Chapter 4 - Another's Burden

WARNING

Sensitive content and gore in this chapter. Proceed with care.

___

Kratos awoke with a start.

It was early in the morning, and the birds were out chirping and celebrating the rise of the sun once again.

But their uplifting songs did little to calm the ambience, as it was as tense as ever.

His breath was heavy and quick, and his body was drenched in cold sweats.

The dream, if it could even be called that, was far too real - too immersive. And it definitely wasn't his.

As he inspected his body to ascertain that he was, in fact, still Kratos, he noticed that the axe from his dream (and also from reality) was perched in his grasp.

When did that get there?

"RAMA!" He bellowed, calling for the man he deemed the culprit for the turn of events.

There was no response.

"RAMA!" Kratos tried again, but the only voice that responded was his own as his calls echoed out of the forest.

There was silence now, as even the birds and insects acknowledged the eeriness in the ambience.

"Rama..." He growled as he stood up. He tossed the axe aside and started to pace around the cottage in frustration.

"RAMA!!"

___

Kratos searched near and far, high and low. But he could find no trace of Rama anywhere.

The villagers hadn't seen him either. For all intents and purposes, the man had just disappeared.

Kratos thought, at first, that maybe he had gone somewhere for a short while.

But hours passed and turned into days, yet the man did not return.

As his anger and frustration simmered in a low heat, Kratos finally grasped his circumstance. His gaze remained affixed on the axe that he had tossed aside a while back.

He knew that it was something different, something special. But his life experience said that special and different weren't synonymous with good. His Blades of Chaos were different and special, forged specifically for him. But apart from being one of the deadliest weapons of Greece, they were also a symbol of his servitude under the Gods of Olympus.

This axe... currently, it was emanating a faint yet indistinguishable aura of bloodlust. Just looking at it made Kratos feel an unending swell of rage. Kratos recognised that it was a symbol of servitude, and Rama was the slave. What he was a servant of? Kratos did not know for certain. But whatever it was had transferred over to him now.

If Kratos were in Rama's slippers and some unsuspecting bloke dropped into Kratos' lap and managed to pry the Blades of Chaos off of his forearms, making it so that the scalding metal chain-links would never snake themselves around his flesh, what would he have done?

The answer was obvious. He would run far, far away. Lest the weapon changes its mind and returns to his possession.

That was exactly what Rama had done. The man had pumped Kratos up with food like a pig fresh for slaughter, drowned him in heavenly intoxicants, and fled the scene. While ironically, Kratos would have done something similar, it did not feel pleasant to be on the receiving end of the treatment.

Kratos lifted the axe from the ground and inspected it once again. And just like before, it did not reveal much to him. It looked plain. Just what could it do?

___

"Please- Please leave my child alone!" The woman wailed as she held on to Kratos' legs for dear life. Kratos looked down at the newborn tucked away in his arms, and his rage-filled eyes moved past the child and onto its mother.

He reached down and lifted the woman by her hair. She held onto her scalp in pain as tears streamed down her face. "Please!" She repeated pressing her palms together and rubbing them pleadingly. She begged.

"Fine, a mother shouldn't have to see her child die before her," Kratos spoke in Rama's voice. Right as a flash of relief sparked on the woman's face, Kratos brought his grip closer to her scalp and rammed her face against the pillar nearby. A gut-wrenching squelch echoed and blood exploded from her face as her nose and skull cracked. He brought her face against the pillar again, and again, and again until neither the pillar nor the woman's head remained.

Then, with a seamless move, she held the baby by its leg, raised it and swung it down rapidly towards the-

___

Kratos awoke, screaming. His pale skin was soaked in sweat, and his eyes were wide and tinged red in anger.

As his senses calmed down and he regained his composure, he suddenly felt something rigid and wooden in his right arm. He already knew what it was as he brought it forward with a growl.

The damned axe!

Leaving his sleeping mat, Kratos walked out of the cottage. As it was still deep into the night, there was no light out barring the rays reflected off the crescent moon. Even the stars were muted in the dark night today.

