The Gaze of Divine

The soft music of the gamelan echoed through the open field, blending with the scent of burned incense and fresh-cut flowers.

Dyah Netarja, flanked by Ra Kuti and Marini, stood beneath the ceremonial canopy. The villagers of Kalentang had gathered in polite rows, their faces a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Children peeked from behind their parents' sarongs, while the elders stood solemn, hands folded, as a warm breeze stirred the banners strung between bamboo poles.

She had been through many ceremonies before—formal receptions at the Majapahit palace, temple blessings high in the mountains. But this one felt different.

Not because of the scale—it was humble.

Not because of the audience—they were strangers.

But because of him.

Amid the sea of villagers, just as the priest's chant reached its final verse, she saw him. A boy. Perhaps a villager. Perhaps a wanderer. He stood quietly at the edge of the gathering, his eyes locked onto hers the moment they met.

And then, time seemed to stretch—just a little. The world fell away, leaving only that still gaze.

It wasn't dramatic. No gust of wind. No flash of prophecy. But something shifted, deep and quiet, within her.

He appeared to be about her age. His clothes were plain—frayed tunic bound with a simple cloth at the waist. Dust clung to his sandals. A single lock of hair had slipped free from his knot, catching the sunlight.

There was nothing particularly striking about him. Nothing, except for his eyes.

They held the stillness of a dawn-lit lake.

Not cold. Not blank. But knowing.

She blinked.

He didn't.

And in that moment, it felt as if he had seen through her—past the ceremonial jewelry, past her noble blood, past the careful words and gestures. Into something deeper, something even she dared not face too often.

She looked away first.

The final chant echoed. The villagers bowed their heads. Ra Kuti stepped forward, delivering his speech—an announcement of their temporary stay in Kalentang, three months. A murmur of polite surprise rippled through the crowd. Curious glances flickered.

But not from him.

When she dared to look back, he was still watching—still as unruffled as before, as though he had been waiting far longer than just that moment. As if her arrival had never been in question.

And that unsettled her.

She hadn't told anyone—not Ra Kuti, not Marini, not even her attendants.

Only her mother.

In a quiet chamber, the night before her departure, she had whispered, "I must go. There's something waiting for me there."

Her mother had nodded, calm and knowing, as though her daughter's strange sense for truth had long been accepted.

But this boy—he shouldn't have known.

He couldn't have.

And yet, he did.

The ceremony proceeded—prayers, offerings, greetings—all while Dyah smiled, bowed, and spoke where needed. But her thoughts were anchored to that gaze. The boy whose eyes had reached inside her, seeing something that even she hadn't yet named.

Later, when they met formally, it was unnerving—not sharp or demanding, but full of something subtle and strange. His gaze was tender, proud, and layered with a depth that felt far older than the boy standing before her.

It was not the way a boy looks at a girl. It wasn't that simple.

It was the gaze of a father watching his child take their first step. Of a guardian witnessing something rare bloom. Of a god glimpsing a spark he had once placed in the world—now burning bright.

Dyah hated how easily her mind drifted toward such metaphors. Hated how quickly her thoughts slipped into something vast and incomprehensible.

Because she was ten. Ten years old.

She should have been playing by the riverside—laughing, skipping stones, chasing dragonflies. Not pondering the ancient weight in a stranger's eyes.

Sometimes, being too clever didn't feel like a gift.

She had always learned too quickly. Reading, math, debate, poetry—they had come without effort. She understood adult conversations before she could even tie her own sash. Her awareness had been sharpened like a blade.

But now, that same blade cut in ways she didn't know how to stop. Because she couldn't ignore what she felt.

She didn't know what Jaka was—not yet.

But she knew he wasn't ordinary.

And she knew—he knew something about her. Something she hadn't found in herself yet.

And still, she felt no fear, no discomfort. Only a quiet, maddening warmth.

It confused her.

This wasn't infatuation. She had seen court ladies swoon, read poetry about love, watched her cousins fall in and out of heartbreak. This wasn't that.

Nor was it simple admiration.

It was something else. A blend of emotions—soft, but undeniable.

Curiosity. Gratitude. Awe. Comfort.

Even—maybe—love.

And maybe, just maybe, a little longing.

For what? She couldn't say.

They had only met once. Spoken barely a handful of words. And yet, the familiarity between them was deeper than she felt with some of her own kin.

She replayed that moment again and again.

He stood still while others bowed, his gaze unwavering, and for an instant, it felt as though the wind itself had paused.

And then, she realized something she hadn't expected.

She wanted to see him again.

Not to ask questions, though she had many. Not to demand answers, though she was relentless when she wanted to be.

She simply wanted to look into his eyes again. To see if the feeling would remain. To know if it was real. Or if it had been just a strange echo of incense, ceremony, and fate.

She was a princess. There were rules, obligations, schedules.

But she was also Dyah Netarja.

And if Jaka lived in this village, there would be chances to cross paths again.

And if those chances didn't come—

She would make them.

With or without permission.

Because this time, she wasn't chasing duty. She was chasing certainty.

And maybe—just maybe—something far greater than that.