Prolonge

Love stories are told in many ways-some through poetry, some in silence, and some carved in stone. But the rarest ones are not just remembered-they are reborn. This is one such story. A love so deep, so eternal, that not even death could end it. A love that began in the 16th century, in the golden deserts of Rajputana, where kingdoms clashed, honour was everything, and fate watched with quiet cruelty.

Back then, his name was Agastya.

He was not a prince. Not born of royal blood or silk-covered cradles. He was a warrior-sharp-eyed, strong, and steady. Raised in the shadows of swords and scrolls, he belonged to no one. Orphaned as a boy during a Mughal raid, Agastya was taken in by sages who taught him not just to fight, but to think, to feel, and to remember the old ways. He wore armour with pride, but he prayed before every battle. He was fire, but fire with discipline. A man of few words and unshakable loyalty, the kind of man who did not dream of palaces, yet fate had already chosen one for him.

And in that palace lived Princess Ambika.

Daughter of the Devgarh king, she was known far beyond the marble gates for her fierce spirit. Unlike the other princesses who practiced veena and embroidery, Ambika read battle maps and trained in archery at dawn. Her laughter rang like bells, and her eyes held a quiet intelligence that made even the ministers pause. She believed in justice, in courage, and in choosing her path. And when she first met Agastya-during a royal tournament where he bested her own brother-she saw something she hadn't expected: a man who did not try to impress her, yet couldn't hide the storm in his soul.

It began slowly.

Letters passed through trusted hands. Secret glances in the temple courtyard. A stolen moment in the royal gardens when the monsoon rain poured and he offered her his cloak, not as a soldier to a princess, but as a man to the woman he could not stop thinking about. There were no dramatic declarations. Just small, unshakable truths building between them. She, a royal promised to another for alliance. He, a warrior sworn to her father's service. But love doesn't ask for permission-it grows quietly, like roots beneath the earth.

By the time they confessed it, it was too late to turn back.

After all the trials, all the silence, and all the stolen nights under the stars, they made a choice that defied their world. Agastya and Ambika didn't run away-instead, they stood before the sacred fire in an ancient temple deep within the forests outside Devgarh. With only the priest and a handful of loyal allies as witnesses, they tied the knot in a quiet, sacred ceremony. No royal celebrations. No royal blessings. Just their vows whispered in the dark, with fire, water, and wind as their witnesses.

From that moment on, they were no longer prince and warrior, princess and outcast. They were husband and wife-bound not by rules, but by love that crossed every boundary.

For a while, it felt like the gods had given them mercy.

They lived in hiding in a small stone cottage hidden in the hills-away from the politics of Devgarh and the blood-stained court. Agastya taught village boys how to fight, how to honour the blade. Ambika helped women tend to herbs and wrote secret letters to her younger sister, who still lived within palace walls. Their days were filled with laughter, wildflowers, and quiet prayers for peace.

Then, one morning, Ambika told him-her voice shaking but her eyes shining-that they were going to have a child.

"But that one unfortunate night took Everything from them".

The warrior, the princess, and the child who never saw the world-gone in a single night. But something lingered behind in the ashes. Not their bodies, not their names... but their love. Unfinished. Unbroken. Waiting.

Waiting to return.

Centuries have passed since that night-the night the fire swallowed two lovers and the unborn child who never took a breath. The world moved on. Kingdoms crumbled. New cities rose where palaces once stood. Names changed. Histories were rewritten. But love-true love-leaves behind a mark that even time cannot erase.

In this life, Aryan was an architect-sharp, driven, and quietly ambitious. He spent his days sketching buildings and dreaming of building something of his own. There was always a strange pull in his heart, an emptiness he couldn't explain, like a song he once knew but had long forgotten.

Sadhvi was a literature professor-calm, soulful, and thoughtful. She painted in the early mornings, wrote late into the night, and taught her students the beauty of words and silence. Her stories often spoke of love, war, and longing-tales that felt like they came from a place she couldn't remember, but always felt.

They had never met. Not yet.

But sometimes, in passing crowds or quiet dreams, their souls brushed against each other. Neither knew why their hearts ached when they looked at the sky or heard a certain melody. But time remembered. Love remembered.

And soon, they would too.