With a loud yell, Kratos wound his arm back and tossed the axe into the forest. The tool spun rapidly and disappeared into the darkness. It travelled so far that he could not hear it land back onto the ground.

He remained in silence, only interjected intermittently by the jitter of crickets. But then, he recollected a scene from one of his dreams. He raised his right palm and held it forward, open. His mind returned to the axe, envisioning it firmly within his grasp.

And like magnetite brought close to iron, he started to feel a slight pull towards him. It was barely registerable but was recognisable nonetheless. Within seconds he started to hear the sound of metal striking against wood and rock, growing louder and closer.

Then suddenly, through the treeline, the very axe he'd thrown earlier came out spinning dangerously.

He didn't exhibit the normal reaction a person would have when seeing a sharp object hurtling towards them at such a dangerous speed. Because even if it did decapitate him, it would be doing him a favour. Yet the tool slowed down rapidly as it neared his palm before landing snugly in place within his grasp with an annoyingly satisfying thunk.

He let out a low growl before embedding it into the nearby trunk and walking away.

It was ironic. The thing that he wished gone would come to him the moment he thought of it.

___

Kratos stood facing a massive army. There were hundreds of horses, elephants, men on horses, men on elephants, and just men on foot.

He'd never witnessed such an expansive army before - even the combined armies of the entirety of Greece paled in comparison to this.

If he were to confront such an army all on his own, he wasn't confident that he would walk out of it alive. But surprisingly, he didn't feel hesitance or fear. Then again, it wasn't "him", it was Rama.

What gave Rama such confidence, to face such impossible odds? That too all on his lonesome.

The confrontation was at a tense standstill. The opposing army stood opposite exuding an intense aura of intimidation. They extended far into the horizon, or was it just an elaborate encirclement trapping Kratos in its centre?

"You killed my cousins, my sisters-in-law, my nephews and grandnephews, my grandchildren... my only son and daughters..."

The voice came from atop the largest, most extravagant chariot on the battlefield. It was a veritable tank being heralded by ten horses. Atop it was an aged yet bulky man garbed in heavy armour coated with gold. He wore a helmet that was laden with jewels and complex inlays of gold. In one hand, he held a large compound bow, and he jammed the other hand forward with a shaking finger pointing it in Kratos' direction.

"You Rakshasa garbed in the skin of a Brahmin!" The aged general accused with a rasp. "Do you not fear the wrath of the heavens?!"

"I am being punished for it already," Kratos murmured while looking at the axe in his hands. "But this is the path I have chosen to walk, for it is justice - my justice."

"Do not confuse petty vengeance for justice!" The general bellowed with tears streaming down his face.

"So you do recognise the crimes your kin have committed-"

"I recognise the crime my GRANDNEPHEW and his offspring committed," the general responded. "But my son didn't... He was innocent! His baby was INNOCENT!"

"He was guilty of being related by blood to the criminal," Kratos spat back with vitriol in his voice. "To cull weed infecting bounteous farmland, you have to pull it out root and stem. Leave even a trace of it, and it will propagate if left unchecked."

"Do you even hear yourself talk? Those were people you killed. Men, women, CHILDREN!"

"Monsters!" Kratos responded. "Dogs beget dogs, cows beget cows, monsters... beget monsters. Monsters took my family away from me. They killed my father. They killed my brothers. And the grief... it... it took my mother."

Silence pervaded the battlefield before Kratos' voice spoke up again, "To kill monsters, one must be prepared to become one. Do you blame me for culling an entire lineage? Well, here I stand, the last of mine. And you, the last of yours. Monster against monster."

"Only one will walk away from here alive, Brahmin!" The General declared.

"In that you are correct," Kratos said with a grunt. "Me."

"Arrogance!"

"No," Kratos retorted. "For that is certain, and the heavens have ordained it as such!"

Kratos raised the axe towards the sky, and his lips started to move. The words that escaped were loud and clear, but he could not hear a single syllable. Evidently, the general knew exactly what was being said as his eyes widened with a shocking realisation.

