Exactly two drops of blood were deposited on his tongue as he sliced the old Brahmin’s head off in one swift motion. He could taste it when his tongue embraced his palate as he swallowed in satisfaction. They were warm. Only seconds ago, they were keeping his mortal enemy alive. Those two drops were his catharsis, the sole purpose of his life.
Exactly two drops of ghee were poured into the sacred fire from which he emerged, a fatuous infant born to avenge his father’s humiliation at the hands of the Brahmin. They used to be dense and inseparable once. The Brahmin had killed him not many hours ago and so his blood tasted bittersweet.
The war came to an abrupt stop. One commander in chief had just murdered the other in a shocking turn of events that caused turmoil on both sides. No one knew whether to continue fighting or acknowledge the moment. The Brahmin could’ve destroyed an army in the blink of an eye with a telekinetic sliver of grass but it was not to be.
The loss of a son can be traumatic and not without reason. Even the idea of it can make fools out of intelligent men. Somewhere, a chariot came crashing down to the earth, even if only from 4 inches. Dharmaraja had just told a lie and it was weighing on him making his steel armor and quiver full of chrome arrows feel like dandruff in comparison.
A man who had just lost his own son just days ago was aghast. He had lost the one who taught him to hold a bow, mount an arrow on it. His hand subconsciously reached for his sheath, drew his sword amd jumped off the chariot. All hell would break loose. Exactly two drops of sweat fell off his brow.