Heroes die young...the sentence hung itself around her as Arya watched the fog descend. Heroes die young. There was a wreath of roses in her hand, dump with morning dew and pearl white in colour. But she wished for a blade instead, a sword, a dagger, something that could cause some damage. Instead all she had was a dry scream tight in her throat and a bleeding heart, a title with no influence and a friendship that went hand in hand with death if offered. So she fell on her knees, on the mound of freshly dug earth, head bowed and fists clenched as she laid the wreath of roses on the unnamed grave of her beloved guardian; the man who saved her at the cost of his life. The unfairness of it all choked her breath, as tears squeezed out of her closed eyes. He should be a hero, he should be remembered. More than all of it, he should have been alive.
Her world had never been fair. It took loyalties too seriously. Bonds as shackles, promises as vows; her world did not recognize the changing nature of emotions, circumstances, fate instead it declared retreat a betrayal fit for death. It was that day, on the graveyard of the guardians Arya decided that she would never tie herself to this world; to another life, another being who would lose their free will in the process. No, Arya was no slave, nor was she a queen; she was a hero and heroes die young.
**
Soldiers never sleep...the words from old whispers had woken her to that bleeding dawn. Their guilt keep them awake, the cries of the fallen keep them awake, nightmares of blood and death shake them awake. Soldiers never sleep...Her fingers smoothed over the cutting edge of the armour's breastplate before she helped him don it. The metal clicked to place ominously, a cold layer over his heart. Placing a hand over the carved bolt in the cold metal she wondered if it will be enough to keep him alive. Their gazes collided and he offered a grim smile. She swallowed those words again. The news that had driven her all the miles between the safe castle to the Warfield. She didn't know if he read the secrets on her eyes, those hazel orbs had never successfully kept anything hidden. Or perhaps, he knew her a bit too well. But the words didn't come when the silence invited them. She couldn't tell him. Will he live to learn it?
Instead she returned his smile with a faint one of her own and brushed a strand of hair off his face. A touch, that she allowed to linger, tracing his features. The sun was warm then and the time was ticking away.
"Be safe, my prince, she said in the end. It was the naga practice, they never wished for victory.
Aruna knew she wasn't being truthful enough. She wasn't really worried for his life. In the hazy silver dawn light she caught herself musing if the war would leave him unscathed. Will he return the same man? And the words repeated themselves. Soldiers never sleep...
**
For the greater good...was the mantra he grew up to. In the silence of the dingy den it kept repeating itself. In a whisper that was low enough to be private but loud enough not to be ignored.
How long has it been? A month? A year? A decade? The shackles on his wrists had cut, the cuts had bled and healed over and over again. He was no longer sure how long it had been. The depths of Agnimandal knew no day or night.
But it was his failure that tortured him endlessly. He knew nothing of compassion, raised as a shadow of most vicious night forces, he had never given his heart a thought. Then how could his trained arm, sharp focus fail him in the last and the most crucial minute? Mohan had never worried about his fate, or the results of his actions. He wouldn't mind if he was imprisoned for a century after his task was done. But, no, these walls and darkness and silence was nothing but a reminder of that moment, which played itself in his mind over and over again.
He was supposed to kill that boy, finish it off before the evil found its vassal. But no, his own heart had thwarted him. The look in those silvery eyes, as they looked at him over the cutting edge of the blade...as if curious, as if questioning what was his fault after all? Simply bearing an ill fate?
Mohan groaned, frustrated. Unable to recall his own mantra at the moment of need. He wondered if the boy was grown up by now? Was he crowned? A prince? A king? Was he good or evil? Did he follow his destiny or did he choose his own fate? In the night it returned to him, and lulled him into an uneasy sleep. For the greater good.
**
The better one...his brother was called all his life. Other than a pang of jealousy that he felt in the younger years, Ram had never really given those words a thought. But at that moment, sitting by the fire lit on the frozen ground, surrounded by people who would march to death at sunrise, he finally mused what a burden it was.
Proving himself at each turn, trying to break his own standards, what a demanding title it was.
The old man sitting opposite to him was carving a wood with a small knife. It had already taken the shape of a toy dragon, its front legs and the roaring mouth. He wondered how many of those the man might have made. Would they all be same? Was it just to expect them to be? Was it just to ask one to step into the place molded for another? Was he, as good as his brother at this?
There it was, the burden finally resting on him and Ram found the gazes of his comrades following him as he rose. It was then he realized, as he read the trust reflected in those wary, weathered eyes, that this place had been his all along. It was him the people had chosen, it was him they trusted in, it was him they would die for, come tomorrow. It was a simple truth, but it's impact life altering. That night Ram acknowledged it for the first time ever, he was the better one.
***
Prologue...page 2
Cricket
Chakravarti Samrat Prithviraj Chauhan
Mangal Lakshmi
