Hi Guys, I've been missing PaRud so much that it's driven me to write this One Shot about them. The lovely, talented Smitar has given me so many hours of sheer reading pleasure with her stories that I simply couldn't not dedicate this to her. Finally, this is my first attempt at writing fan fiction of any kind, so please bear with me, and please be generous with your feedback.
Happy reading! 😊
AN: This episode takes place just after Rudra announces the forced wedding and before the ceremonies start.
"Manne Jaane do! Chhodo manne..."
("Let go of me! Leave me...")
Her wrists fluttered butterfly-like against the warm manacles. Against the warm callused handcuffs that bit hard into the tender flesh for a moment so that she whimpered, the sound barely a breath on the cool desert air. But loud enough. The grip eased a little. Just enough to relax into that familiar unbreakable hold that he'd perfected over these past months. That far-away corner of her mind that wasn't boiling wondered if it was unbreakable because she couldn't break away or because she didn't want to.
No, never that! Furious with herself now, she drew on all the reserves of her strength, called up to Bholenath, and redoubled her efforts.
"Chupp!"
("Quiet!")
The harsh command easily muffled her hiss of pain as her ribcage arched in response to the punishing pressure that forced her wrists further down into the small of her back.
"Ekdum Chupp!"
("Not another word!")
His tone mirrored the glitter in his eyes.
Automatically her eyes went to his scar, his third eye that, he'd told her that day when she'd threatened to kill herself, would open up like Lord Shiva's, and rain destruction on her near and dear ones if she so much as dared follow through with her threat. He'd been furious then, barely in control, his scar livid on his forehead.
Just like it would be now. She couldn't see it, but she could see the pulse that throbbed in his clenched jaw in the harsh white beam of the searchlight from the watchtower.
"Chal!" ("Come!") There was a dangerous edge to his command.
She straightened her spine and dug in her heels.
"Tu aise nai maanegi na..."
("You're not going to comply so easily, are you...")
The tug on her wrists was ungentle, urgent and made her lose her footing so that she collided against him.
One moment she was slammed up against his leather jacket, her lips grazing the base of his throat where it was left bare by the open collar of his shirt. For seconds she breathed in the essence of the man - the musk all the more potent for the heat of his body. For a breath they stood locked, frozen in a tight embrace.
Then without their say so, their bodies moved: minute readjustments as he nudged their locked wrists into the small of her back so that she felt the unforgiving margins of his belt buckle dig into the soft skin of her partially-uncovered waist. She must have wriggled in protest, because he moved, as did she and they ended up with their legs, much like their eyes and breaths, all warm and tangled up.
Then sanity on a stream of white light slid in and sliced through the velvet strands.
They recoiled; pushed away. They'd reckoned without the sand. It wrecked what was left of their balance.
This time too as he had that first time they'd met, when he'd saved her from the goons, he cushioned her fall with his body and then rolled her out of the impact with the hard ground. Over and over they tumbled down the slope so that even when they lay still draped over one another it felt like they were still awhirl.
She was trying to draw in a breath and struggle free from under him, when she felt the warm weight lift off her shoulder.
His head was a dark, silent shape that blocked out the stars. Like something out of her nightmares. Terrifying. She should be afraid.
"Paagal ladki! Marna chahti hai? Kya soch ke idhar bhaagi thi. Tujhe kya laga yeh log tujhe us paar jaane denge? Aur udhar, un gaddaaron ke beech ja kar kya kar legi tu? Kyon? Bol! Bol!"
("Crazy girl! Do you have a death wish? What did you runaway here for? What did you think, that these guards will let you cross over? And what will you do there amongst those traitors even if you do manage to slip in? Why? Tell me! Talk, damn it!")
Finally, he erupted, raining red-hot questions and accusations over her prone form until, body taut as a bow, control in ashes, he scrunched up his fist and slammed it into the sand by her head.
She shivered, for once thankful that she couldn't see his eyes. But she wouldn't back down. Couldn't. She had to do this. She would rescue Nandu Jija come what may and restore her to Mamisa, to her own people. She hadn't slept easy one night since he'd made those vile allegations about Jija's fate. He'd said it so easily, that Jallad, so reasonably. And corroded her peace of mind. Until all she could think about was Jija. She had to know what had happened to her Jija. And if it was as she feared, then it was up to her. And she wouldn't let him stop her. She wasn't afraid of him. She would tell him so.
She ran her tongue over dry lips. And tasted salt and something more. She'd missed dinner - she'd been on the run since just after lunch when she'd left Sunehri and Mythili engrossed in figuring out the dresses for the Jhaanki.
That was a long time for a taste to linger, to seem so fresh as though her lips had grazed against it just now. Unless...And before she could stop herself, Paro's traitor tongue swiped over her lips yet again.
The words dried up.
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