The Lost Son
His name was Karna. Karna, the abandoned. The bearer of wrongs, the silent prince. Majestic in his dreadful form, like the flight of the falcon. His despair was complete. His rage, like a muffled cry into the darkness. The Sun God shone his blessings on his smooth body, spotless and barren of any scars or wounds that marked the weakness of his form. It was the day before the Great War. The war in which he would finally have his revenge, his toxic reprisal that had for so long squealed his soul in thirst. His enemies were the Pandavas, Arjuna in particular, who robbed him of his dignity, his rights. Arjuna, the blessed, the royalty of the world. Karna, a mere charioteer’s son, a low life without a face.
The struggles had hardened his body and soul. Induced with the greatness of Surya, the Sun God and the gifts of His holy touch, Karna was he, also invincible in the moral world and with the mercy of his own grandeur. He granted his enemies his armour of light, the indestructible marvel of his artillery, without a fear of the blood or the ordained mortality through this act of sympathy.
His moist skin shimmered by the rays of the sunbeams as he stepped out of the river on the banks of which, Kunti, as was bid by Krishna, was standing, awaiting with a secret in her lips. Her words stung him through and out like an arrow.
“I am your mother; you, Karna, are my son, and the Pandavas are your own brothers, your own kin.” A heinous trick it was, for she had not come with intentions of his welfare, but of that of her real acclaimed sons—the Pandavas. A monstrous act with cruel purposes, for how could the war be won if the wrong side had the mightiest warrior? The deed of Krishna, the ruthlessness of Kunti, the anguish of Karna—everything fitted like a giant piece in a filthy scandal for power.
The truth is a treacherous weapon, malicious yet justifiable. Karna, with a bleeding heart and flowing tears cried, leaving himself weak and unassembled, like an autumn tree. “Why did you leave me, mother? Why did you sail me away? Did you ever love me? Did I not have any meaning to your life?” The warrior of the greats, weakened by words of a stranger.
Thus, she spake, uncovering the design of her revelation, “The Pandavas are your brothers and you must not shed their blood, nor they yours. Promise me that no harm shall come to any one of them. Give me your word.” Truth smiled, for it is not the fearsome sword that cuts the deepest into the flesh, but rather love and its thorns, like a rose and its stem, which truly makes you die the most.
“I cannot make any promises, for my loyalty lies with Duryodhana, but be sure that you shall always have five sons. None, not Yudhisthir, nor Nakula, nor Shahadeva, nor Bheema, will die at my hands. But Arjuna, him I will make no promises of, for either of our deaths is encarved into the other’s hands.” The word of the noble. Majestic in his dreadful form, like the flight of the falcon.
The display dissolved, like ink, reforming itself again into a field of corpses, where Karna, lay down dead and the wrath of the war, ruptured to gloom. A fallen soul murdered by his own brother and tricked to the trap of emotions.
Karna, the abandoned. The bearer of wrongs. The silent prince.
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