Loud Doubts

(Flashback, several months before the hanging at the wishing tree)

The garden hummed with life that morning, yellow bell flowers swaying under a breeze that carried the promise of autumn. I stepped from the chamber, my heart heavy with secrets I couldn't name, and there he was—the butcher boy, sharpening his sword by the stone bench. His glance grazed me, brief and unreadable, but it sent a jolt through me, as if my soul recognized something my mind couldn't grasp. In his eyes, I was no queen, just a woman caught in a forbidden dance with her own heart.

I'd come to confess, to unburden the truth before it consumed me. The weight of Gharial pressed harder each day—the ruins we'd found in, Suhashini's fever, the wolves that haunted my nights with their too-human stares. My dreams, my parents' voices calling through the forest, still echoed, urging me to question everything. And now, pregnant with a child I both cherished and feared for, I felt trapped, a fish in a bowl of destiny's making.

"I don't want to be caged here," I blurted, words spilling before I could stop them. "I can't be myself anymore—not Alokika, not Abhilasha. I'm losing who I am."

The butcher boy didn't interrupt, his nod a formality, his focus on the blade. Did he even care? As queen, I commanded respect, but his silence felt like pity, not reverence. I pressed on, desperate to reach him. "Are you who you say you are?"

He paused, meeting my gaze. "You have doubts?"

"Many," I admitted, unflinching. Sometimes, he didn't feel human. In his shadowed eyes, I saw glimpses of my father, lost to the river's depths, or the boy from ninth grade—my first love, gone in an accident I'd never understood. As a child, I'd stood by that river, watching a figure across the water, certain it was him. I'd stare, silent, knowing something was wrong with me but too young to name it. I hid it from my mother, fearing her judgment, until the day I confessed my plan to swim the river, to find Papa beneath its waves.

She'd slapped me, her face pale with fear, and banned me from the water. The swimming classes ended, the river forbidden. I grew up burying those moments, convincing myself I'd imagined my father, my love, their ghosts watching me. Normalcy became my mask—school, songs, a boyfriend—until my twenty-second birthday, when the world shifted, and I woke here, in Alokika's body, a queen in a land of ruin.

Now, staring at the butcher boy, my heart beat with that same eerie rhythm, as if he were a piece of my past reborn. "What are you?" I asked, voice steady despite my trembling hands.

"A tribal prince," he said, as always.

"I know." I stepped closer, searching his face. "But have you learned magic?"

He frowned, edging his sword with deliberate care. "I've studied it, but you shouldn't meddle. You're human in that body—magic, shaman skills, the forest—it's dangerous for you."

"I'm not interested," I said, though my eyes lingered on his sword, the one he never parted with. "What if you lose it?"

"I won't."

Rumors swirled about that blade—gifted by demons, some said. "Is it true?" I pressed. "The stories about it?"

"Depends on the marketplace you heard them in," he replied, a faint smirk breaking his stoicism.

"I don't gossip," I snapped, stung. "I'm curious, that's all."

"Good." He sheathed the blade. "The marketplace isn't for right minds. Yours might not be, but you're queen. Cultivate a queen's mind, fast."

"I'm trying," I said, bristling. Why did he speak like my teacher? I'd come to question him, not explain myself. Sitting on the stone bench, I tried again. "You never talk about your homeland. Everyone misses something—don't you?"

"No one's left to miss," he said flatly. "No point in longing for empty land."

"Not even one person?" I gasped, incredulous.

"Not one."

I faltered, hope curdling into pity. I'd lost my world, my body, but I had memories—my mother's bihu dance, my uncle's house, neighbors. He had only himself, his identity intact but his roots severed. "You're still you," I said softly.

He glanced at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I am."

"Are you?" I pressed, standing now, my doubts spilling free. "You're not lying, are you?"

He didn't answer, choosing silence as he always did, untouched by destiny's chains. Why me? Why was I bound while he walked free? "I know you're queen," he said at last, "but the one asking isn't Alokika. It's you. I owe you no answers."

"But I am queen," I countered, voice rising. "This body uses my soul to live. I have rights—to its name, its place, everything."

"I don't care who you are," I said, softer now, desperate. "If you're a spy, here to kill the queen, attack the king—do it. I'd welcome death. It might send me home."

He turned, his voice sharp. "Or trap you here forever."

I froze, feet rooted to the earth. "What?"

"You think dying here takes you back?" he said, stepping closer. "Nothing's that simple. To live again, you seize a body, hold it tight. Lose this one, and you're a wandering soul in Tapti's forests, prey for demons. Your human spirit's no match—they'd devour you, wipe you from existence. Here, there, everywhere. Death here is death."

My breath caught, grim certainty settling in my bones. "Then how do I go back?"

"Think where you came from."

"The lake," I whispered, the dream flashing—my parents beneath the water, calling.

"Not any lake," he said. "That lake, golden under a full moon. The one your people—Indrveer, Mitrabhanu, all of them—will die to keep you from. For Alokika, it's poison. For you, it's the way."

"Where is it?" I demanded, voice breaking.

He turned away, dismissive. "Not my place to say. Nothing's easy, Abhilasha. What human world do you come from, where life is?"

I stood, stunned, as he vanished into the garden's shadows. His words stung, each one a slap of reality. I'd sought him out, drawn by a pull I couldn't name, but he left me with more questions than answers. Why was he so bleak? I'd been pessimistic once, but his darkness dwarfed mine, a mirror I didn't want to face.

Sinking onto the bench, I stared at the hibiscus and marigolds, their colors mocking my turmoil. The lake—golden, forbidden—was my only hope, yet he'd made it sound impossible. Part of me wanted to chase him, demand more, but his push-and-pull confused me. He'd help, then withdraw; offer truths, then silence. What game was this?

Footsteps broke my thoughts—Mitrabhanu's, steady and familiar. I didn't turn, knowing his loyalty would clash with my longing. "Your Highness," he said, voice warm, "how's the weather today?"

I faced him, forcing a smile. "Fine. I wasn't expecting you here."

"Nor I you," he said, scanning the garden. "Talking to the butcher boy?"

I nodded, ignoring his subtle frown. "He agitates me," I admitted. "Never brings peace."

Mitrabhanu's eyes softened, but his tone held a warning. "You're queen, Alokika. You can't wander off speaking to him. I don't trust him."

"Neither do I," I said, surprising him. "That's why I confronted him. I think he's hiding something."

"About?" He tilted his head, a bird landing on his palm, chirping sweetly. He stroked its feathers, patient, as it stayed.

I waited for the bird to fly off, then spoke. "He's not who he says. I've dreamed of a scar on his arm—a boy in a forest, attacked, fighting alone. I saw it on him."

Mitrabhanu's hand stilled. "I've seen it too. That scar—I know it from somewhere, but I can't place it."

"You've noticed?" I leaned closer. "Have you met him before?"

"No," he said, frowning. "But it's familiar. Like a memory I've lost."

"He's not a tribal prince," I insisted, conviction growing. "I dream of that scar, over and over. It's a sign."

Mitrabhanu let the bird fly, his gaze distant. "Be careful, Your Highness. Dreams and doubts can lead you astray—or into danger."

I nodded, but the butcher boy's words echoed louder than Mitrabhanu's caution. The lake, the forest, the scar—they were pieces of a truth I'd yet to unravel, shadows cast by a crown I never chose.