#indian carved door
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indiatrendzs · 1 day ago
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Reclaimed Rustic Wood Barn Doors & Farmhouse Décor – Timeless Elegance with Vintage Charm
Reclaimed rustic wood barn doors bring warmth and character to farmhouse interiors, blending seamlessly with vintage and modern elements. Salvaged arches repurposed as floor mirrors create a stunning focal point, especially when paired with plush upholstery, industrial chairs, and vintage white accents. A reclaimed old door coffee table and a fire console introduce rich textures to a modern…
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damodar-hd · 2 years ago
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mogulinterior4 · 11 days ago
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Saturated Hues of Vintage Furniture - www.mogulinterior.com
Rich, bold, and full of character—saturated hues of vintage furniture bring warmth and history to any space. Add timeless charm with handcrafted, vibrant pieces that tell a story of artistry and tradition. Explore unique finds.
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doorstyle · 26 days ago
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Unique Ganesh Wooden Main Door Designs for Every Home
Unique Ganesh Wooden Main Door Designs for Every Home
The main door is often regarded as the gateway to a home. It sets the tone for what lies inside. In Indian culture, it holds great significance, symbolising warmth, protection, and hospitality. Choosing a door that resonates with traditions while embracing modern styles can elevate the entrance of any home.
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Ganesh, the remover of obstacles and the deity of prosperity, adds an auspicious touch to home decor. Having his presence at the main door attracts positive energy and blessings. This article explores a variety of unique Ganesh wooden main door designs that can complement any home.
Traditional Ganesh Door Designs
Intricate Carvings and Detailed Depictions of Ganesh
Traditional Ganesh door designs are characterised by intricate carvings. Skilled artisans create detailed depictions of Ganesh, bringing him to life through fine woodwork. These designs often feature:
Beautiful facial expressions: Ganesh’s joyful countenance is intricately carved to radiate positivity.
Symbolic elements: Items like ladders and modaks (sweet dumplings) are often included, representing success and wealth.
Border designs: Intricate floral and geometric patterns frame the central image, enhancing its beauty.
Classic Styles: South Indian, North Indian, and Others
Different regions of India showcase varied styles of Ganesh doors.
South Indian designs often feature more ornate carvings, with gold leaf embellishments adding glamour.
North Indian styles are typically simpler but equally impactful, using straight lines and minimalist motifs.
Incorporating Traditional Motifs: Floral, Geometric, and Religious
These doors usually incorporate various motifs that are culturally significant. Common elements include:
Floral patterns: Often carved delicately into the wood, enhancing the door's aesthetic appeal.
Geometric shapes: These add a contemporary edge while maintaining traditional roots.
Religious symbols: Om, lotus, and other symbols can often be found, creating a holistic design theme.
Modern Ganesh Door Designs
Minimalist Interpretations of the Ganesh Theme
Modern interpretations lean towards minimalism, stripping down the traditional designs to highlight the essence of Ganesh. Features include:
Clean lines: Focusing on geometric simplicity while maintaining Ganesh's visage.
Subtle engravings: Instead of detailed carvings, slight engravings can give a modern twist.
Contemporary Materials and Finishes: Combining Wood with Other Materials
Today’s designs often blend different materials for a unique look. Common combinations include:
Wood and metal: A wooden base with metal accents gives a rustic yet modern vibe.
Glass elements: Incorporating glass panels enhances the light and gives the door a fresh look.
Fusion Styles: Blending Tradition with Modern Aesthetics
Fusion styles creatively mix traditional designs with modern concepts. These designs can feature:
Bold colours: Traditional Ganesh motifs painted in vibrant colours can make a striking statement.
Innovative shapes: Non-traditional door shapes can complement the Ganesh theme while standing out.
Customizing Your Ganesh Main Door
Choosing the Right Wood Type: Durability, Aesthetics, and Cost
Selecting the appropriate wood is essential for both durability and beauty. Common options include:
Teak: Known for its strength and resistance to weather.
Mahogany: Offers a rich finish and natural resistance to decay.
Pine: A budget-friendly option, easy to work with, and can be stained or painted.
Personalizing the Design: Incorporating Family Monograms or Personalized Elements
Adding personal touches makes your Ganesh door unique. Consider:
Family monograms: Incorporate your initials or family crest into the design.
Personal symbols: Choose motifs that represent your family values or personal beliefs.
Working with Skilled Craftsmen: Finding the Right Carpenter or Artisan
To ensure the best results, work with skilled artisans. Look for:
Recommendations: Ask friends or family for trusted craftsmen.
Portfolio: Review previous works to gauge their style and skills.
Feng Shui and Vastu Shastra Considerations
Optimizing Door Placement for Positive Energy Flow
According to Vastu Shastra, the main door's placement is vital. Ideal locations include:
East: Attracts morning sunlight and promotes positivity.
North: Linked with prosperity and wealth.
Auspicious Colors and Materials According to Vastu
Choosing the right colours and materials enhances energy flow. Recommended colours include:
Yellow: Symbolises happiness and warmth.
Green: Represents growth and harmony.
Integrating Ganesh's Placement for Enhanced Prosperity and Well-being
Placing a Ganesh idol near the door can amplify the positive energy. Ensure it faces inside to symbolize welcoming prosperity.
Maintaining Your Wooden Ganesh Door
Regular Cleaning and Maintenance Tips
To keep your door looking its best, follow these tips:
Dust regularly: Use a soft cloth to avoid scratching.
Use mild cleaners: Avoid harsh chemicals which can damage the finish.
Protecting the Wood from the Elements: Weatherproofing and Sealing
Weatherproofing is essential for longevity. Consider:
Sealants: Apply protective sealants to prevent moisture damage.
Covering: Use awnings or overhangs to shield the door from direct rain.
Repairing Minor Damages: Simple DIY Solutions and Professional Help
For minor repairs:
Fill scratches: Use wood filler for minor scratches and sand it smooth.
Call a pro: For major damages, it’s best to hire a professional.
Conclusion
Conclusion
Bring divine charm and timeless elegance to your home with Ganesh wooden main door designs, now available as digital files on Gumroad. These designs are not only easy to use but also versatile for various woodworking methods like laser cutting and CNC carving. For those who prefer a ready-to-install option, you’ll find some of the best and most affordable Ganesh door manufacturers on Indiamart. Elevate your entrance today with a blend of tradition and modern craftsmanship!
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mogulbohochic · 2 years ago
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Barn doors made from old Indian doors studded with brass and iron connect the air element to the earth, thereby grounding us and keeping our emotional state in balance, giving us courage and strength to our core Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/10396748
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leroibobo · 10 months ago
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the old town on lamu island in kenya is one of the oldest and best-preserved swahili settlements in east africa, having been founded in the 14th century, and - unlike many other swahili settlements - continuously inhabited since. historically, it served as an economic powerhouse, and today still lives as a cultural one. like swahili culture itself, its buildings mix architectural elements from cultures who've come in contact with the area, including bantu, arab, persian, indian, and european.
one of the most distinctive features of the old town's architecture - and swahili architecture in general - is the carved detailing on doors, which is usually done on wood. since carved doors were once considered a sign of wealth, many buildings in lamu old town have them. the patterns are often geometric and nature-inspired and sometimes contain religious inscriptions.
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whalesongsblog · 15 days ago
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okay I wrote some angst earlier and this plot bunny hit me like a freight train 😭 it’s so ridiculously sappy but tbh it balances the scales.
Featuring: found family trope, girldad Ominis, and Mira being a cool mom
You and I, Always
“Where on earth could she possibly be?”
Ominis’ voice lilts upwards in faux concern, his footsteps soft against the marbled floors of the extravagant bedroom he shares with his wife.
The heat of the Indian summer hangs in the air, a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony doors, ruffling the sheer curtains. The saccharine scent of ripe fruit weighing heavy on the trees outside mingles with petrichor- the faint promise of a summer storm.
The prince consort of the Surya empire turns slowly in a half circle, head tilted to one side, his wand sending out pulses of red light. He pretends not to hear the muffled giggle from beneath the intricately carved desk sitting against the high, gilded mirror, but steps closer to it, his ears catching the shuffling of little feet.
“Could she be out on the balcony?” He flicks his wand, and a wind sweeps up, whirling the scattered leaves in rushing circles. “Hm.. apparently not.”
This time, the peal of giggles is far too obvious, and the source of said giggles seems to know it too, because the room goes silent after that.
No matter. He can play a little longer.
“Did I just… hear something?” He injects curiosity into his voice, a hint of mischief. “I could have sworn I heard a little mouse moving about somewhere-“
His wand catches a little blur of movement under the desk, a last- ditch scramble for escape. “Accio!”
His daughter gives a squeak of surprise as she zooms into his arms, flailing. Ominis catches her easily, hoisting her up into the air, a grin brightning his features as she laughs hysterically, squirming in his grip. 
“Caught you.” He brings her down to his chest, marvelling at how small she is, how his heart seems to burst with love whenever he holds her in his arms. “What were you doing, you little terror? Trying to hide away and scare your mother?”
His little girl gasps, and rears away like the very idea of causing any sort of distress to her mother is unthinkable.
Miradevi had settled on the name Chandra for their baby- A Sanskrit word referencing the moon, which was an homage to her culture and to Noctua all in one breath.
“No!” Her protest is earnest as she wraps her short arms around his neck, holding on like a little koala. “I was trying to scare you!”
A laugh bubbles out of Ominis as he holds her tight. Nothing on the planet could convince him to let go of her. “Oh, well that’s alright then. As long as it’s me and not your mother, hm?”
She’s lost interest by now, squirming in his grip. The culprit for her stolen attention stands in the doorway, amused, and Ominis feels the familiar swooping sensation in his stomach that usually accompanies the presence of his wife.
“Miradevi.” His voice is soft, almost reverent. Like soundwaves, his magic pulses outwards, gathers up the image of Mira standing there, tall and regal, before projecting it back to him. “My darling-“
“Well, it seems like you two are having quite a lot of fun without me.” Mira catches onto the playful energy with ease, making her voice a little singsongy, a little evil. Their daughter stills, anticipation at this new game making her eyes go a bit wide. Miradevi walks into the room, carefully, and Ominis goes along happily with the act.
Ever since the birth of their child, his inner thespian has suddenly blossomed.
“What are you going to do about it, princess?” He challenges, and his daughter gives him an incredulous look, marveling at her father’s misplaced show of bravery.
“I think… I’m going to steal this sneaky little mouse and keep her all to myself!” Miradevi makes a show of lunging for Chandra and she gives a little shriek, but throws herself quite willingly into her mother’s arms. Ominis gasps dramatically but lets her go, shooting his wife a quick wink. Or, at least- a close sembelance of one. 

“Traitor.” He mutters, listening to Miradevi and Chandra dissolving into soft giggles together. She was her mother’s daughter, through and through- a carbon copy of the woman he loves, allegedly. Whenever Sebastian graces the empire with a visit, he marvels at how much his little niece looks like her mother. But Ominis knows that she has his beauty marks, his nose, and, occasionally, his dry wit- which is sometimes jarring to hear from a five year old.
