Chapter 41 - Winding Down & Epilogue

The head's jaws creaked, and a loud wheeze escaped it as the head came to life. Its paleness lessened and gained a lively hue. Its eyes blinked and dilated visibly as they grew accustomed to the darkness. They swerved around before latching onto Kratos. The head smiled, "We meet again, my Lord."

Kratos held the head and stared at it in confusion.

"It seems your collection of talking heads has grown," Brahma said with a chuckle. "I figured it was an enchantment of that sort. But you've grown quite adept at masking your magic. I could not smell it even when it was right under my nose."

"Subtlety is a fleeting art, Your Excellence," Ravana's head said with a smile.

Kratos let out a growl, and Brahma spoke up with a sigh, "Our carrier needs clarification, Ravana."

"My Lord," Ravana addressed Kratos, "I enchanted this head to behave as both a vessel and anchor, with the condition that it would activate the moment my soul is separated from my body."

"That is to say, the time of his death," Brahma expounded.

"When any sentient entity perishes, the soul - the thing that provides the sentience - leaves the mortal vessel and enters the cycle of reincarnation. The enchantment intercepts the soul from entering the cycle," Ravana continued.

"So… it makes you immortal," Kratos concluded.

"In a way," Ravana half-affirmed. "Going against the natural order without consequence is nigh impossible. So much has to be sacrificed to facilitate this… let's call it a 'grafting of the soul'."

"I was actually inspired by Your Excellence," Ravana said while looking at Brahma's head.

There was silence. As Kratos absorbed the information, he placed Ravana's head beside Brahma.

"So you died to him," Brahma stated. Ravana hummed in response.

"What happened?" Brahma probed.

"Does the process matter?" Ravana said with a bitter smile.

"Not really," Brahma sighed. "I was just trying to make conversation."

"My life as Ravana, the Ruler of Lanka, is over," Ravana expressed. "I think that is all that matters now."

Ravana smiled, "This is my last act of rebellion against my destiny."

Brahma furrowed his brows. Even with all of his mental faculties in play, he could not determine Ravana's thoughts.

"It is only a theory," Ravana explained. "But as I was forced to face my own mortality and impending demise, I was struck with a rather amusing thought. What am I?"

He looked at Kratos and reiterated, "What did you see when you saw me? What did you learn when you got to know me? How would you define me?"

"Is it my soul that defines who I am?" Ravana probed. "Or is it my vessel? Or is it something else?"

"You can take a clay pot and fill it with water. You can take a golden chalice and fill it with the same amount of water from the same source. What the two vessels contain will be the same liquid. You can take two chalices and fill one with water and another with poison. Both liquids are being held by the same vessel," Ravana expressed. "I know that it is a rather crude simplification of what a soul and vessel could be. But that is where the thought stemmed from."

"A vessel only holds meaning when another interacts with it," Ravana continued. "If that water sits untouched in a sealed tomb forever, it is entirely inconsequential. It affects nothing. For all intents and purposes, it is nothing."

"What I am is not necessarily what I believe myself to be," Ravana explained. "My identity is the result of what others perceive. I could have existed as a complete ascetic. I could have isolated myself in a cave and affected no one. If I did that, I would be nothing."

Brahma's eyes widened in realisation as the pieces fell into place.

"But I did not hide," Ravana said. "I was the Ruler of Lanka: the most prosperous civilisation in Bhuloka. I was the most influential entity under the heavens. My destiny declared that the Ruler of Lanka would suffer a downfall at the hands of a chosen warrior."

Ravana smiled, and his tone grew light. "Take away the kingdom, the influence, and the body. What am I then? If my destiny was tied to the Ruler of Lanka, all I had to do was get rid of the Ruler."

He let out a raspy laugh. "Which I did."

"That is an… interesting loophole," Brahma commented. "Would the Universe agree?"

"That is for us to see, isn't it?" Ravana responded with a smile. "Nonetheless, I will not burden you, my lord," he said to Kratos. "At the first sign of any issue caused by destiny's machinations, do not hesitate to discard me. Till then, I will do everything within my power to be of help to you."

"Speaking of…" Brahma interjected, "What can you do?"

"My magic remains intact, though to a limited extent, since my vessel is lacking parts," he explained. "I guess it would be easier to respond to a need as opposed to listing everything that is within my capacity."

"I need to pass through the town without being recognised," Kratos proposed immediately.

"Disguise and illusion are trivial," Ravana said. "Please attach me to your waist."

Kratos hooked Ravana's head to his waist. A gentle vibration spread out from his waist that reached his head and toes, followed by a ripple that moved over every corner and crevice of his body before reflecting and converging back to the source.