"You madman! You intend to call upon the Brahmastra to cleanse the entire battlefield?!" The general yelled. "You will damn everything!" Surprisingly, his voice cut through the ear-shattering words leaving Kratos' lips.

"R-Retrea-"

The call for a retreat could not be finished. As Kratos brought the axe down, crashing into the ground.

The last thing he saw was the heaven and earth cracking into a million pieces as the world itself shattered like crystal.

There was no pain. There was no sound. There was only death. Swift. Merciless.

___

Kratos awoke while screaming... again. This time, though, he was sweating profusely with the hairs all over his body standing erect. He was experiencing an emotion he had long since forgotten. An emotion that the rigorous Spartan training had squeezed out of him.

Fear.

This was unusual.

Just what had Rama summoned back then, this... "Brahmastra..." He said while looking at the axe that had once again settled into his grasp.

Was this the extent of the axe's power? The power didn't originate from the axe, it was being channelled through it as a focus.

The Blades of Chaos channelled Kratos' fury, but the Primordial Fire that burned within them transmuted his rage into something far more destructive.

However, the Brahmastra was originating from Rama himself. It didn't drain him, rather it felt like the power was being summoned. The axe was merely like a finger, pointing the direction in which the attack was to be sent.

And evidently, the attack was extremely destructive. So destructive, in fact, that Kratos couldn't even witness the first few fractions of seconds that passed after the attack was launched. Yet Rama called it down without a second thought, using himself as the epicentre.

He had died. Kratos was certain of it.

But he didn't die. Because if these events had occurred in the past, then how was he alive now?

___

Life continued this way for months - if one could call it a life, that is. There was no moment of respite for Kratos. His hours awake were spent reliving the atrocities he had committed, and his time asleep was spent reliving the atrocities of another.

The axe was relentless. No matter where or how he discarded it, it would eventually find its way back into his hands the moment he closed his eyes and fell asleep. He also realised that it could not be destroyed - not by regular means anyway. The blacksmith in the village tried everything to melt the mundane-looking metal, but the steel didn't even glow red with heat - it was perpetually cool. Even the wooden handle would mysteriously return every night.

There was no escaping it.

Kratos had always wondered why he was let off easy for the sins he'd committed. Turns out, just as Rama would say, things that must happen will happen. This was his punishment. Endless suffering without peace.

It was right. It was just.

But he could take it no more. Kratos convinced himself after every violent awakening, that he deserved this.

He deserved to suffer.

But as the days blended into each other, Kratos found himself in a Sisyphean rut - an endless day.

Anger swelled within him. Irritation reigned supreme. Frustration clouded his senses turning him into a mute who simply responded in animalistic grunts and growls.

The villagers made a conscious decision to avoid him, every time he walked through the village - the aura he exuded was suffocating.

As time passed, the frustration, irritation and anger subsided, turning into sloth and apathy. Kratos would remain seated on his mattress through day and night. He ate no longer, and he didn't drink - he didn't feel thirsty or hungry anymore.

His body started to shrivel as it ate away his muscles for sustenance. His beard grew unruly covering the entire lower half of his face, before the black mat started to grey out.

His eyes which were perpetually red with anger, were now red with fatigue.

This was right. This was just. This... could go on no longer.

Kratos uncrossed his legs with great difficulty as he fought against his atrophied muscles and ligaments. He bit through the pain and stood up, his eyes blank yet trained in a single direction. He trudged out of the cottage and moved eastwards, through the shallow shrubbery. He stumbled multiple times, before finally deciding to use a stray wooden stick for support.

Yet the stick couldn't bear his entire weight and shattered within minutes. Luckily he had reached his destination.

The babbling of water as it gushed and crashed against the rocky banks suppressed the cacophony of fauna.

He dragged himself towards the river and let his hand dip into the torrential flow. Even through the unsettled waters, he could see his reflection, and it looked nothing like the man he once was.

He was emaciated, weak, and standing on the brink of death.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and rolled over.

With a gentle splash, he threw himself into the river, descending into its depths and letting it carry him away.

