A Magical Spell ~ Ramayan | @TheLadyAesthetic

1. Mere Moments

From where he stood, above the ground, high up in the clouds, Shakrajita peered contemptuously at the third prince, licking his lips with dangerous intent. The man was a formidable enemy indeed, Dashanan's son comprehended, as he watched him single-handedly annihilate divison after divison of the Lankan army.

The Rakshasa Prince pondered heavily for a few moments. He had to do something about this guy, lest he destroy the entire army.

Meghnad, illusionist that he was, concealed his form amid the raging duststorm on the battlegrounds.

Something clicked in the Rakshasa's brain, and he faintly smiled sinisterly, and looked down at a certain something in his chariot.

An intricately carved weapon, sparkling bright like the sun even amid the blinding sandstorm of the battlefield. Its odd yet divine shape resembled that of Mahadeva's celebrated trident. Its structure was encrusted with jewels rare even to the demigods, and the mere sight of it was frightening to the valiant.

The demon breathed in wicked determination, and wrapped his dark fingers around the missile of destruction, lifting it from its case, almost respectfully. He shifted his ominous gaze back to the unaware and unsuspecting Lakshman, who battled furiously beneath him. The young prince had not the slightest idea of the calamity hovering above his head -- in the literal sense.

Meanwhile, Shatrughna, who battled not too far away from his brother, caught sight of the barely visible Meghnad through the dense clouds of dust in his floating chariot, drifting dangerously close to his twin.

But it wasn't the dark skinned demon that caught the youngest prince's attention, but the gleaming object in his clawed hands. An object that announced deep foreboding to Sumitra's younger son. Almost in a flash, his eyes darted to his brother, and then they widened in sudden yet belated horror.

In a matter of mere moments, the disastrous weapon had dutifully left the blood-thirsty palms of the Rakshasa, and was now bolting at the speed of lightning towards Dasarath's third son.

Shatrughna's mind raced, then abruptly went blank. His mind stopped functioning as he saw only his brother now, who was presently caught by surprise at the sudden roar of death speeding toward him.

Without a second thought, the prince bounded from his chariot and made a run for Lakshman, though something in him told him that he was too late already.

As the shakti-astra roared deafeningly, almost as if demanding attention, all heads turned toward it as though obligated. All fighting ceased on the invaded battlegrounds of Ayodhya, as both men and animals turned to witness one of history's most powerful weapons in action. Silence prevailed, except the earsplitting din reverberating from the murderous weapon.

Rama, who stood about two miles from the twins, through the clamour, recognized the weapon's target. His heart dropped, and his face contorted in horror. The prince had discerned the identity of the now flaming weapon the moment he'd laid eyes on it. And he knew well the destruction it could cause.

Rama wanted to do something. He wanted to shout. At who? Lakshman? Or maybe his charioteer? Or maybe he wanted to engulf his brother in an embrace so secure that the weapon wouldn't ever reach him. But the silence of the field, drowned out by the unfading blare of the weapon which was most obviously basking in all the attention, had pretty notably stunned everyone in the vicinity. No one dared move, not even Rama or his brothers. The only one that moved at all, was the weapon. Even Shatrughna seemed to momentarily freeze in time, as all this happened in a matter of mere moments.

A sharp swipe, that echoed ominously throughout the dead stretch of land, and then a cry of pain, which also echoed. And that cry, so real and pain-laden it was, it snapped the surroundings back to life, bringing an abrupt and melancholic end to the illusory spell.