“Chandra-“ Miradevi says softly, nuzzling her nose against her daughter’s soft face. “- you have your lessons soon, don’t you?” Her voice is honey- sweet, coaxing. She needs every ounce of it, since Chandra displayed her dislike of that revelation with a solemn pout, burying her face in the crook of her mother’s neck.
“I don’t want to.”
Miradevi shoots a look at Ominis, who knows exactly what to do. Approaching his wife with a glint in his moonstone eyes, the prince consort wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her closer. 

“Very well. You don’t have to go to lessons, but you should know-“ he brushes his lips against Mira’s ear, already noticing the way Chandra stiffens in horror. “- I was going to spend the entire day telling your mother how much I love her. Isn’t that right, my sunshine?”
Miradevi puts on her best gooey voice as Chandra tries to squirm away from her grip. “Of course, my darling.” She coos. “Since Chandra doesn’t want to go to her lessons, she’ll just have to sit around and hear us talking about kissing-“
“Ew!” With a look of mortification and a determined wriggle, their daughter slips out of Miradevi’s grasp, rushing for the tall double doors that lead out to the hallways of the palace.
The bodyguard standing there, waiting, has a decent amount of experience dealing with the children of the Surya- Lakshmi family, having looked after princes Arjun and Bharat, princess Mira, and now, her daughter. He tries, and fails, sometimes, to not get emotional about the circle of life he bears witness to.
Mira laughs, leaning closer to Ominis as he winds both arms around her. The scent of bergamot, of expensive cologne hangs over her as she settles into her husbands’ arms.
“Please ensure that she gets to the study rooms safely, Ravi.” Mira says, amusement in her voice. “And don’t let her run off to the kitchens.”
“Yes, your highness.” Duty bound and proud of it, Ravi bows, scooping up Chandra in his arms. “I shall bring her right back.” He fixes Chandra with a stern look which would have been effective if he wasn’t prone to bending to every little whim of hers. “No detours.”
He turns to Ominis and gives him a short bow as well, despite the fact that it would go unseen. “My prince.” He turns swiftly on his heel and with as much dignity as he can muster with a child in his arms, he stalks down the hallways to deliver the little princess to her long- suffering schoolmaster.
Mira watches Ravi leave as the doors swing shut. Before she can turn to Ominis, a tease ready on her tongue, she is scooped into his arms with a surprised yelp. A dangerous smile curls across his handsome features, and the princess laughs breathlessly as he spins her around, before capturing her lips with his.
A soft sigh escapes her as she relaxes against his touch, against the grip of his large hand splayed on her back, his other cupping her face. Outside, the humidity reaches a breaking point and thunder rolls across the skies. Mira pulls away from her husband with a soft, delighted gasp as she rushes to the balcony, Ominis hot on her heels.
“Abandoning me over some rain, my love?” His words are teasing, a hint of a growl in his tone.
“Oh, never.” Mira tugs him closer. “In fact, I was just about to suggest a little walk.”
Ominis can’t contain his surprise at the request. He can hear the way it’s picking up, the patter of drops against the stone. “What? Now?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, meri jaan?”
She knows what that term of endearment does to him, and it’s horribly unfair how quickly he folds. Within a few minutes, the princess and the prince consort of the Surya empire are standing out in the courtyard, giggling like schoolchildren, as a handful of their bemused security team watch on. Ominis hears his wife’s soft laugh, feels the rain on his skin, catches the scent of jasmine and wet earth.
His wife. His daughter. His mother and father in law, his brothers in law.
His family.
Ominis blinks, realizing it’s not rain that tracks slowly down his face, and Miradevi notices it too. 
“Niss?” She asks, hesitant. “Pyaare, is everything alright?”
Ominis nods, unable to speak for a moment. All he can do is pull her into a searing kiss, and pour every ounce of emotion into it. His joy, his gratitude, his love.
“Thank you.” He manages, voice rough. “For everything you’ve given me. For our child, for this family-“
“Please.” There is a waver in her voice as well, now. “It wasn’t me. It’s us. It was always us, Ominis. You and I, making this life together, putting everything we have into choosing joy.”
A profound peace settes into every cracked fragment of his heart, soothing old wounds he had once thought he’d carry forever, raw and bleeding. He allows his wife to lead him towards the gardens, where he knows he’ll steal as many kisses as he can behind the intricately carved stone statues. 

“You and I, princess.” He murmurs, his hand in hers- exactly where he belonged. “Always.”
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AN: MY SHAYLASSS 😭😭😭 I GIGGLED AND KICKED MY FEET AND GOT EMOTIONAL WHILE WRITING THIS
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gay-mirrorball · 1 year ago
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happy diwali to all those who celebrate! here’s a lil something for the jegulus readers <3
jegulus au - diwali
Diwali, the festival of lights, has always held a special place in James’ heart. The air feels like love and festivities. It’s full of joy; joy he wants his lover to experience too.
As they exit the uber they took from the airport, James watches Regulus look up at the Potter house. It’s an ancestral property, maintained to perfection, draped in lights of various colours. The grass in the front yard is trimmed and the entrance to the door sparkling clean.
When the doors open to let them in, they are met with what must be at least half of the Potter family, piling on to hug and greet them. Regulus laughs that startled laugh of his and it’s music to James��� ears.
Every hallway is lit with lights and diyas and candles, adorned with flowers and rangolis. James watches Regulus take it all in with awe on his face and thinks that he might just be falling in love all over again.
But if he thought Regulus had him mesmerised before, it’s nothing compared to the sight of him in traditional clothing. Dressed in a purple kurta, which brings out his eyes, Regulus is a sight to behold.
And if that weren’t enough to make James question if he has died and reached heaven, Regulus stepped out into the lights in the balcony. Blue and purple, pink and green, all colours reflect on his chiseled face, making James go weak in the knees.
Regulus hasn’t even touched him yet and he already has James dazed.
“Take a picture of me, love,” Regulus requests and James thinks that if he asked him to carve his heart of his chest and put it in his palm, he’d do that too, without any hesitation.
As Regulus poses for a picture, James thinks about how, even if the camera didn’t work, he could probably paint this from memory. Regulus Black in traditional Indian clothing, glowing under the assortment of lights hung overhead, is not a sight that could be forgotten.
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indigokashmir · 1 year ago
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Tropical Living. A home in Cartagena, Colombia.
Home of jewellery designer Chiqui de Echavarría.
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A sitting area is centered around an Indonesian rattan sofa bed, complemented by a Moroccan bench, a Turkish pouf, and sconces designed by Juan Montoya.
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Entrance: In the entrance hall, an Italian church altar dating back to the 17th century serves as a focal point, adorned with Moroccan candlesticks and an antique vase from Indonesia. An Indian mirror, an Indonesian ceramic planter, and a Moroccan carved wooden door and pendant contribute to the eclectic atmosphere. The flooring boasts antique Colombian mosaic tiles, while a 17th-century church pedestal stands as a wooden sculpture.
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The staircase banister showcases the intricate handiwork of a local artisan, while the pendant lighting is of Moroccan origin. Adding a touch of cultural flair, the tapestry adorning the space is a suzani from Central Asia.
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A sofa bed from Indonesia takes center stage, adorned with batik pillows and an ikat. The accompanying teak bench and cocktail table also hail from Indonesia, while an Art Deco armchair from Colombia adds a distinctive touch. Completing the ensemble, the fiber-and-leather rugs are crafted by Mamayana.
Photography by Ricardo Labougle, all photos via  Elledecor. 
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myhauntedsalem · 11 months ago
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Big Nose Kate, The Shady Ladies and The 1880’s Bordellos
In 1881, Tombstone, population of around 5000 inhabitants, supported 110 saloons and fourteen 24 hour gambling halls. It is no wonder that “the red light women” or The Shady Ladies (Big Nose Kate pictured at left, seated, and sister, standing. Older Kate right, below.) practicing the world’s oldest profession, were among the first to arrive, and the most welcomed, in the mining camp.
Some of the women were part-time entertainers, hoping to strike it rich; some enjoyed their work, while others did it just for the money. For most, it was the only avenue to survival. The more acceptable trades for women, such as seamstress, cook or laundress, paid only the lowest of wages. Without a man to take care of her, a woman’s choice was often that of scandal or suicide. Though considered by most to be sinful, these women chose survival and were proud, rugged, and independent.
An attractive, pleasant woman soon learned that she could name her price. Some worked at local theatres and dance halls. The older and less attractive women worked on the street, in the saloons where they were paid a percentage for caging drinks from the customers, or in the cribs.
Prostitution was legal in Tombstone as long as the proper city license for the business of “House of Ill Fame” was purchased. Revenue collected from the sale of these licenses was, for many years, the sole source of financial support for Tombstone’s schools. Although considered to be a profession of sin, large contributions helped to build area churches, and during times of illness, the parlor houses not only housed the sick, but the girls provided their care. (Madame Blonde Marie at left)
A crib, consisting of one room, approximately 10×8, constructed from rough lumber with a tin roof, was the worst place to work. To ensure that her customers could find her, the woman’s name was painted on the door. The cribs were rented to prostitutes at a price of $3 per day, payable in advance. The rooms were sparsely furnished and arranged for a quick turnover. The customer removed only his hat! The customers were miners, laborers, soldiers, and a very few cowboys, as Tombstone was a mining camp. On payday it was not unusual for a girl to entertain as many as 70 men. Disease, alcoholism and drug addiction were her destiny. The fees were typically: Chinese, Negro, Indian 25 cents Mexican 50 cents French 75 cents American $1.00.
The parlor houses were of various designs, however, all required PAYMENT IN ADVANCE and posted the sign SATISFACTION GUARANTEED OR MONEY REFUNDED. Due to local restrictions, the parlor houses were located in the same area as the cribs. In sharp contrast, the parlor houses were furnished with carved furniture, red velvet drapes, full length mirrors, exotic paintings, and deep soft rugs. Most were two stories.
The first floor was usually a saloon where drinking, dancing, and gambling took place. These customers were served by young, attractive maids and a uniformed butler. The girls would line up for the customer to make his choice. The madam was paid and the man escorted upstairs to one of the elaborately and lavishly decorated private rooms. The standard fee was $10; overnight cost up to $30. Young women of exceptional beauty and older women with special skills or well known passionate ability demanded higher prices. The madam took half of the girls’ fees as well as $5-$20 room and board per week depending on the times.
During the California gold rush, the brass or bronze check for the house came into use. It was the standard token. The check was purchased from the madam and presented to the girl who would cash in the checks for payment. Each house accommodated between 5 and 30 girls who could make up to $150 per week. In comparison, miners made only $3 for a 12 hour shift!
The hours of operation were noon to daybreak, and the girls got 1 day a week off. Huge profits were made from the sale of beer, whiskey, wine, and champagne. The competition was fierce. Most madams allowed their girls to pass out business cards with the girl’s name and the house’s address. Others were allowed to sell nude photos of themselves in unusual poses. Most were known only by nickname, both to protect their families and in the hopes of marrying respectably in the future.
