@femmefatalenet | Event Nine | Athena In 2018 | Sky

Alphabet Fic Challenge, C for Correspondence, Krishna/Rukmini

That first letter she writes because it is the right thing to do: because she can no longer tolerate sitting in silence at her brother’s side, hearing of him brag of the blows he has dealt a poor paltry kingdom that’s only just recovered from almost twenty-five years of tyranny. As Rukmini sees it, the Yadavas’ only crime is to have offended Jarasandha; and given what she knows of the man, she thinks she could do with offending.

Her tutor delivers the letter, after having been coaxed and cajoled and finally tricked into conceding that it is unrighteous to defy the Magadhan Emperor’s wickedness in whatever way possible; and when he returns with the answer, skeptical but gracious, Rukmini assumes that will be the end of it.

The Yadavas fight back the invasion barely, she gathers from Rukmi’s rants, and she looks down to hide her smile. What she doesn’t expect is to hear from

That night, she takes out her pen and paper again, frowning over the construction of a new code. Rukmi might have been her brother once, she knows, but now he is nothing but Jarasandha’s puppet; at times she wonders if it’s to avenge the loss of the loving, smiling, kind boy she once knew that she acts so recklessly against Magadha’s decrees. But even that excuse will mean nothing if she is caught, which she won’t be. She is cleverer than that.

She writes, and receives a rather more grateful reply: a gift, she supposes, from the low-level official her messenger had found to accept it. She dares not dream it might so received even by a high-ranking minister instead; Sunanda is a good man, and wise too, but no royal house, even one so humble as that of Mathura, welcomes strangers to its door.

Sixteen times in total the forces of Magadha attack, and sixteen times they are rebuffed. She cannot recall when she starts writing even without the excuse of imminent threat; but the replies are kind, and dryly funny, and genuinely interested in her thoughts and opinions. Rukmini cannot remember the last time anyone was interested in her thoughts and opinions, not since her brother decreed that it was unseemly for a princess to deal in wealth and confiscated her account books, but now—

Well. A low-level official might not be able to change much about his country, but he can certainly listen to her thoughts on how an economy ought to be run.

By the seventeenth time she overhears the plan for invasion, it is almost so as easy as to be child’s play: the armies will be roused months later, the formations they mean to make laid out in painstaking detail. It’s only after she sends her letter that she realizes what she should have seen before: it was too easy. A trap, then, to see how the Yadavas had always had prior warning for all Jarasandha’s advances; a trap she was careless enough to stumble into. And for the people of Mathura, a way of luring them into a false sense of security before an army presented itself at their gates, weeks early. They would have no resource but to surrender.

She watches Sunanda leave from her window, aghast, and knows it is too late.

Rukmini has no choice. She kneels before Goddess Parvati and prays desperately that her—correspondent? No, not only that; her….friend? Not quite. Oh, that whoever has been reading and receiving her correspondence is shrewd enough to realize what she has herself. She thinks he will. She hopes he will. Over the years she has fancied that while his face might be unknown, his mind is akin to hers; she cannot have that trust shattered now.

When Sunanda returns, he reports: “He instructed me to assure you the populace would be evacuated from the city by a week’s time.”

She sags with relief, and then, for the first time, is curious enough to ask: “Who says so?”

Sunanda is clearly surprised, and why should he not be? What sort of princess would write so shamelessly to a stranger without ascertaining his identity first? “Why, Vasudev’s son Krishna, of course.”

“The prince himself? Surely you can’t mean— surely he must only have heard—”

“It was he who greeted me since the first time,” Sunanda assures her. “He has always been most kind.”

Her brother might sneer that it is the cowherd in him, to investigate visitors himself, but to Rukmini it seems nothing less than the sort of rare courtesy that ought always to be respected. She smiles to herself, and blushes when she catches herself.

“Thank you,” she says hurriedly. “Please do allow yourself some rest, Teacher.”

