ishq-e-sultaana (akdha ss/ff) - Page 2

you could say that, except that this actually happens in IES and is not influenced by Maham's machinations. in fact, the events of IES are fast-tracked compared to TDR, as it is a canon divergence and vastly different from the events of TDR.

I do not know if I am explaining this properly, lol because again, this chapter was me drafting a later chapter of TDR until my mind cooked up a divergent path and here we are. in TDR, this is just a daydream, and it will follow the events of the serial (kinda). in IES, this actually happens; it is not a daydream or an illusion; therefore, it will not follow the events of the serial.

I might need to create a prequel as soon as I am done with this short story but they cease to be enemies after Sukanya's wedding. which is referenced here:

"But long gone were those days. They had set aside their enmity the day he had almost laid down his life to protect her. The tension between them had tapered off the moment she learned about his hand in arranging Sukanya’s wedding. That enmity ceased to be when he had gifted Shezhade Sukanya the Fort of Ratanpur.

Now, all that remained was not enmity, yet he would not call it—no, he would not dare name it. He dreaded even placing a label on it. It manifested in every stolen gaze made in the Diwans, with every accidental touch and with every little moment spent together within the same space.

It was insane, wasn’t it, how time flew fast and changed everything between them."

I definitely need to write that prequel next...😩🤭

U need some flashback chapters to clarify the start of their relationship how it went from spying on eachother like in the previous chapter to this point.. it is a big lap

I'll probably do that once I'm done with writing this short story, but here, they are no longer enemies and yet not lovers either. it is like this limbo. it is a slow burn (ish) even after they have consummated their union. I just wanted to illustrate that some love stories are not as clear-cut as what the serial gave us. again, I apologize if this seems to jump the gun and perhaps after I am done, I will post a prequel which might better put things into perspective 😄💜

Originally posted by: Blacktulip

U need some flashback chapters to clarify the start of their relationship how it went from spying on eachother like in the previous chapter to this point.. it is a big lap

and again, I understand how it might seem to jump the gun for a lot of readers and I should have clarified that in the disclaimer (my apologies).

in a lot of ETL stories, it is not exactly a smooth transition of [enemies => not enemies => friends => love confession => consummation => lovers]. sometimes, the enemies are still enemies while sleeping with each other (enemies with benefits, which is another common trope). in IES, Jalal and Jodha will not admit their feelings until close to the end of the short story, even after they have consummated their union. right now, they are still in the "not enemies" zone.

what have i done (💖🕌🛕)

the haze has cleared, and it is time for Jodha and Jalal to come to terms with what their recent deed has unleashed for both of them

The low sounds of birds chirping in the distance roused her from her slumber, accompanied by soft rays of the dawn's light shining through the jharokha.

Jodha felt warm, not from the sun or anything, but from a sensation that felt like it came from a fevered dream. Kanha, what type of dreams about him was she entertaining these days?

She slowly cracked her eyes open, her vision blurry at first before coming into focus. It took her milliseconds before she finally recognized the disparities.

One, everything was different—the sheets smelled different, of oud and cedar, and the room was different. She turned, her eyes veering up and her brows furrowed in part confusion, part wariness.

This was not her hojra!

Her hojra had its ceilings decorated with carved murals of Radha and Kanha dancing in a garden filled with peacocks. This had— was she naked too?!

With a soft gasp of realization and the soft blanket drawn up to her breasts, she hastily sat up—a decision she'd regret as that gasp gave way to a sharp wince, one of a dull ache that radiated from her loins to her thighs.

Kya?! What happened? She wanted to ask, but she wouldn't even need to ask with a turn of the head, and a flash of horror appeared across her face.

Oh Kanha. Her eyes widened as the memories of the previous night flooded her. What have I done? Her eyelashes fluttered, and her skin flushed red.

She had let him—she had been an active participant the moment she answered his summons, and here she was anyway.

I can't be here, I should not be here, she found herself shaking her head, and her eyes scoured his khaas mahal for anything—something she could wear.

Her ghagra choli lay drenched somewhere in the hammam, and as desperate as she was to leave before Jalal opened his eyes, she could not leave this place in those clothes. Barring the fact that it would be uncomfortable walking from his khaas mahal to her hojra in wet clothes, she was not about to face the harem's morality police—Maham Anga.

Nahi, she shook her head, shuddering at the thought of even meeting the Wazir-e-Aliya face-to-face.

Her search stopped when her eyes fell upon a trunk. It looked ordinary to any outsider, but knowing him, it was probably where he kept his disguises. After all, he had once breached Amer's gates using that same strategy—disguise.

With a silent prayer to Kanha, Jodha faced the direction where he lay asleep. He is still out, she thought as her vision met the sight of a man looking unusually more serene than she would have expected.