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indiatrendzs · 9 days ago
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Blending Eclectic Maximalism with Farmhouse Charm: Mogul Interior Nature-Carved Doors
Imagine stepping into a space where rustic farmhouse aesthetics meet the bold, vibrant world of eclectic maximalism. At the heart of this captivating design fusion are Mogul Interior’s exquisite nature-carved doors, bringing a touch of organic beauty and spiritual symbolism to your home.The Eclectic Maximalist Farmhouse celebrates individuality and creativity by layering diverse elements to…
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beyralxoxo · 7 days ago
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{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}
Chapter 4-Gloria Ad Venerem: Glory to Venus
SUMMARY: Tillotama is getting ready for her performance, Hanno sees her again and gods help him, she is even more beautiful up close. She makes it her goal to show him her respect towards him, and he is taken aback by her even standing this close to him. She then performs but our courtesan has her own wishes...
PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC
WORD COUNT: 8K
WARNINGS: none really-some swear words
The golden rays of the morning sun seeped through the embroidered curtains, casting dappled shadows upon the polished marble floor. Tillotama stirred beneath the silken sheets, her mismatched eyes—one a deep, fathomless brown, the other a radiant amber—flickering open. The opulence surrounding her was undeniable. Gilded columns, carved screens adorned with intricate patterns, the soft fragrance of incense curling through the air—it was a world that whispered of power, of kingdoms that could crumble with a single word.
Yet, it felt like a gilded cage.
A soft hum escaped her lips as she stretched, her arms reaching above her head. So this is my life now... The thought draped over her like a heavy cloak, settling into the hollow of her chest. She would wake in a foreign land, walk through corridors of marble that reeked of ambition and influence, and dance for men whose eyes held the fate of empires. It was all decided—her destiny etched in stone, sealed with blood.
Before the weight of her thoughts could consume her, the doors to her chamber swung open with a sharp creak.
A whirlwind of silk and laughter entered—the ladies-in-waiting.
Kinjal, poised as ever, her eyes like those of a hawk, sharp and ever watchful. Chanchal, the mischievous one, already grinning, as though she were privy to some secret that would scandalize the court. Mataangi, bold and unrestrained, her confidence as reckless as the winds that tore through battlefields. And Bulbul, the youngest, soft-hearted, still clinging to the last remnants of innocent dreams in a world that was anything but innocent.
Their jewelry jangled as they moved, a chorus of sound that only heightened the feeling of waiting.
Chanchal plopped herself down beside Tillotama, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You look grumpy, Tillo,” she teased, her voice light and carefree.
Tillotama exhaled slowly, forcing a smile to her lips. “Today is the day I perform.”
Mataangi rolled her eyes, sprawling across the divan like a lioness basking in the sun. “You know, we could just kill the guards and help you escape,” she said with a lazy drawl.
Bulbul let out a horrified squeak. “M-Maybe let’s not do that, huh?” Her wide eyes darted nervously to the door, as if expecting an assassin to burst forth at any moment.
Kinjal, ever practical, arched an eyebrow. “At this hour? Murder is inconvenient, and I’ve just washed my hair.”
Tillotama chuckled, shaking her head. “I love you all.”
A comfortable silence settled among them, the shared bond of sisterhood a silent, unspoken promise that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.
Then Kinjal clapped her hands. “Enough of this sentimental nonsense. Up you get. You have Rome to conquer.”
Tillotama groaned but obeyed, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The silk of her nightgown pooled at her feet, its weight pressing against the marble. She stretched once more, inhaling the day that had already begun.
Rome awaited.
And whether it knew it or not, Rome would never be the same.
Tillotama stood still, her nightgown slipping from her shoulders like a whispered secret. The air around her was thick with the mingling scents of jasmine, rose, and sandalwood. The stone bath shimmered before her, its water dotted with rose petals, the delicate fragrance of jasmine mixing with the heat of the room.
Without a second thought, she stepped into the water, the warmth of it swallowing her whole. She sank beneath the surface, her body becoming weightless, her mind temporarily freed from the weight of her world. When she emerged, her dark hair slicked against her back, she wiped the water from her face, exhaling slowly.
The girls sat around her, their eyes soft but expectant.
"Your aunt has already told us what you should wear for the performance," Mataangi said, her voice holding an edge of reluctant compliance.
Tillotama frowned, brushing stray petals from her shoulder. "Next time I speak to her, I'll probably have to ask permission to breathe."
Kinjal chuckled lowly, shaking her head. "We did take the clothes she picked out, but we certainly didn’t prepare them." She smiled. "We know you too well to dress you in that nonsense."
Tillotama smirked to herself, running her finger through the water. "Good," she murmured. "Because I already know what I’ll wear."
Bulbul, ever the gentle one, leaned forward and began pulling the damp rose petals from Tillotama’s hair. "And what will you wear?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
Tillotama’s smile deepened, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Bulbul blinked, confused.
Chanchal, however, gasped in realization, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. "Oh—oh! I know what she’s going to wear!" She turned to the others, pointing dramatically at Tillotama like a scholar unveiling a grand secret.
Mataangi grinned, lounging back. "If she’s this excited, it must be something scandalous."
Kinjal’s smirk matched the others. "Or something dangerously clever."
Tillotama leaned back, stretching her arms along the marble edge of the bath. “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.
The girls exchanged knowing glances. Whatever Tillotama had planned, it would be nothing short of legendary.
Meanwhile, in the underbelly of Rome, another day began in a far less graceful manner.
For Hanno, it began with a bucket of water to the face.
The cold shock hit him like a brutal strike, jolting him from the depths of sleep. Water streamed down his face, dripping onto the cold stone floor of his cell.
Laughter echoed from the hall beyond the bars.
"Wake up, barbarian," a voice sneered, thick with amusement.
Hanno took a slow, measured breath, suppressing the instinct to react. He had learned long ago that Rome craved a reaction, and he had sworn never to give them that satisfaction.
Instead, he rose from his cot, his movements deliberate, slow, as though the world itself was beneath him. He stepped in line with the other gladiators, each one an instrument of war, standing like weapons on display in the narrow corridor. The scent of sweat, steel, and blood filled the air—heaven for the hungry, hell for the damned.
Hanno stretched his neck, his sharp gaze fixed ahead, unreadable.
Then came the voice that he had grown accustomed to despising.
"Barbarian!" the guard spat, his voice laced with scorn, echoing through the stone halls.
Hanno sighed inwardly, his patience unwavering as he stepped forward.
The guard, a stout man who had never tasted death's cold embrace, squared his shoulders and glared up at him, attempting to assert some semblance of dominance.
Hanno, ever the predator, barely acknowledged him. His eyes remained cold, calculating, as though deciding whether this particular prey was worth the hunt.
"You have work to do, barbarian," the guard sneered. "The Caesar’s whore needs her guard."
Hanno’s fists clenched, but only for a moment. The insult was not to him—it was to her.
They spoke of her in the most despicable ways.
She did not belong to this world of power and conquest. She was not some trinket to be traded, some object to be owned. No, she was something far grander—something untouched by the darkness that ran through these streets, something far more sacred. Something to be prayed to.
To speak of her in such a way... it stirred something in him.
The guard chuckled darkly, sensing a flicker of restraint. "Oh? Did I strike a nerve, barbarian? Do you—"
Before he could finish, another voice, smooth as silk, cut through the tension.
"Lord," Ravi interjected, stepping forward with the calm grace of one who had mastered the art of diplomacy. "Perhaps it would be unwise to provoke a man who could sever your head from your body before you could even scream."
The guard stiffened, but his fingers twitched toward the whip at his waist. Hanno barely noticed.
His mind, once sharp and focused on survival, was clouded. Why did she unsettle him? What was it about her that roused this strange feeling of... protectiveness?
The guard shoved him forward, snapping him from his thoughts. "Move. The princess is waiting."
Hanno inhaled sharply, forcing the strange thoughts aside. Whatever this was—a fleeting desire to shield her from the world’s cruelty—was nothing more than a passing notion.
But as he made his way toward Tillotama’s chambers, the unsettled feeling gnawed at him.
Tillotama, still unaware of the thoughts of the gladiator, dressed in her finest attire and, with her ladies in waiting, walked toward the main chambers for prayer. The doors to the great hall opened to reveal her mother, aunt, and sisters waiting for her.
As she entered, she smoothed the folds of her saree, her eyes falling upon Bhumi, who ran toward her, her tiny legs carrying her with such excitement.
“Tillo!” Bhumi cried, her voice bright. “Did you know there’s a big fountain? And I can feed the doves?”
Tillotama’s heart softened, and she smiled gently as Bhumi clung to her legs. Rambha approached, chuckling lightly. “She’s been feeding those poor birds since dawn.”
Ezhili, ever the practical one, nodded. “They’ll burst sooner or later.”
Tillotama laughed softly, her heart lightening as she listened to her sisters tease Bhumi. It was a fleeting moment of warmth before the weight of the day’s demands would take over once again.
Korravai’s voice sliced through the room like a cold wind, sharp and commanding, a silent demand for compliance. “We have been waiting for you, Tillotama.”
Tillotama’s eyes met her aunt's, and the smile that had graced her lips faltered for a mere second. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Her mismatched gaze—a deep, rich brown paired with a molten amber—held steady, though the weight of the world seemed to shift upon her shoulders. I arrived, haven’t I? she thought, her thoughts wrapped in both defiance and quiet resignation. Her voice, however, betrayed nothing of the battle within. “I arrived, haven’t I?”
Korravai’s sharp sigh seemed to pierce the air, her jaw clenching with restrained frustration, but before tension could consume the moment, Amrapali’s soft voice floated through like a breeze, gentle and soothing.
“You look beautiful, sweetling,” Amrapali said, her words caressing the air with a tenderness that was an oasis amid the storm. Her eyes sparkled with affection, and a soft smile adorned her lips, a maternal warmth that eased the sharpness of Korravai’s presence.
Tillotama’s lips curved upward in a faint, yet sincere smile. “Thank you, Ammi,” she whispered, her voice a soft murmur, wrapped in warmth for the woman who had always been a haven amidst the tempest.
Korravai, unwilling to soften her stance, shook her head in exasperation. “Tillotama, sit down. The prayer is about to start,” she commanded, her voice cold and brittle, as though no room existed for anything but duty.
With a silent nod, Tillotama moved to take her seat, her every movement a study in grace. She smoothed her saree with delicate hands, the luxurious fabric flowing like liquid silk beneath her touch. She flicked her braid over her shoulder, casting a final glance over her shoulder as she settled in, each inch of her seeming to speak of poise, of nobility. The air in the room felt heavy with expectancy, as though the very walls held their breath in anticipation of the moment about to unfold.
The prayer began.
Tillotama closed her eyes, her breath deepening, slowing to the rhythm of the sacred words that filled the chamber. The melody of the chant wrapped around her like an embrace, soft and soothing. Each word was a thread in the tapestry of her spirit, knitting peace where chaos had once resided. In the sanctity of this prayer, she sought refuge, quieting the turmoil of her heart, hoping—praying—that she wouldn’t lose herself in the fire that was Rome. The prayer filled the air, and she hummed softly along, her mind settling like still waters, her soul a mirror reflecting the purity of the moment.
But just as she sank further into the melody, a sudden shift in the air broke her reverie. The heavy doors to the chamber groaned open with an unmistakable creak, their sound jagged against the flow of prayer. A figure entered, and with him, an unfamiliar tension.
Hanno.