Letters mean nothing, she knows; and certainly, the most she could hope for on his part was appreciation for her efforts. But still—when Jarasandha roars with rage to find his quarry has escaped, and when his beady eyes fall upon her; when Rukmi talks excitedly of how the Emperor means to betroth his beloved protege to his dear friend’s sister; when the noose tightens around her neck, and a lifetime as the Queen of Chedi means an end to all her freedom, there is only one place Rukmini looks to for escape.

okay, but, like, I feel like we need to emphasize more on how important it is to have a partner you can just talk to. I was telling this to someone the other day, but Hollywood and media focuses so much on sexual tension and explosive passion in a relationship, and while those are completely valid and understandable things for certain, not all, people to desire (even I myself do), I feel like there’s barely enough light casted onto the value of being able to converse with your partner and relish in their company even in the most neutral discussion. I can barely count how many films, particularly romance ones, have emphasized on the importance and value of being able to speak to a partner like they are your close friend, and being able to absolutely adore their company, and engage in conversation with them about anything and everything, even if it isn’t romantic. Lexi and Fez, Aristotle and Dante, Marianne and Heloise, Jesse and Celine, Connell and Marianne. so many people adore these couples because they showcase such a human, genuine connection through conversation. Lexi and Fez discussing God and the backlash of social media. Aristotle and Dante’s talks on finding identity and how life feels better when the shoes are kicked off. Marianne and Heloise debating over what it meant when Orpheus turned around, and the release found within music. Celine speaking to Jesse about how the media is controlling our minds and how she thinks she really loves someone when she can detect every detail of them, Jesse speaking to Celine about when he saw his deceased grandmother in the sprinkle of a hose and the things he remembers his parents having said to him. Connell and Marianne sitting under the summer sun, eating ice cream, discussing the differences in their class and how money can be simultaneously corrupt and indescribably appealing. all of these couples have made me realize how while passionate kisses under the rain and loud proclamations of your love for someone are valuable for certain people, it is also inexpressibly important to find someone who you can linger in the passenger seat for just to hear what they thought about the movie you watched last night. someone who you take your time putting your shoes on for just to hear about the physical sensation they got when the second last line of your favourite song reverberated through their headphones.

If you are still doing the six squared meme, can we have Animal Husbandry, Family Tree and Hours and Day for Krishna? [What can I say, he's a favourite. I think you can empathise. :-P]

(I certainly do :P Behind the cut because this is long)

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Words cannot describe my love for this movie. And this scene.

- Milady, you may have anything you can carry. - May I have your word on that, sir? (requested by waywardhufflepuff)

Drabble: Sita

@puppyloveblog24 requested Sita, anything.

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all that matters is water and streams and rivers

5 AU Headcanons: Rama Accompanies Sita Into Exile

For @marauderstar!

1. There are more than a few similarities between Rama’s first exile and his second.

Sita’s presence at his side is, of course, the most important: a constant of the universe save for those terrible months when it hadn’t been. Even now his stomach rebels at the remembrance; even now he reaches unconsciously for her hand to reassure himself she hasn’t somehow been stolen away once more.

The second is this: the aching, burning necessity to flee before he can be stopped. Before it had been Father’s men and the subjects of Ayodhya. Now it is no less than his own brothers. Already Lakshmana has protested loudly at not being allowed along, but Rama cannot do Urmila such injustice twice. And should he be persuaded to allow her presence, why, then there were Bharat and Shatrughan already cross at having been once left behind, along with their their wives—which didn’t even begin to account what their mothers might say. Before he knows it, Rama is sure, he would find himself housing his entire family in the woods and he doesn’t even want to begin to speculate how enormous a cottage that would require. Surely more than he and Lakshmana could assemble in a single afternoon.

No, Rama decides, and a faint smile flickers across his face (as has been the case every other time he happens to remember the swell of his wife’s stomach; a cottage for three will so quite well enough.

2. So long as he remembers he has wanted to be King.

Wanted, perhaps, is not the right word; expected is better, and expected by everyone else better still—and yet even that doesn’t explain his readiness to give it all up for a single rumor.

Ravana, he knows with bone-deep assurance, had both wanted and expected to be King, craved it to maintain his conception of the world. All too easily Rama could become much the same, and he recoils from it. Ravana was a monster for many reasons, least of which was his ancestry; and Rama would not become his shadow, not for a kingdom that turned on his wife for no fault of her own. 

