The Defeated
So-
I've been away for the longest time, and well, so far, it seems as if it has been ages since I'd written something here, and @demonkidpliz 's writing kind of prompted me to throw it out here. Not that anyone asked for it.
Goodness, it has been so SO LONG! Just tagging people here for a slight knock. I just, love you all so so much, that I'll probably find my way in here eventually! :D
@demonkidpliz @vidhurvrika @bleedinknight @chaanv @alwaysthesideofwonder @raat-jaaga-paakhi @carminavulcana @pratigyakrishnaki @phandomoftheowl @kalpansh
And anyone else here. Heaven knows I've forgotten such a lot.
----------------------------------------------
Fandom: Mahabharat/StarPlus Mahabharat
Pairings: Bheema/Draupadi
Warnings: Mentions of War | PTSD | Trauma | Bloodshed
Summary: The Second Pandava deals with ghosts of the War. Alone.
Disclaimer: This is entirely a work of fiction, based on an idea I had while reading C. Rajagopalachari's version of the Mahabharata. But I do have to say this, this has a lot to offer that is different from the Mahabharata that is actually popular. I just hope that this resonates with the readers, and you read this, and find this worth your time and your feedback. Please leave a short comment or a like, whatever you may deem fit. And as always!
THANK YOU!
----------------------------------------------
Chapter 1:
The Shadows:
“My Lord,” an earnest call beckoned to him in the midst of a dimly-lit Kridangan. The voice doesn’t serve as an intrusion or an offence, since, his pursuit of the arena is more habitual than practical these days. Yet, a phantom lightness in his being bids him to ignore it.
“He might not have heard us, Mother,” another voice caresses his ear, this time from a boy, probably no older than Abhiman-
Vrikodara closes his eyes, in a desparate attempt to stop himself from recalling the name.
The resignation in the older woman’s conduct seems to register with him.
“Pardon me, Mother,” he says, hoping they had heard him before they left.
Hoping it would stop them.
—----
“I have no use for sparrers, Mother,” he says, much to the chagrin of the widow who had brought her son along for employment in the Palace of the Kurus. The boy’s Father, he was told, was a soldier in the cavalry of Hastinapura.
“If My Prince may spare us some consideration,” the lady kept her eyes lowered, much to Bhimasena’s relief, “my late husband, once served as a sparrer for the princes and kings in the castle, as did his father before that,”
“The Younger Queen Mother, was kind enough to refer us to you, My Lord,” she continued, breaking the Second Pandava with every word she spoke.
“Mother,” Bheema managed to speak, “I shall be obliged, if you would be kind enough to speak to The Queen,” he turned his eyes towards the boy, “I’m certain, he shall find employment elsewhere herein,”
He left, with folded hands, and his gaze lowered, before the knot in his chest tightened further.
—----
He had bid the lights to remain extinguished in their chamber. His senses do not let him recall the times when he wanted his chamber to be lit brilliantly as day after the evening prayers.
Another breath mingles with his, just as familiar to him as his own, just as forlorn to him as his own. He affords himself a momentary reprieve of letting his exhalations synchronise with hers. Her shapely silhouette offers him with some semblance of solace. It behooved him to receive her sobriety. After all, he had always known her to receive his thoughts even before they could make their way to his lips.
—----
“There has been no correspondence from Ekachakra, yet again,” she almost whispers.
Bheema’s hands clasp the edge of the bed, brushing close to that of his wife for that year.
Panchaali lets her right hand rest on his left, hoping to partake her husband’s discomfort. Yet, she doubted if an iota of his grief had been assuaged by any measure.
“Hidimba,” Bheema breathes the name, akin to a prayer, as if expecting his firstborn to walk in through the doors, smiling warmly from ear to ear, unscathed, unblemished, probably an older likeness of the boy he had seen earlier today.
“She’s meteing a punishment that befits the sin I have accrued, it seems,” Panchaali’s breath cuts through the air with its characteristic lotus fragrance. She doesn’t strain a tear either.
Crying would make it easier, she chides herself.
Crying would lessen my penance, her resolve affirms.
“Hidimba has never been unfair, Panchaali,” he tells her impassively, as she feels the tremor in his voice.
Another confabulation of silences followed.
32 notes
·
View notes