The guards, their presence as cold and uncaring as ever, shoved him into the room, their boots thudding on the floor like a drumbeat heralding an unwelcome interruption. Pompeia, quick as ever, stepped forward, her posture as straight as an arrow. Her sharp gaze flickered over the scene, immediately reading the disturbance with practiced ease.
“Have you no mind at all?” Pompeia’s voice was like the crack of thunder in a silent sky, sharp and commanding, though there was a subtle warmth woven into the reprimand. “My lady is praying. It is unwise to disturb such a moment.”
The guards shrank back under her gaze, muttering apologies as they shuffled out, their footfalls echoing down the corridor, leaving only the silent reverence of the room in their wake.
Pompeia let out a sigh, but her eyes never left Hanno. And Hanno, despite his usual steel-hard composure, was not looking at her. No, his gaze was fixed elsewhere.
On Tillotama.
For a moment, the world seemed to slow around Hanno. His breath caught in his chest as his eyes fell upon her—her figure, bathed in the soft golden light of the chamber, her face serene and untouched by the world’s cruelty. There was a purity to her that stole his breath, a quiet grace that seemed to belong to another realm entirely, one untouched by the blood and dust of Rome. She was like a distant star, hanging in the heavens, beautiful and unattainable. His heart thudded in his chest, a violent, reckless pulse that he had no power to control.
In that moment, Hanno felt as though he were gazing upon the very heart of the universe. She was more than flesh, more than bone. She was light, she was fire, she was the embodiment of everything sacred that this wretched city of Rome had long forgotten. Her presence was an oasis in a desert of stone and blood, her calm a stark contrast to the violent world he inhabited.
She was a goddess.
He swallowed, his throat dry, as though he were standing at the edge of a precipice, gazing into a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. Her beauty was not the beauty of a woman, not the beauty of someone simply existing in the world. No, she was the kind of beauty that stopped time itself, the kind of beauty that made the very stars dim in comparison. He could not look away. He didn’t want to look away.
She was a paradox—a delicate bloom in a war-torn land. A flame, untouched by the cold winds that howled through the streets. She was not of Rome, not of this empire of death. She was beyond it all, a sanctuary of innocence in a world that knew only sin.
And in that moment, Hanno realized something. He was not merely looking at her. He was worshipping her. His heart, his very soul, had knelt before her, recognizing the divine within her, recognizing the purity that was almost too much for him to bear.
Pompeia’s voice—soft, teasing—shattered his reverie.
“Come, boy. Stand here,” she said, her voice laced with a gentle amusement as she glanced over at him, her eyes catching the flicker of something in his gaze. She saw it—the reverence. The awe. The silent, unspoken devotion that pulsed in his every movement. She knew he had been caught. She smiled faintly at his response, and the gentle pressure of her voice brought him back to reality.
Hanno’s head dropped, his eyes still burning with that impossible, unbearable ache. He followed Pompeia’s lead, moving to her side with deliberate slowness, the weight of his thoughts pulling at him like a storm. His steps, though careful, felt as though they were leading him further into a labyrinth of desires he couldn’t even begin to understand. His gaze, almost imperceptibly, flickered back toward Tillotama, his soul silently reaching for her, even though the distance between them was far greater than any mere physical space.
He stood beside Pompeia, but his mind, his heart, was still in that room with her.
Tillotama. The flame. The star. The goddess.
She was untouchable. And yet, all he could do was stand there, silently worshipping the space she occupied in the world.
The prayer, a sacred melody whispered through the chambers, faded into the stillness of the room. The last notes of devotion clung to the air like a soft breath, lingering with a serenity that only the divine could impart. Tillotama, seated before the statue of Saraswati, her eyes closed in silent reverence, arranged the garlands delicately, weaving them into the offering that would grace the goddess’s feet. The soft rustle of petals and the scent of jasmine filled the space around her, offering peace, a fleeting reprieve from the chaos of her own thoughts.
But peace, it seemed, was a luxury she could not hold onto for long.
A gentle, teasing nudge at her shoulder broke her reverie. At first, she didn’t react, simply humming as if nothing had disturbed her. It was only when the nudge came again—slightly more insistent—that she turned, a frown of confusion creasing her brow.
There, standing beside her, was Chanchal, her lips curled into a mischievous smirk, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and secret knowledge. “You have a secret admirer, Tillo,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with the weight of unspoken meaning.
Tillotama blinked, her fingers faltering for a moment as she held the garland. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, her tone more puzzled than anything else. Surely, her attention had been too focused on the prayer, on the simplicity of the moment, to notice anything out of the ordinary.
Before Chanchal could answer, Mataangi, ever the one to cut through the haze of uncertainty, approached with her usual directness. “You mean to tell me,” she said, her eyes flashing with humor, “you didn’t see your own guard making an appearance?”
Tillotama’s brow furrowed, and she turned toward Mataangi with a confused shake of her head. “My guard? W-what do you—”
And then, just as suddenly as a thunderclap, her voice faltered, the words dying on her lips. She turned toward the entrance, her eyes locking onto the figure standing just beyond the threshold.
Hanno.
His presence was a quiet thing, like the calm before a storm, yet it filled the room completely. His head was bowed, and there was a reverence in his posture, as though he stood not just as a man, but as something more. Something humble, yet heavy with purpose.
Tillotama’s heart skipped a beat, her breath faltering. There was a strange softness in her gaze as she took him in—his broad shoulders, the strong lines of his form, the way he stood with an air of quiet respect, as though he was honoring something much greater than the mere duties of a guard.
It unsettled her. She could not find the words to describe what she felt. There was something about him, something that tugged at her—something that reached deep inside her and made her pulse quicken.
His gaze remained fixed on the floor, but still, it felt like he saw her. His quiet, composed stance carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts, his silence speaking louder than any words could.
Kinjal’s laugh—light, knowing, and teasing—shattered the moment, pulling Tillotama back to herself. “You are interested, I see,” Kinjal murmured with a playful gleam in her eye.
Tillotama, startled by the sudden shift in atmosphere, shrugged her shoulders and forced a smile. “Interested?” she echoed softly, but the teasing tone of her voice was betrayed by the flutter in her chest that she couldn’t shake.
“Of course not,” she continued, attempting to brush away the attention with a nonchalant gesture, as if she could bury the surge of unexpected feelings beneath the weight of her usual indifference. “I’m just—”
But the words died in her throat as she stood, her gaze flickering back to Hanno, now standing with quiet poise by the door. There was something about the way he carried himself that she couldn’t quite explain, something that tugged at the very core of her. And when their eyes met, even for the briefest of moments, her breath hitched, as if the air itself had thickened with an unspoken understanding.
She smiled softly to herself, though she quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.
Before anyone could press further, Tillotama turned, feigning casualness as she stood to her feet, her soft silk saree flowing around her like the petals she had just arranged for the goddess. She moved quickly, as though the pace of her steps could outrun the thoughts that were beginning to crowd her mind.
Chanchal’s voice, full of playful mockery, followed her retreating figure. “Oh, you’re going to run away from it now? Tillo, you’re practically glowing.”
Tillotama tossed a glance over her shoulder, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in her cheeks, the flicker of something in her chest that she couldn't quite explain. “I’m not running,” she said, her voice light, but there was a telltale tremor in the words that betrayed her calm exterior. “I’m simply… getting some air.”
Her ladies in waiting laughed softly, their eyes glinting with the quiet knowledge of something far deeper than any prayer or garland could convey. Tillotama could feel their gazes on her, like gentle prodding fingers, but it did little to soothe the strange sensation that had bloomed inside her.
With a slight shake of her head, she tried to compose herself, walking toward the garden with her usual poise, though her mind seemed lightyears away from the serenity of the prayer she had just offered. Her footsteps fell softly against the marble, and she could feel their eyes on her—on the way she walked, on the faintest trace of a smile that lingered on her lips.
Her heart fluttered in a strange rhythm, her pulse quickened in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.
And as she moved through the chambers, the image of Hanno—head bowed, reverent, quietly watching her with the weight of something deeper than just duty—lingered in her mind. It haunted her, like a whisper at the edge of her consciousness.
Perhaps there was more to him than a simple guard. Perhaps there was something in his gaze, in the way he stood, that called to her in ways she could not yet understand.
Tillotama found herself glancing back once more, but Hanno had not moved. His stillness seemed like an invitation, an unspoken promise that there was more beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered.
And for the first time in a long while, Tillotama didn’t know what to think. She only knew that, somehow, the world had shifted, and it was no longer just Rome she was bound to. It was him—this silent, reverent figure who had stolen her attention without a single word.
She smiled again, this time for herself.
Korravai’s presence was a storm that shook the very air around her. The coldness she carried with her was palpable, a chill that seemed to seep into the room itself. As she approached, her eyes were like daggers—sharp, unrelenting, and icy. Her voice, when it came, was as hard and unyielding as a mountain. “Today is the day you prove your worth, Tillotama,” she said, her words heavy with expectation. “Today, our lives are in your hands. If the emperors find fault with you, if they turn their backs on their gift, we will all fall into danger. Don’t let that happen.”
Tillotama met her aunt's gaze, the weight of her words pressing down on her like a thousand stones. The moment felt like a battlefield, and she was the only soldier standing in its midst. Her voice was steady, though, betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside. “It’s not the first time I’ve been put in this situation,” she replied softly, her tone almost detached.
Korravai’s lips twisted into a sharp, disappointed line. She shook her head, her gaze narrowing like a hawk ready to strike. “That does not make you better or more experienced, Tillotama.”
Tillotama turned her head slightly, her eyes flickering to the side. She couldn’t bear the weight of her aunt’s gaze any longer. A sigh escaped her lips, an exhale that carried the burden of unspoken words. Korravai’s disappointment was a living, breathing thing, pressing in from all sides.
Without another word, Korravai turned on her heel, her coldness radiating out like a wave. She called for Tillotama’s mother and sisters to follow, her movements deliberate and precise, as though ensuring that no one would disrupt Tillotama in her moment of solitude.
Tillotama remained where she stood, the quiet of the room enveloping her like a thick, suffocating fog. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to steady her racing thoughts. The weight of Korravai’s words clung to her like a cloak made of iron, heavy and unyielding. She needed to let go, if only for a moment.
Kinjal’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and laced with annoyance. “How sweet is she, eh? Amazing motivator,” she quipped, her sarcasm a balm for the tension that hung in the air.
Mataangi, ever the firebrand, snorted. “I swear, if she talks like that again, I’ll choke her with her own adorments.”
Tillotama chuckled softly despite herself, the sound faint, but real. “Then she would come back to haunt us,” she said, the words escaping her lips without thought. It was true, though. Korravai had a way of weaving her presence into the very fabric of their lives, always present, always watching.
Chanchal, ever the one to lighten the mood, patted Tillotama’s arm gently. “The food is served, Tillo,” she said, her voice warm and soothing. “You need to eat, not think about this demon.”
Tillotama smiled faintly, a small, private thing that barely touched her eyes. She had to admit, the thought of food was comforting. It was something tangible, something she could control. She let out a quiet hum, agreeing, as she moved toward the table. Her ladies-in-waiting followed her, their movements fluid and familiar, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only slightly.
