"Damaged women are the most dangerous kind, because they already know that they can survive."
Vrinda is the only female child of The Pandavas. More specifically she is the daughter born out of wedlock between the mighty prince Arjun and his common w...
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(Trigger warning; This chapter contains some mature adult scenes. Please keep that in mind while reading. Thank you. )
V R I N D A
Death. Such a dire circumstance. A dance that shatters with its every move. A feather that fleets away with a freed soul and an unshed tear. Was that all it was? Not a process of pain that results in peace?
Pain. A feeling that man avoids with every being of his fiber. Hurt; all of that hurt caused in a dire circumstance is quite a miracle. Yes; a miracle, I'd call it. Because how does pain only cause hurt and not insanity? Maybe the possibilities of the descent to insanity had already been fulfilled by the living.
The kingdom of Matsya was drowning. With grief? No something much stronger than that. A feeling that consumed; even the bones of the human matter.
Fear.
Prince Kichak was dead.
The sole armor of this kingdom had been broken to dust, and nobody knew how such a spectacle could take place when the entirety of the kingdom was comfortable under their blankets in a blissful slumber; consumed by the illusion of safety.
It wasn't that Kichak was not considered a tyrant by the Mastsyan populace, But King VIrat was bound by familial and political boundaries, which stopped the old king from shunning him. Not just King Virat; but even the youngest citizens of Matsya knew that the Queen's brother was the only shield of strength that they had.
Hence, endurance was a skill the Matsyan populace had mastered over the years of continuous exposure to Kichak's tyranny.
The Queen's wails were ear shattering.
"Kichak, My brother!" She cried as she hugged his lifeless figure, presently cleaned of all the blood and dirt. Kichak looked more at peace than in pain, compared to how I had seen him few hours ago, almost stranggled and mutilated to death.
Bade Baba has always had his ways. I thought; slightly glancing towards the cook, Ballava who had his bowed down like the rest of the palace staff in respect and grief for the departed soul.
My eyes wondered towards my mother. She was standing quite far from the usual lot. A corner of the royal hall, where she knew most attention would be on the dead prince and his grieving family. Her demenour was quite fierce and there was a slight smile on her face. Her dark skin looked golden in the plain orange saree she had draped on herself.
She just stood there, silently enjoying the dance of death.
I walked towards my mother; covering my face with the hanging veil of my saree. Her eyes looked at my approaching figure and gleamed with approval.
