The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

Herbs Won't Heal Every Wound

If Indrajit was like Ravan in anything but terribleness, it was ego. A very big, very infamous, and very undefeatable, ghastly ego. And currently, he was seething with a simmering, neverending anger as he sat upon his bed, his hands folded together so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and he gritted his teeth together so furiously that his front tooth was chipped into a sharp, dagger like point. If Indrajit was like Ravan in anything but terribleness, it was the thirst that was never satiated for blood.

Sulochana shuddered, but she didn't say anything, not a word, as her husband paced the room. Simply adjusting her maang tikka, she turned around and placed the large, golden bangle that she was wearing back into the drawers of her jewelry chest and stood up, brushing herself off. Finally, the silence was too much for her to bear, and her eyes flashed dark and angry as she approached Indrajit and smacked his chest. Hard. He stumbled, almost back into the bed, before he balanced himself and his eyes lit.

"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" he roared, his infamous temper finally triggered. He grabbed Sulochana's hand and pulled her towards him. "What was that for, you good-for-nothing-" he trailed off, but his grip did not weaken, and his temper did not slow. "You know, this must be your fault. You said that nothing could defeat me on the battlefield, and then something did, didn't it? Something made me run off of the place where I live, where I thrive, and now-"
Indrajit mumbled incomprehensible things, his hand rushing towards his astras as always, and for a moment, Sulochana finally felt something pang in her heart. Fright. Not that she hadn't felt the emotion before, for she had. Every time her husband walked into battle, his entire body in flames but remaining untouched, pristine as ever, she felt fright crawl inside her like a betrayal to all of her trusting words.

But it wasn't fright like this, fright for herself. It wasn't like she ever thought that her words wouldn't come true. She never imagined that Indrajit would want to hurt her. The woman he fell for. She remembered, ever so wistfully, a time where the prince of the great and revered Lanka fell to his knees in front of her, and practically begged her to marry him. Her own ego had been stroked with this gesture, and she had agreed. Indrajit was a most handsome prince.

But time showed, as it always did, and time told, as it was prone to doing, that there was so much behind this handsome young warrior prince. There was the sly cleverness of a fox, and the ferocious fighting of a tiger, and pride as great as the one of an elephant, but he was not the humble man who had fallen to his knees. No, he was the son of Ravan, and he would go to great, and truly, every length, to prove that he deserved that title. Well she had a title too. She was a princess too.

And then Sulochana straightened herself up and glared into his eyes. Her own were a dark, bottle green, an endless pit of sharp glass, which Indrajit had once peered into, had gotten lost in. She wrenched her hand out of his grasp and drew herself up into an unassisted stance. "You seem to forget, son of Ravan, that I am Sulochana, Princess of the Nagas, and I am the daughter of Seshnag, and I have every astra at my disposal should you leave me. I am not only your wife!" Indrajit opened his mouth and closed it.

"So tomorrow, my words will come true. Tomorrow, Indrajit, I will give you an astra that I never showed you before. Tomorrow, I shall show you why I married you. A princess as great as I deserves a prince. A prince grander than all princes. And tomorrow, with this weapon, you shall show everyone why you are the husband of Sulochana, the prince of Lanka, and imminently, the son of Ravan, the pride of the City of Gold."

-----O-----

The sun rose up over the mountains again, and Ram led out the army once more. This time, Lakshman insistently grasped his bow, and Ram, with a sigh, let him. The truth was, in war, he never really trusted anyone to not hurt his Laksh. Sure, his brother was great with war, and loved it too, but what if he got hurt? What if someone thought 'Oh! Kind-hearted, fierce, and loyal! Perfect! Let's kill him next!' That always seemed to happen, the best of people died, and it was no secret that Lakshman almost always almost died.