As she sat down at the table, the rich scents of the feast before her filled the air—roasted meats, spiced fruits, the warmth of freshly baked bread. But the aroma did little to stir her appetite. Her mind, still weighed down by Korravai’s words, wandered back to the task ahead. Rome. The emperors. The performance. The thin line she walked between power and peril.
And yet, as the soft chatter of her ladies-in-waiting swirled around her, she found a small comfort in the routine. The simple act of breaking bread with those who truly knew her, those who saw beyond the title and the expectations. It was something solid, something real, amidst all the uncertainty.
“Are you going to stare at your plate all day, Tillo?” Kinjal’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp as ever. “You have food here, and you’re still lost in your head. We all have our problems, but you can’t feed yourself with fear.”
Mataangi chimed in, her tone a mockery of Kinjal’s. “You know, if she wanted to feed herself with fear, she'd simply ask Korravai for more advice. That would be more than enough to sustain her.”
Tillotama’s lips twitched at the corners, a rare smile breaking through. “You’re both impossible,” she murmured, but the lightness in her tone was a welcome distraction.
Chanchal, ever the gentle soul, took a bite of fruit before glancing up. “You know, we’re here, Tillo. Whatever happens today, we’re with you.”
Tillotama nodded, her gaze softening. The words, though simple, held a depth of meaning that she couldn’t ignore. In this room, with these women, she was not just the pawn on the chessboard of Rome. She was Tillotama. A woman with her own strength, her own will.
Tillotama ate with the soft rhythm of her own thoughts, the food before her mostly forgotten as her gaze, gentle and unbidden, drifted toward the man who stood at the far corner of the room. Hanno, her guard, was a figure etched in silence. His head remained bowed, his focus lost somewhere in the depths of the stone floor, as if he could will himself to disappear into it. Yet, despite the quietude of his demeanor, Tillotama felt a strange pull toward him, something tethering her heart to the mystery that lay behind his solemn eyes.
There was something about him that made her feel... safe. In a room full of intrigue, of power, of men who’d cut down nations without a second thought, he stood like a rock in the tumultuous sea. But even the sturdiest stones bore marks of wear, and as Tillotama stole another glance, she noticed the bruises on his arms—purple and dark, fading but ever-present. A small, unexpected ache twisted in her chest. Those marks—were they from the brutality of the arena, or from something more… personal?
She stared at her food for a long moment, her thoughts clouded by the image of his silent suffering. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of the table, but her appetite had abandoned her. She could feel the weight of her companions’ eyes upon her, the soft crackle of tension hanging in the space between them.
Kinjal, ever the keen observer, tilted her head with a flicker of concern. “Has something happened?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with the curiosity she knew better than to hide.
Tillotama’s gaze never left Hanno, her silence a quiet sea of introspection. She did not respond at once, and the silence in the air grew heavier with every passing breath. Bulbul, ever gentle and concerned, nudged her lightly. “Tillo?” she asked, her voice a whisper meant to pull her from the depths of her thoughts.
Tillotama blinked slowly, as though waking from a dream, and glanced at her friends. She met their questioning looks, but her heart still lingered with the image of Hanno—his quiet strength, the unreadable pain that seemed to mar his every movement. Her fingers curled lightly around the edge of her plate, but the food no longer held her interest.
Mataangi, sharp and quick to catch the undercurrent of the moment, let out a low laugh of realization. “Tillo, as much as I love your caring heart, he’s meant to guard you, not the other way around. You’re not his savior,” she said, her tone half playful, half incredulous.
Tillotama turned to her slowly, a softness in her gaze that only Mataangi could read. “A protector deserves respect, doesn’t he?” she replied, her voice quiet, but firm with an undercurrent of something deeper. “Besides, I want to show him that I respect him. His work is no small thing.”
Chanchal, ever the teasing soul, exchanged an amused glance with Kinjal before sighing dramatically. “As if we could ever stop you from your ideas, Tillo,” she murmured, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.
Tillotama allowed herself a gentle smile, the corners of her lips turning upward like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a storm. She stood up from the table then, the movement fluid and purposeful, as though her thoughts had already been decided. She stepped toward the feast, the rich array of dishes laid before her, and began to gather food onto a plate. She filled it generously, the act one of gratitude, not for herself, but for the silent man who had spent his days watching over her, guarding her from the shadows.
Chanchal leaned closer to Mataangi, whispering with a smirk that was only half-hearted. “She wants to fatten him up,” she teased, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Mataangi, never one to be easily amused, shot her a deadpan look. “Chanchal…” she said, the word a soft, resigned sigh as if her patience had already been tested far beyond its limits.
Tillotama’s breath was almost too shallow, her heart thudding with the weight of what she was about to do. The plate, now a quiet burden in her hands, held more than food; it held her unspoken intentions, her desire to show him kindness. Her eyes flickered to her ladies, their gazes full of quiet encouragement. But she was alone in this, standing on the precipice of something new, something delicate.
She took a deep, steadying breath and moved toward him, her steps slow but determined. The space between them seemed to hum with an energy she couldn’t name, and when she stopped before him, her fingers tightened around the plate, the small gesture of care she hoped would bridge the distance between them. She swallowed, then, gently, she hummed, a soft sound that seemed to ripple through the air and catch his attention.
Hanno stiffened. His heart jolted at the closeness, at the suddenness of her presence. He had never been so near her, and her beauty—a beauty like something untouched, something pure—was overwhelming. His mind scrambled to find its place in the moment, but it felt as though he was caught in a dream where every movement, every word was heavier than he was capable of bearing.
Her eyes held him, soft and steady, as if they saw right through him, down to the fragments he didn’t even know existed. He couldn’t breathe as her gaze sought his. And when she gently set the plate down near him, it felt as though the air between them was both fragile and infinite.
The sound of the plate being placed on the table startled him. His thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. Was it a vase? No. He hesitated, looking down at the food, then back up at her. How could he possibly deserve this?
He felt a pull in his chest, an unspoken invitation in her actions, but the words to express his gratitude—his awe—were tangled in his throat. His breath came out in a soft exhale, and he lowered his head, instinctively. To do anything else, to look her directly in the eye, felt like an affront. She was too pure for him, too bright a flame for someone like him to bask in. She should not be so close, so within his reach.
But Tillotama wasn’t discouraged. She tilted her head slightly, her fingers fluttering as if she was trying to find a way to speak the words that could reach him. The motion was small but deliberate. She pointed at the food, and then at him, her eyes searching his for understanding. She didn’t speak—there was no need. Her hands, graceful and certain, told him all he needed to know.
Hanno’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure he understood, but he felt a stirring of something deep within him—something that told him he had to try, that he had to meet her halfway. He lifted his hand slowly, uncertain, and mimicked the motion, pointing first to the food, and then back at himself, his eyes pleading with her to understand.
Tillotama’s gaze softened, but there was confusion in her expression. She watched him, brows knitting together in gentle puzzlement. She didn’t understand his language, and neither did he understand hers, but something passed between them nonetheless. Something unspoken, yet full of meaning.
Hanno’s heart ached, a tightness spreading through his chest. He had tried, but his attempt to communicate was useless in the face of her pure intentions. He shook his head, his lips pressing together in a bittersweet smile. It was as though she could speak to him with nothing more than a gesture, but he—he was clumsy, fumbling with the simplest of expressions.
He looked at her again, and the words he wanted to say filled his mind, but they wouldn’t form on his lips. You’re too good, too kind for this world, he wanted to say. I don’t deserve this, don’t deserve you. But instead, he simply shook his head again, lowering his gaze with a reverence that burned in his chest.
Tillotama, sensing the fragility in the moment, felt her own heart soften. She didn’t understand his language, but she could feel the weight of his unspoken words. His eyes, his every gesture, spoke louder than any words could. She reached out gently, her fingertips brushing the edge of the plate once more. Her hand, so delicate, hovered near the food, and then, as though in some shared understanding, she pointed to it again, then to him.
There was a pleading in her eyes now, a quiet invitation that could not be ignored. Please, she seemed to say, take this from me.
Hanno’s chest tightened, the raw emotion building inside him as he looked at her, at her kindness, at her purity. He couldn’t fathom what he had done to deserve her, but in that moment, he knew with painful clarity: she had given him a gift he could never repay.
Finally, he nodded, the motion slow, reluctant, yet inevitable. She had asked him to take it, and in her eyes, there was something that called him to do so.
His voice, when it came, was a quiet whisper, full of the reverence he could not hide. "Thank you," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "I don’t deserve this." His words seemed too small, too fragile for the magnitude of what she was offering.
Tillotama smiled then, the warmth of her expression like the first rays of dawn. She didn’t need him to speak. She didn’t need to understand his language. What mattered was this: the gentle connection between them, the shared moment of understanding that transcended any words they could exchange.
Hanno’s gaze never left hers as he reached forward, taking the plate into his hands with a careful reverence, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He knew, in the quietest corner of his soul, that it wasn’t the food that mattered—it was her. She had given him more than he could ever ask for.
And as he lifted his gaze again, their eyes met once more, a silent promise hanging in the air between them. This moment, this quiet exchange, was everything. And in it, they had found something that neither language nor distance could ever take away.
The time for the performance had come too soon for Tillotama’s liking. The hours had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, and now, standing before the great mirror, she felt the weight of the moment settle over her like a veil of silk—soft yet inescapable.
She looked at her own reflection, studying the girl in the glass as if she were someone else entirely. The glow of countless oil lamps cast golden halos upon the polished mirror, illuminating the delicate details of her attire. Her thick braid, woven with strands of gold and adorned with tiny jasmine flowers, coiled over her shoulder like a sacred offering. The weight of her jewelry pressed against her skin—three necklaces, each more intricate than the last, their gold and pearls glinting like constellations against her collarbones. The lehenga she wore was a masterpiece, golden as the first light of dawn, embroidered with peacocks whose jeweled feathers shimmered as she moved.
Her wrists were encircled by bangles—gold, ruby, and sapphire—a symphony of color that clinked softly as she lifted her hand. Around her ankles, her ghungroos lay still for now, waiting, as if they too held their breath. The naath upon her nose—a delicate hoop of gold—framed her lips, the septum ring adding to the quiet regality that she did not yet see in herself. But it was her eyes that held the greatest magic. One dark as the midnight sky, the other sea like—both rimmed in thick kohl, twin fires that burned with something unspoken.
The door creaked open, and in swept her ladies, their laughter and chatter dying down the moment their eyes landed on her. A hush fell over the room, not the silence of absence but the silence of awe, of reverence.
Mataangi was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tillo…” She shook her head, pressing a hand to her chest. “You look like you’ve stepped out of a story.”
Bulbul let out a breathy laugh, circling her slowly, as if afraid that touching her would shatter the illusion. “No, not a story. A poem. A hymn.”
Chanchal clapped her hands together, grinning. “A vision! Tell me, is it a crime to steal a goddess and keep her hidden from the world? Because I am very tempted.”
Tillotama shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. ���Enough of this,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended. “You’ll make me nervous.”
Kinjal tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Nervous? You? Oh, Tillotama, if they could see you now, the gods themselves would stop to watch.”
She turned back to the mirror, adjusting the placement of her earrings, more to steady herself than anything else. The weight of their words settled over her—not in fear, but in something else, something deeper.
