A Magical Spell ~ Ramayan | @TheLadyAesthetic

22. Blossoms Of Love

"WHAT?!"

The Rakshasa ruler's deep voice resounded in enraged disbelief across the golden walled structure of Kuvera's ancient courtroom, almost breaking through the surface.

Ravana rose slowly from his throne, his eyes red with immeasurable wrath as he visually scanned the royal corpse, placed securely under a sheet of pure white.

Mandodari's soft yet conspicuous sobs rang out through the eerily silent hall, piercing the tense atmosphere like a shard through one's flesh.

His anger only skyrocketing further, Lankesh turned his bloodred gaze to his emotionally shaken wife. "Shut up! Stop crying!" He bellowed, descending the golden steps, his murderous gait never failing him.

"H..How is this...Possible? My son. He conquered Indra, the god of gods! Then HOW?! How did a mere mortal, barely an experienced warrior, manage to perform this inhumane task?!" He thundered wrathfully, and the ten directions remained silent, terrified as was expected of them.

The sons stood to the side, stunned, too shocked to react. Finally, Akshay broke the ice, a sob leaving his trembling lips.

Sinking to the ground, Ravana's son began to wail inconsolably, blabbering incoherent phrases of undefined emotion.

Taking their cue, the women standing high up in the balconies began weeping out loud as if they had been paid to do so, their piteous lamentations singing in an awful chorus across the solid walls of sparkling metal, that stood protectively around the ruler's palace.

Dashanan knew it was worthless to tell them to stop. The death of Meghnad had indeed shaken the spirits out of the Lankan hearts.

On that most unfortunate night in the prosperous island that once belonged to Kuvera, all lamps that had previously been lit in pompous honor of the victorious prince's triumphant return, were sorrowfully extinguished, allowing a thick cloud of gloom to envelope the once celebrating city. The mourning citizens returned in shock to their respective dwellings, some cursing the princes of Ayodhya, some wailing for the fate of their valiant prince, others wondering how a mere mortal brought down in battle the defeater of Shakra, and still others daring to praise Sumitra's son for ridding planet earth of one extra burden. It was a wonder indeed, and commendable for that matter. And for the record, Indrajeet was highly despised, like his father, even amidst the citizens of his own city. The reasons were obvious.

Ravana stepped into his confined room of worship, having loosened his dreadful locks of serpent-like hair. His crimson eyes locking with the enormous effigy, glowing red like the early morning sun, representing Kailash-pati, placed reverentially in the center of the massive chamber, Vishrava's ten-headed son approached the sacred altar of pure gold, his every step impressing heavily upon the earth.

Placing a bright red hibiscus atop the grand Shiva Linga as an act of courteous respect, the world-conquering demon shifted his gaze to the glistening spear, laid out magnificently with utmost regard upon a golden platform before Mahadeva, adorned with sacred flowers and sandalwood. Crafted lethally of pure gold, encrusted with rare jewels such as the crimson diamond, and adorned with eight bells that roared solely the name of death when they rattled, Maya Danava's invincible lance was frightening to behold, even to the most heartless Daityas.

Forwarding his own bludgeon like arm, the Rakshasa sovereign encircled his serpentine fingers, decked with menacing rows of darkly embellished rings, around the hilt of that ever murderous weapon. His red eyes lifting to meet Nandishvara's deity, the demon exhaled heavily like a kicked cobra.

"Dasharathnandan Lakshman. You may well have killed my invincible son today, by whatever illusory means you utilized. But mark my words, one day I shall bring you down in battle, just the way Mandodari's valiant son had done days ago. Mark my words."