He looked like the image of innocence—a striking irony considering how he had her holding on for mercy as he made her fall apart—his face softened, his chest rose and fell slowly with each breath he took, and his brow relaxed.

He slept like the world did not matter, with no stress lines or anything to indicate that he had made her see worlds she never thought existed in her 20 years of living.

No, she could not dwell on all that had happened the previous evening. Not here, not now. She could not face him once he woke up to find her here.

With a determined resolve, she slowly got down from the bed. A sharp, jagged breath escaped her, and her eyes shut briefly at the soreness between her thighs. He had destroyed her—wrecked her—multiple times in a way that had her out of breath, both in the hammam and then in his khaas mahal. And now, he slept as if he had not done any of that.

Her legs shook, despite her short and measured steps, each a constant reminder of the night before, as she walked to the trunk. She exhaled as she got on her knees, her hands reaching to open the wooden box. And just as she had thought, this trunk held clothes—different clothes meant to fool the less perceptive while he moved among the crowd like a tiger camouflaging itself among the thick bushes of the Basawad Jungle.

Her hands scouted, pulling angarkhas, turbans, anything she could lay her hands on—one caught her eye. It was a simple brocade angarkha, green in colour—her least favourite colour—but that was the least of her worries. This would do, she said to herself, pulling out the attire, along with a pajama. Even if she bumped into anyone in the harem—Moti, Reva, Begum Ruqaiya, anyone else—she could tell them she was just returning from a shamsheerbazi practice.

Who would question her? They had seen her practice on the terrace or, in Moti and Reva's case, had been the ones to lay out her clothes prior to practice when she was still the Ameri Rajkumari.

Not wasting any further time, she slipped on the cloth. It was big, way too big for her, but better that than wearing something uncomfortably wet. The angarkha draped around her like a lover's embrace, clinging to her flesh while his scent—not overpowering but still present—hung over, reminding her of the night.

Her trembling fingers made work of the strings, tying the cords before smoothing the slight wrinkles.

Then, she folded the cloaks and fabric before shutting the lid of the trunk as if she had never touched it.

Stepping up to her feet, her legs carefully moved to the door, about to make her leave, but before she'd finally make her escape, she turned to glance at him one last time. He was still out—out to the world—and blissfully unaware that she was about to sneak out of his khaas mahal like a shameful mistress.

He looked so peaceful, unlike the storm she was used to, unlike the man at the Diwan-e-Khaas who stared coldly and spoke calmly as he introduced a new law. No, this was not the Shehenshah, but instead, the man. Just a man.

Her heart skipped a beat for a moment, then, without looking back, she slipped away.

He heard her—he had heard her from the moment she woke up.

Ever since he was a young shehzada, he had been trained never to commit the sin of falling into a slumber so deep that his senses would fail him.

That lesson had followed him from the day he knew how to wield the sword and use it to crush his enemies to the day he'd eventually wear that crown, and even till now.

He had grown attuned to every shuffle, every stir and even now, hers.

He may have shut his eyes to the world, but his mind—it remained awake, unravelled. He hadn't been sated after their heated consummation in his hammam; in fact, every chord in his body had screamed out for her again.

She became his madness, his drug and his undoing. So, he had lifted her—her trembling body—out of the pool into his sanctum, his khaas mahal. And he placed her here on his bed, giving in to his primal needs again.

Every sigh, every whimper, and every sob managed to fuel that part of him that just wanted to spend every moment with her in devotion.

No, he could not say that he was truly asleep. Not then, and especially not now.

First, there came a moment of silence. Then, his ears picked up sounds.

His ears had caught everything—from that gasp when she realized where she was to the sharp hitch of breath at the ache to the shuffling of her bare feet against the floors of his khaas mahal.

Oh, how he wanted to reach for her then, to hold her to his chest and press a kiss against her shoulders as he whispered to her—how she was more than just a night of passion, more than a source of release for his desires.

He lay on that bed, so perfectly still that anyone would believe he was still asleep. Because if he reached out to her, he'd have no idea whether he'd ruin everything if he said anything to her.

His ears had picked up the sound of her lifting the lid of a trunk and at this moment, he dared to open his eyes and there she was, lost in her world with panicked breaths as she frantically scoured through his clothes—pieces he'd don for those few moments he planned to blend in with his subjects just so he could learn the things they'd never say to him with their lips.

Here she was, going through each cloak, each angarkha, each turban—until she found one, a green brocade angarkha. It would seem she'd make her choice as she wasted no time in draping herself in what was a part of him.

Her fingers trembled, stumbling over as they worked on tying the cords. His fists clenched, his breath quickening for a second.

Ya Khuda.

She was going to leave.

Leave like the previous night was just a figment of their imaginations. Like it all meant nothing.