“I do not dance for them,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “Not the emperors, not the court, not the world.”
Mataangi came to her side, her reflection appearing in the mirror beside her. “Then who do you dance for?”
Tillotama’s fingers trailed over the strings of pearls resting against her throat.
“For the one who listens,” she murmured.
The throne hall shimmered in the glow of torches and golden candelabras, the air thick with the scent of wine and the murmur of impatient nobility. Draped in opulence, the two emperors lounged on their thrones, their goblets of spiced wine tilting idly in their hands. Geta tsked, stretching like a restless beast before turning to Macrinus, who sat close by, ever the shadow of measured calculation.
"Tell me, Macrinus… when does our gift intend to perform? Half of Rome holds its breath." His tone was one of feigned boredom, but there was hunger beneath it, a wolf waiting to be fed.
Macrinus smirked, slow and knowing, as if he found amusement in the impatience of kings. "Your Majesty, I assure you, she is yet to come."
Geta rolled his eyes, slumping into his seat like a spoiled child denied his sweets. Beside him, Caracalla swirled his goblet, eyes dark with irritation. "I seek entertainment, not the tedium of waiting!" he huffed, prepared to throw his cup to the floor just to watch the shattered pieces glisten.
And then—music.
Soft at first, like a whisper at the edge of a dream, before unfurling into something more, something ancient, something divine.
The great doors opened, and the hush in the throne room was almost deafening. Four women entered first, their hands lifting a banner of silk—a veil of secrecy—shielding the one at its center. A goddess yet unseen.
Caracalla and Geta leaned forward, twin smirks of pleasure curling upon their lips.
Then, the song shifted, richer now, a melody none had heard in Rome before. The banner dropped, and she was revealed.
A collective gasp swept the hall. Murmurs rippled through the sea of nobles, admiration and envy tangling in the air like incense smoke. Even Macrinus, ever composed, sat up straighter.
Tillotama stood at the heart of it all, adorned in gold and mystery. The jewels at her throat gleamed like fallen stars, her lehenga a cascade of peacock and sun, the bells at her ankles waiting, waiting for movement. The oil lamps caught the kohl around her mismatched eyes, deepening the illusion that she was something not of this world.
And then, she moved.
A twirl, a bow of the wrist, a tilt of the head—grace poured from her as if she had been sculpted for this very moment. The melody wrapped around her limbs, her voice rising with it—a voice like the sirens in the myths of Rome, like water slipping between the fingers of men who longed to grasp what was never meant for them.
She did not dance; she unfolded. She did not sing; she enchanted.
Caracalla and Geta watched, their amusement melting into something deeper, something darker. Their gazes trailed her, worship disguised as possession, adoration tangled with greed.
She twirled, she spun—like a flame bending to its own rhythm, untamed, unyielding.
And when at last the final note of her song quivered in the air, the last twirl settled her in stillness, she stood with her head bowed, breath rising and falling in the aftermath of divinity.
A single sound broke the silence
"Marvelous!"
The word rang through the hall, foreign to her ears, yet she did not move.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
Geta stepped toward her, his eyes drinking her in as one admires a prized artifact. He bent slightly, and before she could retreat, he pressed a kiss against the embroidered hem of her lehenga.
Her breath hitched.
A cold smirk played at his lips as he straightened, reveling in her reaction.
And then—Caracalla. A shadow behind her, too close. His lips brushed the thick braid over her shoulder, the ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down her spine. She felt it then—that sickening weight, the sensation of being owned, claimed like a jewel taken from its temple to sit in the treasury of a foreign king.
Geta turned to the court, his voice triumphant.
"Glory to Venus!"
The room erupted. Rose petals rained down, fragrant and soft, a mockery of celebration. Nobles cheered, women whispered, men watched with hunger in their eyes.
Tillotama remained still, the weight of unseen chains pressing into her skin.
She stole a glance to the side, to Waarangan, the only steady thing in this sea of leering indulgence. His gaze met hers, calm, grounding. He gave a small nod, a whisper of reassurance.
She lowered her eyes once more.
The emperors returned to their seats, their eyes never leaving her.
"Flawless," Geta murmured, his gaze dragging over her like silk through fingers. "Absolutely flawless… a goddess upon the earth."
Waarangan translated, and she swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise. Yet she did not let fear dictate her silence. Instead, she took a breath, steady and measured, before speaking softly to Waarangan.
"Tell him that I thank him for his kindness," she said, the words careful, measured, "yet since I am to remain here as an entertainer, I have one wish."
Waarangan hesitated. A flicker of worry passed over his face before he turned and translated.
Caracalla let out a laugh, rich and cruel. "By the gods, she knows how to entertain indeed!"
Geta, however, tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And what does she wish for?"
The room stilled. Even Korravai, standing among the spectators, looked as though she might strike Tillotama where she stood.
Waarangan inhaled sharply before relaying the words that made his breath catch in his throat.
"Your Majesties, her only wish is that she and her court may keep their faith, their traditions, their culture. She asks not to be changed into the image of Rome."
A hush, heavy and sharp.
Geta and Caracalla exchanged a glance, unreadable.
Before Geta could respond, Macrinus leaned forward, his tone smooth. "Your Majesty, entertainment is best when it is new—when it offers the unfamiliar, the exotic. Surely the people would delight in witnessing her traditions firsthand, just as much as you do now."
A pause. A beat of tension. Then—
Geta leaned back into his throne, considering. At last, he nodded. "Very well… I shall grant her wish."
Waarangan exhaled a breath he had not realized he was holding, his translation gentle as he relayed the decision to her.
Tillotama did not move, but inside her, something loosened.
It was not freedom.
But it was not yet a cage.
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shadyfestivalperfection · 21 days ago
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AVENGERS:THE CREATOR
Click here to view the master list
Chapter 4: The weight of the tesseract
(Steve Rogers Pov)
As I sat in the quiet of Y/n’s home, I couldn’t help but feel out of place. The room around me was a blend of cultural elegance and warm, inviting simplicity. The large living and dining area was decorated in traditional Indian style, with intricate wooden carvings and colorful tapestries adorning the walls. In the corner, a wooden swing swayed gently, a peaceful reminder of calmer days. Behind it, the glass doors opened to a small backyard, the cool night air creeping in as we spoke. But the serenity of the place only felt like a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air.
Y/n sat across from us on a pristine white couch, her gaze distant as she seemed to weigh the situation in silence. She had been quiet for a while now, her expression unreadable. Finally, her voice broke the silence, soft yet piercing. “Why me?” she whispered, her words heavy with the weight of centuries of solitude, of secrecy.
Nick didn’t hesitate. “Loki, the god of mischief, has the Tesseract, and he’s using it to take over Earth with the help of the Chitauri.”
The words settled between us like a shadow. I saw her eyes flicker, confusion mixed with curiosity. It wasn’t the first time we’d spoken of the threat we faced, but it felt different here—more personal.
“What—what’s a Chitauri?” Y/n asked, her brow furrowed, as though she was processing the new, unfamiliar information.
Natasha leaned forward, her tone calm and precise. “They’re aliens from the harsh planet Chitauri Prime. And they’re under Loki’s control, using the Tesseract as a gateway to invade Earth.”
Y/n seemed to absorb the information slowly, her gaze moving between us. There was something else in her eyes, though—a wariness, like she knew how dangerous this conversation was becoming. But Nick wasn’t backing down, and neither were we.
“As I was saying,” Nick continued, his voice steady, “we need your help to stop Loki from taking over Earth with the Tesseract. We need you to help us take it away from him.”
There was a flicker of something in Y/n’s eyes—something that told me she was thinking about the risk, the magnitude of what we were asking. She leaned back, her fingers tapping the side of her couch, clearly lost in thought.
“And then what are you going to do with my Tesseract?” she asked, her voice sharp, but not unkind.
Her question hung in the air for a moment, as though we hadn’t fully thought through the consequences. Nick glanced at me before responding.
“We were wondering if you would like to keep it with you,” he said, his voice firm but not without a touch of diplomacy. “It would be better that way. No one could take it away from you, no one could use it for bad things—like taking over the planet.”
The silence in the room deepened as Y/n’s expression darkened. She was clearly processing our suggestion, but the weight of her past, of her power, wasn’t something we could ignore. She wasn’t just any ally—we were asking her to take on a responsibility no one else could bear. And I knew, deep down, that asking her to keep the Tesseract was dangerous, but we didn’t have any other options.
“I can’t and I won’t keep the stone with me,” Y/n said suddenly, her voice trembling with a restrained anger. Her eyes locked onto Nick’s, and I could see the raw emotion beneath her calm exterior. “If I keep it with me, it may get out of control. And I don’t know—I could destroy the whole world or worse, the entire universe—in a snap.”
Her words were harsh, and they left a heavy silence in the room. I felt a chill run down my spine, not just because of the power the Tesseract held, but because I could see in her eyes that she wasn’t speaking lightly. There was something about her—something ancient—that made her warnings feel real.
Nick stood up then, moving to her side. His voice was low but sincere. “Please, think about it. Millions of people could die if we don’t stop Loki.”
Y/n’s eyes flickered to Nick, but her expression didn’t change. She seemed unmoved, her thoughts elsewhere as she rose to her feet. She was trying to maintain control, but there was no doubt she was torn.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, her tone resolute, but not final. “I’ll give you my answer by tomorrow evening.”
Natasha glanced at Nick, then back at Y/n. Her expression softened, though she remained focused. “Sure, take your time. If you’re ready, then come tomorrow by 7 p.m. to the Empire State Building, and a car will pick you up.”
Y/n nodded, her response a quiet acknowledgment. She didn’t seem thrilled by our presence, but she wasn’t dismissing us either.
The door clicked softly behind them as we left, and I lingered for a moment before following them out. I looked back at Y/n one last time, seeing the quiet contemplation on her face.
I understood her hesitation. After everything she had been through, the last thing she wanted was to be pulled into another battle, to risk everything once more. But we needed her. If there was anyone who could help us keep the Tesseract from Loki, it was Y/n.
As the door closed behind us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t just asking her to help us stop a god. We were asking her to face the ghosts of her past—and that, more than anything, would be the true test.
-to be continued
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khuuuusshi · 3 months ago
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(https://wanderon.in/blogs/white-town-in-puducherry)
IT'S WHITTTTEEEE TOWN!
White Town is simply gorgeous. A piece of France in India. Taking a simple stroll down White town is a blessing to your eyes. The gorgeous array of colours; the warm oranges to the cold blues, the variety of flora, the intricate doors, and so on.
White Town, also known as the French Quarter/colony, allows you to experience a part of France in India. The houses in White Town are to die for. I would kill to live in such pretty houses. They have large columns and arches, intricate details carved into doors, the extravagant amount of flora, simply gorgeous.
The French influence isn't just visible in the villas but in the cafes and shops too. Many restaurants in the area serve French cuisine and have menus in the language.
It's an incredible way of experiencing a blend of Indian and French culture.
Going to White Town is a must!