"It is done," Ravana said.

Kratos looked at his hand and feet and growled, "There is no difference."

"The difference is only evident when observed by a third party. Take a look at your reflection," Brahma answered in Ravana's stead.

Kratos picked up an ignited branch from the campfire and moved towards the flowing river. Although the water wasn't stagnant, the flow was gentle enough to allow a clear reflection to be evident. And what Kratos saw in there wasn't his face.

Well, it was his face before it all happened. The red mark on his face and body had disappeared. The ash embedded in his skin was also gone. There were no scars, no blemishes or remnants of hardships and trials.

A man arrived at a juncture. Before him lay two paths. If Kratos had chosen differently at that juncture, maybe this is what he would look like now.

As Kratos touched his face, he could still feel it all there. The scars. The coarseness. It was all hidden underneath this perfect facade.

"This… will do," he said finally before extricating himself from his reflection. "Maintain it until I ask you to stop."

Ravana smiled, "Glad to be of your service, my Lord."

Without the ashen skin and red marks that usually made him the cynosure of any crowd, Kratos had a startlingly easy time navigating straight through the town.

As he passed the town centre, Kratos was intrigued by just how much the locale had changed since his last visit. In fact, it was only at this point that he realised just how much time had passed since he'd last been here.

"Almost two hundred years," Kratos parroted with evident surprise.

"It makes more sense now, doesn't it?" Brahma affirmed. "It is not an insignificant achievement for a small farming village to turn into a sprawling town like this."

Kratos stood before the entrance to the temple in the town centre. It wasn't the same hasty mud-bricked dwelling. It had grown. The single chamber had steadily pushed outward and upward. The narrow dirt track that had once circled the altar had been widened, levelled, and paved.

A multi-storeyed edifice now rose where the humble alcove was initially situated. A proper courtyard had been carved into the ground around it, ringed with low stone benches, shaded by Neem and Peepal trees. The temple's outside walls displayed an elaborate mural carved into the stone. They narrated the entire story of his confrontation with the replicating Rakshasa. It circled the temple across its multiple levels and converged at the entrance.

By design, Kratos could stand at the entrance to the courtyard and see straight through, right towards the altar. And even from this distance, he saw the statue that he was so familiar with.

Age and wear had smoothened it out. But it had not lost its edge. In fact, it appeared to have grown strikingly closer in resemblance to his appearance.

He stood with four arms. Two wielded the Blades of Chaos, tied to their forearms with snaking chains. On his lower right arm, there was an axe. But a new addition had joined his lower left arm. Kratos glanced at his new bracer, and a confused frown crumpled his forehead. Because the idol was already wielding his new shield!

An eerie feeling started to slither up his spine. The longer he stood facing the idol, the more it grew. Not wanting to indulge it further, he turned and left.

"It looks like you've made a lasting difference to the people of this place, Kratos," Brahma commended.

"I did not do anything," Kratos denied.

"Maybe not intentionally. But sometimes, it is the side effects of our actions that define our existence," he responded. Though midway through his response, the mood in his voice dipped with bitterness and dismay.

The journey alongside Ganga continued southwards at a steady pace. Two days after leaving Bhasmodbhavapur, Kratos' path was intercepted by a large procession. What surprised him was that first, they were in the middle of a forest, which made the procession itself an incongruous sight; second, the procession was being led by monkeys.

Not exactly monkeys. These appeared far more human in appearance.

"Vanaras!" Brahma exclaimed.

Kratos moved to the side and let the Vanaras leading the procession pass.

It was a riot of colour and sound that seemed to bloom from the forest itself. Saffron and crimson banners snapped in the breeze above the sea of Vanaras whose fur ranged from tawny gold to deep russet. The thrumming of drums boomed louder as the procession closed in, and it was augmented with the in-rhythm footfalls of the procession bearers and the cymbals. And as they were right before him, the air grew thick with the perfume of crushed jasmine and marigold.

Before Kratos could step aside completely, a Vanara with silver-flecked fur and bright eyes broke from the line and draped him in a garland of fresh lotus and bilva leaves. Kratos had little time to react before the gentle weight pressed down on his shoulders and a fragrant, cool and sweet air brushed against his skin. The Vanara whooped and screeched as he joined the parade again.

Kratos waited for minutes that expanded into an hour. Yet the procession did not show any sign of receding. With his irritation growing, he decided to brush past the crowd and follow the river loosely. Eventually, he was able to pass what appeared to be the centre of the snaking parade.

