❛ . . . and she wonders if it's serenity that she demands, or savagery ? ❜
As the Kurus lament and the world cries out in pain cursing the destiny, the charming trickster with a flute knows that for him, the silver-tongued Dvaraka prince, love and w...
The ripples of water descended on the frosty floors with a plop, rupturing the deafening hush of the fortress. Shrouded in an eldritch darkness, the corners appeared like houses of looming beasts to the residents. The blueth of the sky had now morphed into a timeless melancholic shade, brumous weather overtaking it. Draped in ostentatious and manhandled garbs was she, staring into the yonder with dampened hope etched in her doe eyes.
Her bruised flesh set his insides on fire, a lone tear mourned by clinging to the corner of her orbs. Vaishnavi hugged her knee hard, desperate to stifle her nerve-wracking sobs that threatened to spill out of her nectarine lips that were now bloodied and chapped. Her frame shook, shrinking as the ruthless winds of the nightfall stung her bones.
The iron fetters around her limbs were re-attached sometime ago, her blood moons never seeming to come to a cease. The ugly chortles of a monstrous divinely born haunted her, shattering all hopes of life. Lamenting, she gathered herself and floundered to the window pane where not even the winds gave rise to what was called elation, choking her to a thousand deaths every day.
Kanha smiled sadly, keeping a hand over his heart to soothe the spasm in it. His Hridayaa felt the same ache crash through her, fiddle-footed, as a feeling of foreboding flew to her subconscious.
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Her archer fingers played the symphony of her bow, the armour on her auspicious frame gleaming when the resplendent rays clashed unfiltered on it. When the honey skin of Yadavi complimented a dark one, it was time for the brahmanda to know that VaasudevaShvaasaa herself had stepped in to rescue the pious.
The knells of doom and battle echoed through the warfield, the troops of either sides waiting with bated breaths for the call to mercilessly slash their armaments on the nemesis army. Seated on the PakshiRaja were BhuVaraha, whose duty and affection as the seed-giving parents behove them to end their biological progeny who had grown unrighteous under the influence of evil company and won't budge.
Kanha's bow which he wielded as Vishnu launched volleys of shafts, the lord of ascetics appearing like Yama himself to the unvirtuous. Brawn and dark physique as mighty as the son of wind, he was the sun to the zenith of darkness of immorality. Not only his unparalleled strength, the slayer of Kamsa possessed astute brains that were obstinate in putting an end to that gruesome war which had seen several noontides and matutinal golden hours by then.
"PrānaNāyaka," Satyabhama's breath was caught in her throat as she gazed at her lord, acquiescing to the ache building in his anatomy as the repercussion of the astra hurled at him. Her husband winced, ducking under the shade of Garuda who snapped his head back, anxiety clouding his sharp features.
For a few seconds black spots danced before the almighty's vision and when she reached out in the fit of panic and grief, he had passed out. From his wound, wine hued, hot liquid trickled out as it mingled with the tears of JagatMata, her breaths shuddering. Satyabhama looked back at Narakasura and there was no revealed epiphany in his eyes. In lieu, he stared at her with contempt and a smirk, pleased with himself and his villainous act.