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seafund · 3 months ago
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Top investors in space in India
Why Venture Capitalists Are Betting Big on India’s Space Sector
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A Thriving Ecosystem of Space Startups: India’s space ecosystem is no longer limited to government-run entities like the Indian Space Research Organisation (ISRO). Today, a surge of innovative space startups are taking the stage, offering cutting-edge solutions in satellite technology, launch services, space data analytics, and more. Companies like Skyroot Aerospace, Agnikul Cosmos, and Pixxel lead the charge, each carving out a unique niche. These startups are pushing the boundaries of what’s possible, driving investor interest with the potential for high returns in a relatively untapped market.
Strong Government Support and Policy Reforms: One of the key reasons behind the surge in space venture capital in India is the proactive stance taken by the Indian government. Recent policy reforms have opened the doors for private players to participate in space activities, previously dominated by ISRO. Establishing IN-SPACe (Indian National Space Promotion and Authorization Center) is a significant step, providing a regulatory framework that encourages private sector involvement. Such government support has given investors in space in India the confidence to back ambitious projects, knowing there’s a clear path for private ventures.
Cost-Effective Innovation as a Competitive Edge: India’s reputation for cost-effective innovation is another major attraction for investors. Launching satellites at a fraction of the cost compared to global competitors has positioned India as a hub for affordable space technology. This competitive edge not only allows Indian space startups to thrive domestically but also makes them attractive on the international stage. Investors are keen to support companies that can deliver world-class technology with lower capital outlays, reducing investment risks while promising impressive returns.
Global Interest in Indian Talent and Expertise: India’s space sector is not just about affordability; it’s about world-class talent. The country boasts a deep pool of highly skilled engineers, scientists, and entrepreneurs with expertise in aerospace and technology. This talent pool has been instrumental in driving innovation and attracting global attention. International investors are increasingly looking to partner with Indian space startups, recognizing the country’s unique blend of technical prowess and entrepreneurial spirit.
A Growing Market for Space-Based Services: The market for space-based services, including satellite communications, Earth observation, and data analytics, is expanding rapidly. In India, this growth is driven by rising demand from industries such as agriculture, telecommunications, logistics, and defense. With space technology playing a crucial role in optimizing these sectors, investors see an opportunity to capitalize on the potential for domestic and international applications. Space-based services represent a lucrative market, attracting space venture capital in India to back startups that can cater to these needs.
Strategic Partnerships and Collaborations: Indian space startups are not working in isolation; they are forming strategic partnerships with global companies and space agencies. Collaborations with NASA, ESA (European Space Agency), and private companies have opened up new opportunities for technology sharing, funding, and market access. These partnerships have also strengthened investor confidence, as they reduce risks and validate the technology being developed by Indian companies. For investors in space in India, such collaborations signal a promising future, driving more venture capital into the sector.
A New Era of Commercial Space Exploration: The idea of commercial space exploration, once confined to science fiction, is now becoming a reality. From reusable rockets to satellite constellations, Indian space startups are exploring new frontiers that were once considered out of reach. This new era of commercial space exploration has piqued the interest of venture capitalists who see the potential for profitable exits through IPOs, acquisitions, and global partnerships. With private space missions no longer just a dream, space venture capital in India is ready to fuel the next big leap.
Encouraging Signs from Successful Fundraising Rounds: The confidence in India’s space sector is evident from the successful fundraising rounds by leading space startups. Companies like Skyroot Aerospace and Agnikul Cosmos have secured millions in funding from top-tier venture capital firms. These funding rounds not only provide the necessary resources for scaling but also act as a signal to other investors that the Indian space market is mature and ready for high-stakes investment. The momentum created by these early successes is a clear indicator of why investors in space in India are increasingly willing to place their bets.
Conclusion: A Promising Orbit for Investment India’s space sector is on an exciting trajectory. With a favorable policy environment, a surge of innovative startups, and a proven track record of cost-effective solutions, it’s no wonder that space venture capital in India is booming. As the country continues to explore new frontiers and expand its role in global space exploration, venture capitalists are set to play a pivotal role in shaping the future. For those looking to invest in the final frontier, India’s space industry presents a unique opportunity to be part of a revolution that’s only just beginning.
#305, 3rd Floor, 5 Vittal Mallya Road, Bengaluru, Karnataka, 560001, India
5 Ring Road, Lajpat Nagar 4, 3rd Floor, New Delhi-110024
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whalesongsblog · 1 month ago
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I was completely consumed by this artwork from @tamayula-hl and the comments on it. So I churned this out 🫡 hope y’all enjoy!
Synopsis: It had been six months since the assassination of princess Miradevi Surya Lakshmi, and six months since prince consort Ominis Surya Lakshmi was completley consumed by the darkness he’d been fighting against all his life.
But that darkness suits him well, and a surprise trip to Azkaban coupled with a horrific revelation about the murder of his wife prompts the prince consort of one of the most powerful empires in the world to take advantage of his position and do what he had always sworn to do; ruthlessly destroy anyone that was involved in the death of his wife.
The explosion of a star
Ultimately, it was not the rage that drove Ominis forwards. It was not the grief, nor the brutally cruel pit of despair that propelled him forwards, day after day.
It was the emptiness. The way his heart didn’t even sink anymore when he turned over at night and his wife was not there. The way he would stand out on the balconies of the palace looking over the sprawling Indian landscape and did not expect her at his side.
The monsoons had rolled around and the empire was still in mourning over the loss of the princess. Within the palace, Ominis did not need sight to know the face that the royal family put up for their citizens was fractured perhaps beyond repair. Mira’s parents- his in laws, and the monarchs of the empire- had worn grief like an armor. Alongside her brothers, the military budget grew a little higher, the empire fortified, foreign relations stricter.
And Ominis continued on, emptiness churning in his veins- a pit of absolute nothingess, of numbness threatening to consume him.
The ‘consort’ in his title was dropped.
In a political move that even he did not forsee, his title was legitimized as one of the princes of the Surya empire- he’d never sit on the throne, of course, but the gesture was clear. The might of the Surya kingdom was not fractured by the murder of the princess, but reinforced.
xxxxxxx
Rain lashed against the palace windows and Ominis tried to focus on its’ constant drone. He had excused himself from another meeting, another sombre, condolence- filled gathering with politicians and ministers who were so sorry about the loss of the princess, but the kingdom had to move forwards, they needed him to take her place as a liason between the wizarding and muggle communities, to continue his duties as prince consort.
He hunched over his messy desk, sweeping aside the papers scattered over it.
The tremor in his fingers was back.
“Accept it.” The words left his lips in a shaky growl. “Goddamn you, accept it. Your wife is dead. Mira is dead. You’re not getting her back, you’re never-“ his voice broke, the statements cruel to his own ears despite their truth. Miradevi was his lifeblood, the sunshine and moonlight and every spectrum of light in between that had brightened his life since he’d met her.
And now she was gone, and she was never coming back. He had failed to protect her, he’d failed, he’d failed, he had not been able to stop her from being-
“Your highness?” The low, concerned voice spoke from the other side of the ornately carved wooden doors. “Are you alright?”
Fuck.
His security detail had not given him three inches to breathe, tailing him with hawklike gazes ever since-
Ominis straightened, head tilted towards the door of his bedroom. The second he lost Mira, the second he processed what it meant, he’d moved to a different room in the palace.
A different wing altogether.
“I’m fine, Ravi. Thank you. Please, I just-“ he exhaled sharply. Come back to me, come back, I can’t do this without you-
“- need the evening to myself.”
Ominis heard a soft shuffling, a low murmur of Hindi. 
“We’ll be right outside your chambers, my prince.” Ravi called. “We will check in on you every half hour, your highness.”
“Fine.” Ominis tried hard not to snap. They were just doing their jobs.
They should have done their job while protecting my wife. My Mira, my everything-
As if trying to shake away a fly, Ominis shook his head to dispel the thoughts. The rain contiued to fall, and he had never felt so alone in his life.
——————————-
Five months later
——————————-
Ominis strode through the the palace, wand held up slightly as he navigated the halls he had called gome for so many years now. The Indian summer beat down hot and merciless beyond the cold stone of the arching walls as he made his way to the court.
Moonstone eyes glinted steel as he flicked his wand and the doors swept open, allowing him to walk into the opulent, stately chamber. The war room was an architectural marvel and scoping it out with his wand took his breath away, no matter the fact that the Surya empire had been his home for three years now.
But the wonder he once felt had melted away, sequestered deep wherever the rest of his emotions had been buried, trapped and dead like fossils under layers upon layers of soil.

In the center of the room stood a table scattered with maps and little figurines. And around the table stood some of the most powerful people in the empire.
“Crown prince Arjun. Prince Bharat.” Ominis bowed before each of his brothers in law, firmly ignoring the fact that he barely recognized his own voice. When had that razor-sharp harshness crept in? The edge of cruelty?
Perhaps it had bloomed with the first man Ominis killed in connection with his wife’s assasination. Perhaps it had flourished under the generous offer of ruby- dark blood he’d devotedly spilt in his princess’s name. Perhaps it had only been growing since, as the pile of bodies began to grow in the wake of the widowed prince.

“Ominis.” The crown prince nodded, before gesturing the the handful of ministers assembled to leave. Without a word of protest, they obeyed, shuffling out with quiet murmurs and closing the heavy doors behind them. The war room fell silent for a moment.
Two men grieved the loss of their sister. One man grieved the loss of his wife.
All three were hellbent on vengance.
“We’ve neutralized and eliminated every single threat that was even remotely involved in the assasination of my sister.” Prince Bharat easily knocked down a few of the figures standing on the table. “But whoever orchestrated it covered their tracks well. Nobody was aware of the full scheme, and key actors only knew bits and pieces, which means-“
“Whoever organized it is powerful.” Ominis finished his sentence, his voice cold. “We’ve known for a while that this was not a random act of violence. The security is too tight and the act was well planned. Premeditation indicates-“
“Wealth.” Arjun stepped in. The crown prince’s eyes- once a mirror image of his little sister’s soft, sparkling gaze- were now alight with rage. “Power. They had influence, they had the funds to carry out the necessary bribery, and we cannot rule out financially backed militias.”
“And, most obviously, it was a wizard that.. did it.” Ominis’ voice lowered, rough as serrated glass. “She was- they used a killing curse. And all of the people I’ve… disposed of, so far, have been wizards. No muggles involved.”
Arjun and Bharat exchanged a quick glance. 
“A letter arrived for you today. From that prison your people have. I don’t know if it has anything to do with.. with her, but if it does-“
Ominis took the outstretched letter from the crown prince, brows drawing together. He knew no one in Azkaban, and had cut most of of his ties in Britain save for Sebastian and Anne. Even his contact with them had gotten shaky since Mira’s death. He raised his wand, running it over the grimy envelope, noting that, sure enough, it was sent from the limited post Azkaban offered. He cut open the letter with a quick flick of his wand, unfolding it.
The rain fell harder beyond the palace walls as Ominis’ wand relayed the words on the dirt- streaked page. His brows drew closer together and a snarl slowly curled his lips.
Lightning cracked suddenly, forking across the sky in a blinding sizzle of white followed by a clap of thunder. Arjun raised his brows, looking at his brother in law.
Magic curled at his fingertips as crack after crack of lightning lit up the skies, responding to his surging emotions. Ominis’ fingers shook slightly but this time it was from rage. 