This wasn't right. This wasn't just. He was taking the easy way out. But he could take his punishment no longer.

___

Rama looked at the three unlit funeral pyres before him. The bodies laid atop them were that of his father and his two brothers... or what remained of them. His father was missing his head, all that remained was a trampled mess of of crushed bone and brain. His brothers were lacking their extremities. It took a lot of effort to relax their faces from abject fear and agony to the tentative tranquillity it was in right now.

He offered the fire - yajna - before him another serving of clarified butter - ghee - and recited the final verse, "Swahaa..."

Although their bodies were wrecked beyond recognition, he hoped that their souls would find their way to the realm of Lord Yama safely before entering the cycle of reincarnation. It would be unfair to ask them to ascend in peace, but he sincerely hoped so. The dead shouldn't have to carry grudges, that should solely be left to the living who could actually do something to resolve them.

He wrapped a length of cotton cloth around a thick wooden branch dipped it into the ghee pot, and let it ignite by holding it atop the yajna.

Then, he slowly approached the pyres half hesitantly.

At that moment, he saw his mother walk up to his father's pyre, climb it, and sit down cross-legged.

"W-What are you doing?" Rama stuttered.

"I am following my husband to his next life," his mother expressed with a tired drone. Her face looked sunken, the result of her mourning.

"B-But why?" Rama asked in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind?"

"What reason is there for me to live, Rama?" She asked with sincere confusion.

"ME!" He bellowed. "One of your sons still lives!"

"The son who didn't hesitate to take his mother's life wishes that she remain to accompany him?" She responded with a caustic edge in her tone.

"Why do you bring back the past, Mother?" Rama stumbled back in pain. "I was only following father's orders, mother, you know that-"

"You are old enough to form rational opinions now, Rama," she interjected. "Tell me, what kind of a man was your father?"

"He was a devout man of god. A scholar. Excellent in every field-" He listed out of rote memory. The words were supposed to carry pride, but they were sorely lacking in it.

"You parrot his achievements, yet speak little of his character," his mother reiterated. "What kind of a man was your father?"

"He was..."

"Selfish," his mother answered. "Arrogant. Rageful. Prideful. Rama... He wasn't a good man."

Rama wished to retort, but he couldn't find just a reason to refute her claims.

"Just because I got distracted, and let myself indulge in pleasure by watching a couple so deeply in love engage in acts of intimacy, he wished me dead for infidelity?" She reminded. "Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"N-No-"

"And you didn't question him before smiting me... Not once?" She jabbed. Her expression sunk with betrayal.

Rama's father, Jamadagni, was a revered sage, known for his unwavering devotion to the gods and his strict adherence to dharma - duty. His mother, Renuka, was the epitome of grace and virtue, but her one moment of distraction had sealed her fate.

Jamadagni's rage had been swift and merciless. He saw Renuka's innocent gaze as a betrayal, a stain on his honour that could only be cleansed with her blood. Rama, as the dutiful son, had been caught in the crossfire of his parents' conflict. Torn between his love for his mother and his fear of his father's wrath, he had chosen to obey - to fulfil his duty.

The day he struck her down was the day his childhood ended. The weight of his actions had haunted him ever since, a constant reminder of his father's uncompromising nature and his own perceived weakness.

"It was all an illusion, Mother," Rama begged. "Father was only testing us. He would never truly wish you dead."

It was, in the end, just an illusion his father had crafted. Even the scene of the young couple engaging in intimate acts was an illusion. It was all a convoluted test. A test to see if his wife and sons would adhere to dharma. His wife, to maintain her sanctity in marriage towards her husband, and his sons, to obey him without a shadow of a doubt. Rama's mother had failed, as per their father's definition of dharma. And so had Rama's brothers, and they too were forced to fall under his assault for their disobedience, albeit in the illusion.

"You didn't know that," She shrieked. "Look, Rama. I birthed you, and thus I am burdened with the duty to raise you. And raise you, I did. That is where my duty ends. The moment you killed me, illusion or not, you severed the emotional bond that I had for you."

