldn't imagine being a wife to any of them. 

No. She wouldn't look. Not until a name so appealing was shouted that she could picture him just from title. Not until a name reached her heart, coerced her mind, not until she could look without thinking twice. Not until a name like-

"Yuvraj Ram of Kosala!" 

A sharp inhale. 

Sita's head snapped up. 

Without thinking, she glanced to her left, towards the wide open doors, and stared. 

Stared at Yuvraj Ram of Kosala. 

And all she could see was his eyes. Lotus shaped, the same color as the cool blue waters of the lily ponds in their garden, soft and piercing all the same. 

They stared, not in awe at the palace that shimmered in the light before him, not at the cheering hordes of people that threw petals in his path, not even at the foreign princesses that giggled at him from the towers. 

They stared at Sita. 

They didn't stare at her face, her golden skin, gaze lingering on her waist or her rose red lips. His eyes a pale blue, hers a warm brown, and that was all they knew of each other. 

He was frozen a few feet away from the doorway, mid-step, hand poised on his bow, the beginning of a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth, his head tilted ever so slightly so that the small strings of pearls hanging from his crown fell onto his forehead endearingly. 

But his eyes, oh how they threw their gaze like an arrow into hers, how they seemed to gaze at the depths of her soul, unravel the loom of her feelings, how they cut into her heart so piercingly-

"Ah-" Sita hissed. The gaze was broken as she glanced down.

 A long, thin cut trailed down from her fingertip to the back of the knuckle. She had pricked her finger long ago, perhaps the moment she took his existence into her heart.

Yet somehow, the gentleness of his eyes made her forget it. Eyes to heal the pain of the soul.

She quickly looked back up, only to see a procession of dancers and footmen. 

What was the same as empty space to her mind now. 

Without thinking, Sita got up from her chair and walked up to the door, peeking down the pathway. 

A dark, broad back walked away from her, gait slow in contemplation, and Sita felt just as much in awe with his back as she was with his front. As she was with every part of him. Just as stricken. Just as pierced.

Yuvraj Ram of Kosala. 

Ram. 

Kataksavishikha: an arrow-like look of love

Bonus Scene: 

"Give me my thread back!" Mandavi shouted, hands menacingly on her hips as she stared Shrutakirti down. "Or else, face the famous fists of Mandavi!"

"Famous where?" Urmila laughed. "In famous Mandavi's fist fantasies?"

Letting out a blood-chilling battle cry, Mandavi began to simultaneously chase both of her sisters around the hut, which was very difficult, because Shrutakirti went one way and Urmila went another, so Mandavi basically went straight and banged into the wall. 

Separate from all of them, Sita stabbed at her finger with a needle as she open-mouthedly stared at the door. 

A/N-That title is so fitting for the Ramayan. I'd been waiting to use it since forever. I'm sure it can't be so perfect, so if there's been a mistranslation, please let me know and I'll change the title. 

I hope my writing style hasn't changed too much. I'm just trying to write some serious stuff, get in the mood. 

Okay. Yeah. Bye.