Wealth.
Power.
Influence.
“My father is in Azkaban.” Ominis’ voice was tight, shaking with barely supressed rage. “I had no idea he was imprisoned and quite frankly I’m not in the least bit upset about it. But he expressed a wish to talk with me, regarding the tragic loss of my wife.” His gaze darkened, the sparks at his fingertips setting the letter alight. 

Arjun and Bharat exchanged glances again. The Gaunt family had been vicious in their dislike of Miradevi, and their hatred of muggles had not earned them any approval in the Surya empire, which was a healthy mix of wizarding and magical peoples. They were vocal dissenters to the empire’s ‘radical, harmful regime’ but ultimately could do nothing about it when their son became the kingdom’s prince consort.
But perhaps-
Arjun spoke up, and Ominis was not imagining the hint of accusation that hung like poison in his voice. “They have the means. The fanatical obsession with curbing our empire’s growth and eradicating support for the progrssive policies you and Mira championed. Not to mention their disapproval of all of us being non magical.” The crown prince paused, casting a look at his brother in law.
“We cannot rule out the fact that your family had something to do with Mira’s death.”
“If they did, Arjun-“ Ominis’ voice was strangely calm as he burnt the letter to a crisp in the palm of his hand. “-If they had the slightest, most miniscule involvement in the death of my wife, then every last one of them will die screaming. I swear it.”
xxxxxxxxx
Securing an international portkey to Britain had been easy enough. He was a prince. And for better or worse, he now had quite the reputation.
Getting to Azkaban had also been easy. What had not been easy was being back in Britain, back where him and Miradevi had first met. Her ghost lingered everywhere, the faint melody of her laugh somehow trapped in the wind that rushed through the bare branches of dead pine trees, that scent of jasmine lingering just out of reach.
Ominis stepped off the creaking wooden boat onto the algae- slick, stone platform that led into the prison. The warden leading him through seemed far too delighted at the state of the place, proud of the mildew rotted and frigid rain- soaked conditions the prisoners had to endure. Ominis lifted his chin and lowered his wand, striding through the stone halls, the low wails of the inmates ringing in his ears.
Sudden as a striking anvil, a wave of pure despair rushed over him, nearly sending him to his knees. Memories he had shoved down and locked away, memories he swore he’d never unearth slammed against his psyche.
“The princess is gone. She was found-“ 
“Her body-“ 
“-funeral arrangements, your highness-“
“-deepest sympathies, my prince-“
“That’ll be the dementors, my leige.” The warden didn’t seem the slightest bit affected, a glint in his eyes. “You think you could take care of it, or would you need me to step in?”
Ominis growled, low. He would not be made a mockery of. Drawing his wand, he arced it over his head like he was cracking a whip. His magic obeyed, surging to life at his fingertips, yearning to be set loose.
“Pestis incendium.”
Witnessing not a patronus but a stream of fiendfyre sweep in a blaze from the prince’s wand, the warden decided he’d not try and push any further. He fell silent as the roar of flames swept outwards through the high, narrow stone walls, slamming the dementors back into the cracks the creatures had seeped from.
“Where is my father.” Ominis demanded, voice a cold contrast to the spell he’d just performed. “I want to make this visit as short as possible.”
“Right here, your highness.”
The warden gestured at a cell, before bowing- lower, this time- and backing away.
Ominis heard the low, rasping breathing, the aristocracy his father still carried in his voice despite his new lodgings. Once, he would have felt a tendril of fear snake through his veins. Once, he would had flinched at the way Erasmus Gaunt stood and loomed before him.
Not now.
Now, he was steel and blood and the promise of death.
“My prince.” His father’s voice was mocking. “It’s good to see you responded so quickly to my summons. Perhaps you still remember your roots after all. Perhaps that mudblood of yours has not addled your mind beyond repair-“
Ominis struck like a snake.
He didn’t bother with a wand as his arms shot out, latching onto his father’s prison robes, slamming him close against the bars. He relished in the subsequent groan of pain, yearned to draw screams instead. 
“Speak one word against her and I’ll cut your tongue out. And I will do it the muggle way.” Ominis hissed. “Why did you want to meet me? Why did you say you have information on what happened to Mira?”
Erasmus Gaunt managed a laugh, his teeth smeared red. “Right to business? Very well.” He pulled away, staggering slightly. Ominis could tell his father was weaker, diminished.
“You’re in over your head. I want you to know that the people involved in your precious wife being slaughtered have taken many measures to prevent them being caught, but they miscalculated.” His father gave a wheezing sort of laugh. “A return to our former glory, they promised us. I should have known-“
“Who is they.” Ominis leaned closer, a quaver of anticipation in his voice. Of bloodlust. “And are you saying someone got you to have a hand in it?”
His father was silent for a moment. “If I had known all it would take for you to finally live up to the Gaunt name was to kill your little plaything, I would have done so years ago.”
Ominis was deadly silent for a moment as he straightened up, tilted his head, and marked exactly where his father was by listening carefully for a second to his breathing.
His wand was already in his hand, and the cruciatus curse embraced Erasmus Gaunt as his son stood there and listened to him scream.
“If you’re done making comments about my wife, let’s move on.” Ominis heard his father gasping for breath, curled on the stone floor of his cell. “What was your involvement, who ordered it, and why.”
“She was touting nonsense that would have destroyed us.” There was pure loathing in Gaunt Sr.’s eyes as he looked at his son. “Fairytales about muggle-wizard integration, equal rights for werewolves, rubbish that would have set us back. She thought she could come in with the foolish laws of her empire, and we’d follow suit. Britain is the last stronghold for blood purity, and she was going to break it down.”
“So you killed her.” Something was eating away at Ominis’ gut, that familiar feeling of dark magic thrashing in his veins, begging to be released. “But who- and I will not ask this again- enabled you to do it?”
Erasmus laughed softly. 
“You know. You know damn well who has the power to use me and throw me in Azkaban instead of fulfiling their promise without fear of retribution.”
Ominisdrew back and for the first time, pure shock crossed his features. If what his father was implying was true-
“That’s impossible.” He whispered. “That’s impossible, you’re lying to me-“
“Don’t be stupid. Think. You know I’m not.”
“Why would you tell me?” Ominis leaned in, voice lowered. “Because they completely fucked you over, is that why? What do you get out of this?”
“Something’s different. I can smell the dark magic on you, boy. You’ll make their lives a living hell, I know it.” His father grinned, a glint in his eyes. “I’m proud of you. And if killing the mudblood was what it took, then I don’t regret it.”
A calmness, a stillness settled over Ominis. The path forwards was clear. But his father’s words rang in his ears, deadly and damaging as poison.
Ominis raised his wand, checking the hallways. 
“You know-“ he began softly, looking down at his father. “Being the prince of a foreign nation has opened my awareness up to so many different types of magic… and India has a rather special branch of it. Soul magic. Ever heard of it?” He heard the silence, and laughed softly. “Yes, you have. In fact, there is soul magic all around you. What do you think the dementors use when administering the Kiss?”
Ah. There is was-
The scent of fear.
“I hate you.” Ominis whispered. “I’ve hated you since the day you taught me that curse, since the day you used it on me. I don’t want you dead, I don’t want to torture you. No. I want you empty. I want you to feel a fraction of the agony I do.”
“Ominis-“ His father began, uncertain. “Wait-“
“No.” He replied, curt. “We’re done here.” He extended his wand, focusing. Pulling on the darkest vestiges of his grief, the blackest parts of his anger, he becan to incant.
“अहं तव आत्मानं निर्मूलयामि.” The low murmur of ancient Sanskrit flowed from his lips, his wand glowing a mercuric silver. His accent rolled the words strangely, but the effect was immediate. His father’s eyes rolled back, a death rattle of a gasp escaping him as he slumped to the floor. Ominis drew his wand back slowly, with surgical precision. He felt the miniscule but heavy weight of his father’s life essence drawing out his body, up his throat-
And with one brutal yank- Ominis tore his father’s soul out of his body.
xxxxxxxxxx
The Indian summer was in full force as the sun blazed in the azure sky over the palace and prince Ominis Surya Lakshmi adjusted his slate grey suit as he sat where he belonged.
His throne, alongside his mother and father in law, his brothers in law. There was an empty throne beside him where Mira should have been.
Ominis knew he’d never stop grieving her. He knew in his most private moments he’d cry and scream and beg the universe to give her back to him, that he’d do anything to hear her laugh, feel her in his arms.
But this was not the time. This was the time for action.
“Well?” Arjun leaned close to Ominis, and he heard the thirst for vengance in his voice. “Did you learn anything useful?”
Ominis was silent for a moment, before nodding slightly. He stood, raising his voice to address the king and queen as well as Arjun and Bharat. His family, and all he had left of Mira.
“Your highnesses.” Ominis’ voice was cold. “The time has come for decisive action in response to the princess’s assasination. Effective immediately, I want a halt on wandwood exports to the British wizarding world, coupled with trade sanctions and an immediate shutdown on any of their attempts to diversify trade partners.”
Queen Durgavati looked at her son in law, slightly shocked. “Beta, that is.. an extremely dire course of action to take. If the perpetrator was from Britain, we can work with the Ministry of Magic to exact justice-“
“Not if the perpetrator was the ministry, Mata.”
Ominis felt the way the atmosphere throne room seemed to suddenly grow heavy. His voice grew harder.
“I visited my father in prison and he revealed that Mira’s assasination was a federally funded attempt at destabilizing our empire. The minister disliked that her progressive ideals were gaining traction in Europe, so he had her killed her and made the Gaunts a scapegoat. The whole affair was buried by the media in Britain in a matter of a month. Whistleblowers were killed in mysterious circumstances, and no one raised eyebrows.”
There was a snarl of rage from prince Bharat, a soft curse from crown prince Arjun. “And you’re sure about this? The word of your father can be trusted?”
“It all adds up. It makes sense. But I did my homework and… had a few words with the Minister of Magic’s secretary. They confirmed it.”
Nobody needed to know that the secretary was currently at the bottom of a river after Ominis had extracted every last piece of information from him.
King Ashok Surya Lakshmi looked at his son in law. The tall, pale, British wizard his little girl had fallen in love with, who was as good as one of his own sons now. Ominis had changed, a darkness in his eyes, but the raja did not blame him in the slightest. Ominis did his duties incredibly, and had taken good care of his daughter while she had been alive.
Mira’s loss weighed heavily on the aging king, and some days the only thing preventing him from being crushed was the promise of getting justice.
Raja Ashok nodded, slowly. 
“If the Ministry thinks they can get away with this, they are sorely mistaken.” He said softly. He turned his gaze to Ominis.
Prince Ominis Surya Lakshmi sat down slowly on his throne and draped one elegant leg over the other, his wand was held loosely in one hand, a palm resting flat on his thigh as he tilted his head slightly. 
“We cut trade agreements, isolate them, undermine their markets. We cripple their economy first, their government second.” A slow, cruel smirk curled his lips. “And then-“ his voice was soft, almost reverent. “- then… we go to war.”
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AN: 😇😇 thanks for reading! 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾 (the politics of this all is completely made up, it’s not meant to be accurate to irl politics at all just btw ✊🏾)
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