At the heart of the procession rose a raised platform borne on the shoulders of two dozen Vanaras. Its wooden frame was draped in silks of gold and crimson. Above it, a canopy of embroidered velvet shielded three figures from the sun. Two stood at either end, while one sat in the centre upon a cushioned seat.

Kratos' footsteps halted. His attention honed in on one of the standing figures, and the woman seated on the cushion. He reached behind his waist and grabbed the hook attaching Ravana. He brought the head forward and pointed it in the direction of the platform.

Immediately, Ram turned and gazed in their direction.

For a moment, there was a lull as if the entire world had frozen still.

But Kratos noticed that there was no spark of recognition in the man's eyes. Ram smiled, waved and resumed his gaze onwards in the direction of the procession.

A shadow fell over Kratos. He looked up and noticed a large Vanara gliding above them.

"He did not recognise you," Kratos commented while returning Ravana to his waist.

"Not even Indra could see past my illusions. He is just a man," he said, referring to Ram. "Even if he is the vessel of one of the most powerful entities in existence."

A faint smile split Kratos' mien. "You are of some use after all."

Ravana smiled. Then, with light-hearted sarcasm, he said, "Glad to be of your service, my Lord."

It took a few days for Kratos to finally recognise where he was.

As he pondered on the journey, Kratos realised that he wasn't so perceptive of the passage of time during his journey upstream. At that time, the journey felt much, much longer. Was it because the river's trajectory had grown shorter due to erosion and natural processes?

Either way, it was hard to judge. And in the end, retrospection and introspection weren't something Kratos preferred to indulge in.

However, as he finally broke through the dense shrubbery and arrived at the familiar clearing deep inside the forest, a sense of nostalgia started to bubble up from within. The thatched house where he had first awoken to this world was barely recognisable. It had succumbed entirely to the relentless march of nature. Creeping vines and thick foliage aggressively choked the structure and pulled the rotting and waterlogged thatched roof inward. The wooden door hung limply off a single rusted hinge, half-buried in encroaching weeds. Nearby, the cow shed by the side of the cottage had completely collapsed into a heap of splintered wood and debris.

The lively sounds of songbirds and morning insects that used to dance across his ears had been replaced by a heavy, desolate silence. The only noises were the mournful creak of the decaying timber swaying in the breeze and the distant, rushing currents of the river Ganga.

He stepped closer, and the pungent, cloying stench of damp earth, mildew, and decomposing leaves filled his nostrils.

Wading into the overgrown yard, Kratos felt the coarse, wet brush and thorny weeds scrape against his legs and the tiger pelt draped over his shoulder. He reached out to touch the bare tree stump where he'd first touched the cursed axe - the catalyst that triggered the long journey within these lands.

Suddenly, Kratos felt empty. It all started to rush back in again: the hopelessness, the uselessness, the regret, the rage, the resentment.

But amidst all that, there was also a faint tint of hope.

He extended his palm, and the axe hurtled into place. He walked up to the entrance and started to work around the overgrown shrubbery. He hacked it away carefully.

He began the slow, deliberate process of clearing the ruined house. Kratos gathered the remnants of the insect-eaten sleeping mats and tossed the rotted thatch out into the yard. He methodically swept away the layers of dust and debris that had claimed the space. He collected the shards of the shattered earthen cooking pots from the corners and stacked them in a neat pile outside. The physical labour was simple, yet it provided a quiet rhythm for his racing thoughts.

As he worked, his gaze frequently drifted back to the transformed axe resting against the wall. Philosophically, he understood its presence. He had long accepted that the curse placed upon him by the weapon was his rightful punishment for the atrocities of his past. It was a heavy and constant reminder of the suffering he had inflicted on others.

But, as Parvathy had promised, this torment was not an eternal, inescapable cycle. There was an end to it. The axe would finally leave him, and the curse would be broken, only when he had undergone true repentance, and when he exhibited a marked change of character for the better.

Because of her words, he now had something meaningful to work towards. However, for the first time in his long, blood-soaked life, his goal was entirely indefinite. He did not have a monster to slay, a city to conquer, or a god to hunt down and defeat. Instead, he was chasing an intangible idea: internal growth, evolution, and the quiet pursuit of becoming a better man.

Any Spartan would have scoffed at and outright denied such a pursuit. In Sparta, a warrior's sole purpose was to follow orders and act; he viewed philosophical musings on morality, guilt, and internal change as useless Athenian drivel. To dedicate one's life to an invisible, internal battle of the soul ran contrary to everything drilled into him since his youth in the Agoge.

