धृतराष्ट्रस्य पुत्रो वानराणां भीरुः सत्तमः।
धृत्यैव धर्मपथं गच्छेत्, विजयं युक्तः सदा च॥
("He, son of the blind king,
The brave among demons, steadfast in dharma's way—
Silent witness to kingdoms lost and found,
Forever bound to the path of triumph and truth.")
The Silent Sentinel
The streets of Lanka swirled in restless shadows. The night air was thick with murmurs of power and the restless echoes of gods and asuras mingling like thunder and wind. The city, radiant yet restless, bore witness to the slow unraveling of destinies etched in starry ink.
Vibhishan stood apart, a lone pillar amid the swirling storm. His tall frame, wrapped in simple robes, was rigid as a mountain peak, yet beneath the calm exterior, a tempest raged. His eyes, dark and fathomless like the depths of a sacred lake, flickered with conflicting fires — the fierce loyalty to kin, the gnawing doubt of right and wrong, the silent ache of a soul torn between blood and dharma.
His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, nails digging into palms as if to anchor himself in the swirling maelstrom of fate. His jaw was set, the subtle tremor of restrained emotion betraying the iron discipline he had cultivated over years of exile and watching shadows grow.
From the folds of twilight, a presence approached — light-footed yet ancient, like a whisper from the unseen realms.
Vibhishan's breath caught. His heart, usually so steady, skipped a silent beat. He turned slowly, a flicker of surprise breaking his composed mask, though his stance remained proud and unyielding.
"You come without herald, yet I knew you would," Vibhishan said, voice low but steady, like the rumble of distant thunder held in check. O Kakbhushundi, seer beyond time's veil, what brings you to Lanka's heart in this hour of shadows?"
His eyes searched the crow-feathered sage, seeking answers for the questions his soul dared not speak aloud.
The crow-feathered sage smiled, his eyes reflecting the flicker of distant fires, the pain of countless kalpas.
"I come not as judge, nor as herald of doom," Kakbhushundi replied softly, stepping nearer, "but as the bearer of a vision—a single thread in the vast tapestry of what may be."
Vibhishan's gaze sharpened. The turmoil within him deepened as he braced for the burden of prophecy.
"Speak, then. What destiny awaits those who dwell in Lanka's depths?"
The sage's voice lowered, heavy with the gravity of untold epochs.
"In one telling, the war is fierce, the sky torn asunder with arrows and flames. Yet, you—the steadfast brother, the silent sentinel—bear a fate less spoken. Not the sword alone will carve your path, but the choice that cleaves the soul: to remain with kin bound by blood and shadow, or to walk the narrow path of light that leads to salvation beyond kingdoms and crowns."
A flicker of pain crossed Vibhishan's features — the bitter taste of exile, the sacrifice that only a brother knows. His eyes darkened, storm-clouds gathering behind their depths.
"To choose dharma over duty is the burden of the brave. But to betray one's blood is a curse as deep as any wound."
Kakbhushundi's gaze pierced the night like a shaft of moonlight through dense forest.
"True, yet in this choice lies the seed of Lanka's redemption—and your own transcendence. The brothers who clash on the battlefield are but shadows of a greater war within the heart. The day will come when your voice must rise—not in roar, but in silence that speaks louder than thunder."
Vibhishan's eyes narrowed, and he motioned toward the city's restless streets.
"What of the gods held captive by the Asuras' might? Bound in chains and shadows, they walk as prisoners within Lanka's walls. Is their fate sealed within these darkened gates?"
Kakbhushundi's eyes gleamed with ancient light.
"The captive gods are not lost, O vigilant one. Though held in form and fettered in flesh, their true essence is eternal, beyond the grasp of shadow. In time, they shall return — not as the beings of old, but as the very elements of earth, fire, wind, and water. The winds that howl at Lanka's borders, the rivers that rage and cleanse, the fire that burns away illusion, and the earth that swallows pride. In these forms, they shall rend the chains that bind them and shatter the fortress of darkness. The gods' return will be both unseen and unstoppable—a cosmic reckoning woven into the fabric of destiny. Thus, the power of the Asuras, swollen with pride and cruelty, shall crumble beneath the weight of the very forces they sought to imprison."
A profound stillness settled between them, as the night folded its breath.
Vibhishan bowed his head, the weight of prophecy settling like a sacred flame within his chest. A single, slow breath escaped him — a vow forged in shadow and light.
"Tell me, O sage, is there hope for the shadowed path? Or is Lanka destined to burn and turn to ash?"
Kakbhushundi's eyes gleamed with eternal knowing, ancient as the stars.
"Hope is the ember that no storm can extinguish. But it is a hope that demands sacrifice, solitude, and the courage to walk the lonely dharma. You are Lanka's forgotten light, Vibhishan. Not all who shine are crowned kings—some illuminate the way for those who follow."
A profound stillness settled between them, as the night folded its breath.
Vibhishan's voice, barely more than a whisper, carried the weight of worlds:
"Then let me be the flame that guides the lost, even as darkness rises."
Kakbhushundi nodded slowly.
"Remember, the greatest war is not of arms, but of the soul's allegiance. The story of Lanka is not written in blood alone, but in the courage to choose the light within."
The sage stepped back, blending into the shadows like a fading dream.
Vibhishan stood, alone but unbroken.
The city's murmur rose again — gods captive, demons proud, and destiny poised on the edge of the coming storm.
And somewhere, beyond the veil of worlds, the Ramayana's many voices stirred once more.