Not for a kingdom that wants him but does not need him, not the way it believes it does. 

3. As it happens he doesn’t need to build any sort of cottage at all. Rama, who is guiltily remembering that Lakshmana was far more successful at the brothers’ architectural ambitions he last time around is not a little relieved when they stumble, almost literally, upon the hermitage of a worn wary man who calls himself Valmiki.

“I am afraid,” Rama feels the need to confess, almost as soon as Valmiki’s invitation to stay is spoken, “that we—we come bearing scandal.”

Valmiki’s mouth quirks into a sudden grin, one that was once (as Rama will discover) the terror of travelers passing alongside this road. “Rest assured,” he replies, with such good humor Rama cannot refuse him, “that I am no stranger to scandal myself.”

4. Their warm welcome, it soon turns out, is due as much to their host’s kindness as to the fact that he is composing an epic on Rama’s exploits. Rama flushes to hear of it, and all the more to listen to line after line of his supposed virtues, but Sita laughs outright–and takes impish delight in suggesting all the more wilder exaggerations when asked by Valmiki to confirm the facts as she knows them.

“This bow,” Valmiki says, “by which your husband won your hand–”

“Six feet long,” Sita replies promptly, sketching out unrealistic dimensions with her hands, “and twice a man’s weight to draw.”

Rama groans. “Half a man’s. If that much.”

“Did I say six feet?” Sita very nearly manages not to giggle. “Surely I meant eight.”

“Eight?”

“Perhaps, dear daughter,” says the poet, straight-faced; “you might be mistaken. Ten seems far more likely.”

By the time that afternoon’s composing is complete, the bow is twelve feet and Rama utterly mortified–but Sita is laughing, and Valmiki humming with satisfaction, and Rama can bear a bit of mortification for that.

5. There are two boys, not one; the first already boasting a head of dark hair that stands upright like spikes of kusha grass, the second golden and grasping for his father’s finger.

Rama reels with the wonder of it, and all the more with the knowledge that he has a lifetime with them, years to watch them grow into the men they are meant to be. This must be what his father had always wanted for him, Dasharatha who had performed a thousand prayers for just that life. He would give up a hundred kingdoms for that, a thousand; he is certain–no matter how much news might trickle out from Ayodhya that its citizens still mourn their lost son, that its King swears to perform the Aswamedha Yagna in twelve years’ time, should he be reunited with its brother by its end. 

There are two boys, not one; and they are both perfect. Sita is well, and happy, and they have a home. 

Rama wants nothing more.

Rama & Sita for the 10 things!

This wound up being centered more around the Ramayana than fgo. Hope you like it!

Blood

It was not uncommon to spy Rama nursing some small hurt or wound; the first time he noticed the bright crimson on Sita’s feet and ankles he insisted upon carrying her the rest of the way.

Denial

He wept for hours, days even; begging the earth to open up and accept him as well.

Fan/Fandom

Though a master of many weapons himself, Rama would always be entranced by his wife’s focus as she drew back the string of her bow.

First/Last

Their love was the standard for the ages; no one was truly prepared for the sorrow which followed.

Illusion

Sita kept her gaze on the horizon and stubbornly ignored Ravana’s sweet words of poison; no matter what guise he took the demon could never hope to emulate her husband’s bearing.

Pastiche

There could be no question of who her children’s father was; both were lotus-eyed and the very image of the man their mother loved.

Present

“There is no need to reminisce about our days in the palace, we have each other in the here and now.”

Rescue

The feeling of her arms kept him from collapsing on the spot; every moment of hardship and bloodshed nothing compared to the joy of holding Sita once more.

Telepathy

In the garden, under the moonlight, they needed no words to speak as Rama submerged himself among the lotuses to watch Sita hunt for him.

Time Travel

She found him on the twelfth day of the fourth month, covered in leaves and dust from his tumble down the hill; teasing him that he’d trespassed onto her mother’s property about half a mile back.

jalilnajafov on ig