Yet, as Kratos wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around the humble, newly cleared space that would serve as his home, he felt a strange sensation settling within his chest. Despite the ingrained conditioning of his past, Kratos, for the first time in his life, was actually looking forward to it.

===

EPILOGUE

Time, as it often does, slipped away quietly. Kratos had long since cleared away the damp, decaying remnants of Rama's old thatched cottage and its overgrown yard. In its place stood a new dwelling. One that was completely transformed to match the needs and aesthetics of its current occupant. It was an austere, uncompromising structure built of heavy timber and bare, unpolished stone. It was stripped of intricate carvings, bright colours, and spiritual ornaments.

One could say that a dwelling so bare lacked character. But the truth was that the utilitarian approach to design carried a character of its own. After all, the abode was a Spartan's sanctuary. It was designed purely for survival, discipline, and quiet reflection.

The serene silence of the early morning was suddenly shattered by a sharp, deliberate knock at the heavy wooden door. Kratos, whose rest remained a light and watchful state, awoke instantly.

With a low grunt, he rose from his simple bedding and pulled the heavy door open. He'd refit the frame so his massive form no longer filled the entire threshold.

Standing before him in the crisp morning air was a woman, and beside her stood a young teenage boy. The woman stood tall with pale skin and straight black hair that fell to her waist. She wore a plain, white cotton sari and had no jewellery on her hands, neck, or face. The teenage boy had a lean, muscular build and dark skin. He stood with a straight back, had short black hair, and wore a simple, unadorned cloth wrapped around his waist and legs.

Kratos narrowed his eyes and scrutinised the uninvited guests. The longer he looked, the more unnervingly familiar she felt. He'd seen her face before… somewhere.

Before Kratos could inquire about the identity of his guest, the woman got straight to the point. Her voice carried the smooth, relentless cadence of flowing water.

"I am here to collect the favour you owe me," she stated plainly. "You are to teach my child in the field of warfare."

"I am not who you are looking for," Kratos snapped back with a growl. "Leave."

Right as he was about to slam the door shut, he heard a sharp snap. The kind of noise that forms when a person snaps their fingers.

Instantly, an excruciating, searing pain erupted from the right side of his neck. Kratos staggered, and his hand flew to the burning flesh.

The stinging immediately jogged Kratos' memory as he remembered a conversation he had with Rama.

The humid afternoon air hung heavy as Kratos splashed cool water over his face and torso from a wooden bucket. As his calloused hand brushed against the right side of his neck, a sudden, unnatural warmth prickled his skin. He paused and traced the spot with his fingers. Though there was no visible scar or burn, the faint thrum of power beneath the flesh was undeniable.

Rama set the pestle down with a soft clack and spoke without looking at Kratos. It was as though he had already anticipated the query. "When you washed ashore, you had a gaping wound in your abdomen and were clinging to the precipice of death. By all natural laws, you should have died. But I watched as you were carried upstream, against the current."

"You told me someone else saved me," Kratos affirmed.

"I did," Rama affirmed. "The river itself cradled you. It defied the prescribed flow of nature to bring you to safety. You did not drown because she would not let you. For that act of unprompted grace, you owe her."

"I never asked to be saved!" Kratos bellowed. "I do not owe anyone anything!"

"A life is a life regardless of whether you deem it valuable or not," Rama countered sternly. "To save someone is a pure act of selflessness; do not disparage it. Because she intervened, I bound you to the truth of that salvation."

Rama stood up and smoothed his robes. "When I lifted your unconscious body from the water, I dipped the tip of my ring finger into the water in my copper vessel. I drew a symbol on the right side of your neck. When the time comes, and your saviour wishes to collect the favour you owe her, that mark will assure your acquiescence."

Without waiting for Kratos to snap back in anger, he said with finality, "You are a man who was given a second chance."

"When the river comes to collect, you will find that a debt of life is absolute."

Suddenly, the face became all too familiar. Kratos realised where he'd seen her before.

"Ganga," he growled.

"I do not wish to impose on you like this and force you under the threat of pain to do something you do not wish to do," the woman said. "But I am not left with many options."

He let out an irritated grunt. He had finally found a semblance of quiet and had absolutely no desire to entangle himself in the rearing of another pupil or the affairs of the outside world.

However, in the grand scheme of things, this favour was fairly mild. He'd been tasked with much worse before.

Seeing Kratos' nod of acquiescence, the woman placed a gentle hand on the teenager's shoulder and urged him forward.

The boy stepped up with a straight posture and unwavering gaze. He looked up at Kratos' towering figure and brought his hands together respectfully.

"I am Devavrata, Guruji."