Why are you surprised? Came that treacherous and rational side of his—the part that had ruled him for a great part of his life.

Of course, she'd leave. She had always clung to every bit of pride she had, even after she knew she'd be marrying him. He was the man whom she hated, and she never bothered to hide or sugarcoat it.

She had always held on to that pride of hers even as she laid down her terms before she could climb up any mandap and walk around the sacred fire, one that she retained her religion and all that made up her identity, and that he built a mandir for her Kanha.

That pride had made itself known when she smiled up at him in glee afterwards from her side of the pardah. Glee that she had totally blindsided him with her terms as he was forced to choose between refusing her and facing humiliation or acquiescing to her terms and facing the wrath of his court and the ulama.

That pride never left her, even after he brought her into Agra and had tried to make a spectacle of her in front of his court, only for her to make him the spectacle in his own domain.

It didn't matter to her that he had brought her into his sacred space, the one privilege that not even Ruqaiya had, and had lost himself in her in a sacrilegious form of devotion.

He had made her moan, tremble and sob his name. He had tasted her, worshipped her on this very altar and yet—

Of course, she would hold on to her pride despite that.

Why did this realization hurt so badly?

He looked up as he assumed his previous position—still and enough to fool anyone, especially her, that his mind was shut to the world when it wasn't.

The sound of the trunk shutting caught his attention, and he shut his eyes.

She's leaving.

Soft footsteps met the floor, then came the hesitation. She was still here.

The urge to open his eyes grew stronger. Maybe if he did, he'd look into her eyes, ask her to stay with him even if it was for a few more seconds.

Yet, he did none of that.

Nothing as he counted the seconds, his heartbeat was the metric.

She was looking at him. He did not need to open his eyes before he knew that.

Then, he heard it again. She was gone, leaving only memories of the previous night and a side of his bed cold with the ghost of her presence.

The scent of jasmine and rose water kept her company in her hammam as her fingers gently untangled her hair.

Jodha was finally able to accomplish her mission, reaching her hojra without waking him up or bumping into anyone while having what she might as well refer to as her walk of shame.

She had effectively dodged every durbaan, every bandhi—anyone— as she hid behind every wall and lodged herself between any column she could fit into on her way back.

Thankfully, neither Moti nor Reva nor any of her other dasis were within her hojra. She needed this—her solitude. She could not face them after this or even answer any questions as to her whereabouts, not that it wouldn't be honest if they had seen her walk in.

Even her solitude failed her—she could not look at the pool without thinking about how he had her trembling on that tiled border.

So, how had she even gotten to this point? Because every doom had its starting point, and hers definitely did.

She had been in her hojra, Moti and Reva for company, as she reviewed the ledgers, the reviews and the updates. She had wrestled—gone the path of overriding his approval and taking her proposal to Ammi Jaan instead—just so she could get this post of overseeing the spice and textile trade. She might be his begum, but she'd rather die than become another decorative flower vase in his harem.

All that had been abandoned the moment his bandhi walked into her hojra, a request from the Shehenshah, the young girl had claimed.

"Adaab, Begum Jodha, Shehenshah requests your presence."

Oh? Oh.

This should have been enough to have her internal alarm systems ringing so loudly that she was stepping into danger, but what did she do instead?

She had nodded at the younger girl, abandoned all her work as she adjusted her pallu and walked out of her hojra—bare-faced at that like a woman with loose morals—to his khaas mahal.

The durbaans had granted her entrance with nothing but deference, and she had acknowledged them with a slight nod.

Her meeting his absence in his hojra should have been a warning clear enough that she was now surfing uncharted waters—but when had she ever listened to her sense of self-preservation?

The last time she had found herself in this predicament was the day she had swallowed her pride just so she could petition for a brief ceasefire—one where they pretended to tolerate each other's presence before her parents so they'd think their ladoo was in a happy marriage.

That day, she had no idea he had been in his hammam, and she could not turn back either due to both the urgency and the fact that there was a witness—his bandhi, who had gone in to announce her presence.

Oh, she could still hear the smugness in his tone as he dragged out their conversation to the point that her brief request was anything but that.

How much time had flown from then to this point?

She could turn away, pretending she had never made her way in. Unlike that time, she had nothing of equal urgent and importance, nor was there anyone she could put on a performance of courage for.

But her curiosity, for the second time, won over her sense of self-preservation.

He was in his hammam just as she had thought, and the world paused on its axis when she met him deep in the pool, drenched.

I should turn away, but she hadn't.

Even as his eyes communicated the danger of her stepping into his domain, she had stepped in anyway.

Perhaps for once, she wanted to know how it felt to give in. Perhaps for once in her life, she did not want to tiptoe around whatever this tension was between them. Perhaps for once, she just wanted to feel.