Rama held back his tears as his mother's words dug right into his heart.

That night, his mother had come to him as he lay asleep, her face shadowed in the moonlight. "Always remember, Rama," she had whispered, "Premah Dharmasya Mrtyuh Asti. If you wish to live life following dharma, you must be ready to sacrifice affection and love, because the two cannot exist in the same plane."

"There is nothing left for me here," she stated. "You can ignite the pyre now."

"Mother-"

"You are your father's son, Rama. Selfish. Arrogant. Rageful. Prideful. My words now will do little to affect your character, I know that. The moment you gain self-realisation, it will already be too late. And when you do, I know you will regret everything. A mother's duty is to be patient, caring, and understanding. And as your mother, I forgive you. However, as a person, you will never have my forgiveness."

His mother's final words stung Rama. As he watched the flames consume the pyres, Rama couldn't help but reflect on his mother's words. The rage he felt now was a familiar companion, one that had been with him since that fateful day. It was easier to feel anger than to face the guilt and shame that threatened to overwhelm him.

He remembered the countless times he had tried to justify his actions, to convince himself that he had done the right thing. But deep down, he knew the truth. He had failed his mother. He had failed to protect her, to question his father's judgment, to stand up for what he knew was right.

But he had done his duty to his father. Like his mother had done hers to him. And in performing one's duties, there was often very little wiggle room for questions.

And as he deposited his family's ashes in Ganga, his eyes followed her upstream.

Like his mother, Rama had little to live for now. His family had been excised from this world in one fell swoop. What was he to do? Move on? And let the assailants who'd stolen his world walk the plane unhindered?

He was certain that the cycle of reincarnation was just. They would get their just desserts if not in this life, then the next. But where was the fairness in that? Why must he yield his rightful justice to the apathetic wheels of karma?

There were consequences to every action. But where is the fairness in meting out the consequences of the actions of one life in the subsequent ones, when no wrong had been committed?

Justice is just only if it is immediate, not delayed. And if the world couldn't expedite the serving of said justice, then Rama had to take matters into his own hands.

To seek justice Rama knew that he would have to turn to a higher power. He was far too weak. Insignificant.

He was ready to sacrifice everything to achieve his justice, and he knew that there was only one being powerful enough to grant him the power to realise it.

With resolute steps, Rama followed the river against its current, towards its source.

___

A loud gasp for air followed by incessant sputtering cut through the forest's tranquillity, as Kratos regained consciousness and expelled the water filling up his lungs.

He was certain that he had died, and yet, here he was, alive. And the axe... the cursed tool was perched comfortably in his hand.

He brought it forward and looked at it half in disbelief and half in realisation. He knew that he'd killed Rama back then. Yet he came back alive, as though nothing had happened.

It was the axe, after all.

"Immortality," Kratos said with a derisive chuckle before breaking down into a sarcastic laugh.

As his hysteria settled, Kratos was forced to confront his new reality.

There was no escaping his punishment, not even death.

"But... WHY?!" He bellowed into the heavens. He was certain that this was the machination of some god, it always was.

But who? That was the golden question. And Kratos knew that to answer that question, he would have to ascertain the providence of the axe.

It was at that moment, that Kratos realised something.

"That vision..." Almost every dream of his that revealed a vision to him from Rama's past ended with Rama grasping the axe. Yet the most recent one was different.

"The axe wasn't there."

The vision ended with Rama leaving for an excursion following a river to its source. The same river that Kratos had tried to drown himself in.

Kratos followed the precarious currents of the river as they zig-zagged and snaked through the forest.

He knew that he was grasping at straws, but Kratos was sorely lacking in leads. Even one that was so vague and improbable as simply following a river was akin to a lifeline. Even if it led to nowhere, it would be better than counting away his days in solitude and depression.

Kratos didn't mind being punished. He knew he deserved it. Yet it annoyed him that he was carrying the punishment of another.

So, with resolute strides, Kratos latched the axe against his waist and strode off into the forest with the river as his guide to his final destination... wherever that lay.