And she had felt a lot of things that night. Hell, she was still feeling them within this space of solitude.

She had not looked into a mirror—did not even dare to—but she could feel the phantom sensation of his lips marking her from her clavicle to her torso. Her thighs were probably bruised as well, in addition to the dull ache—he had not held her delicately after all (but it came with a certain sense of reverence).

Did she regret the act? No. Not at all.

She had chosen to do this after all. Her lips may not have spoken her consent, but her body did. Hell, she had even initiated their first kiss despite being the novice she was in that area.

So, why did she leave like she were on the brink of being caught in an illicit affair?

Because you are a coward.

She almost flinched at how brutally honest that was, but was this a lie?

She was scared—terrified—of confronting what their intimate tangle was going to mean for them both.

Was she just some vessel of his release? Or did she mean more to him? It was hard to answer these questions, and he was even harder to decipher at this point. And she had no label to even name what they were at this point.

From the day Bapu Sa had walked in contritefully with the announcement of her shaadi to him, she had vowed that even though she was being bartered like a pawn in exchange for Amer's safety and for the freedom of her brothers, she would not be Shehenshah Jalaluddin Muhammad's pawn. She would not let him conquer her spirit, her soul and her body.

But she had let him conquer those three the previous night—both in his hammam and in his khaas mahal and she had enjoyed every bit of his conquest. She had held on to him like she would collapse if she did not.

Oh Kanha. She shut her eyes again. What do I do now?

Could she try to pretend as if nothing had happened? As if yesterday was just a fever dream? As if her thighs and loins did not ache so deliciously? As if she would not have to later confront the love bites she swore were on her body like markers of his claim on her?

Opening her eyes, she reached her decision as she stepped out of the pool like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

She could do this. She could act like none of these had happened at all.

But could she?

She left.

She left as if yesterday meant nothing.

A gust of air escaped him, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he slowly counted the number of soldiers who surrounded him like a pack of wolves.

Outside this circle was Abdul, his most trusted and loyal friend, watching the practice as he sat down with his crutches by his side.

She left, his mind repeated like a cursed mantra with each parry of his shamsheer. Gone as if—.

Her departure still stung him mercilessly like the hornet's sting. So, here he was, out on the terrace.

Because for men like him, when their devi leaves them and ignores their devotion, they do not lie around and sulk like lovesick puppies.

No, they channeled their dejection and turned it into pure rage before making that rage explode.

But then, he was not that kind of man either. He was not a mindless beast who would go on a reckless rampage. No, he had to channel that rage into something else, something more controlled and if shamsheerbazi was what it took, then, he'd gladly take it.

Besides, what if she left him? Why should he let it affect him? Many nights before that night, he had been the one to leave the hojras of his begums and concubines. Sometimes, he would have them leave wordlessly without any care if they got any ounce of pleasure or not—though they did, it just was not at the forefront of his mind—no, all that mattered was his release.

So, why did this one hurt him the way it did?

"Argh!" A loud groan left him as he focused his attacks on the next soldier. He probably looked like a wild beast with his teeth bared and controlled murder in his face.

Control. Control yourself, Jalal. He repeated, the hurt driving him into a fuelled frenzy with his sword. Don't let your emotions control you.

Another groan rang through the air and this time it wasn't from him. Just like that, everything ceased.

"Bhaijaan!" Abdul was quick to gather his crutches from beside him before hobbling his way over.

Jalal stopped, his heartbeat so loud he could practically hear it reverberating in his eardrums. His face dripped with sweat despite this being the early hours of the day and his chest heaved.

It would take him a few seconds before he'd look down and see one of his soldiers clutch his bleeding arm to his chest.

Ya Khuda, he swore to himself. Had he been so into his head that he had injured a soldier at a practice?!

Guilt was the new emotion striking him in the face. Thankfully, this was no deep injury and could be resolved with a simple visit.

"Take him to the hakim," he ordered two more soldiers with a curt nod and to the rest, a "takhliya" was enough to leave just him and Abdul out on this terrace.

"Bhaijaan—," Abdul reached out to him. Are you alright? What ails you? These were the unspoken concerns written explicitly on the disabled man's face.

"Baat hi kya hai?" His voice rang out coldly. "Kuch nahin hai."

Lies.

All lies and not even Abdul believed that either but for the first time, his rare sense of self-preservation had him not pushing as instead, Abdul placed a hand on his shoulder.

That should grant him comfort, just a semblance of comfort at least.

A sigh, then the shamsheer was tossed to the ground.

He had to find something else to occupy his mind lest he did something worse than causing injuries to an innocent party.

Why was he like this?

Ya Khuda, what have I done?

closing notes: look at our two idiots-in-love (affectionate) going through crisis of their own doing 😭😭😭