God of Death

The God of Death

A hundred times, death had swung its scythe, and a thousand times I, Varos, had laughed at the poor aim of that skeleton. The first time, it came in the form of an abusive-drunkard: my father. It was a horrible nightmare. After playing hide and seek many a time, it vowed to defeat me and proclaim victory, at last, taking its most merciless form: war...

Thus, I was 9-year-old when I was recruited in army. Killing and being killed was all that I saw my fellow-men doing. Eventually, I grew older under the shadow of my falling comrades; nurtured was I, with their blood. Therefore, soon I became known as "Varos: The Valor".

And how could I forget that night when I was marooned on a deserted road?

"My soldiers do not buckle or yield when faced with the cruelty of this world!" the commander tried imbuing enthusiasm in our souls. "My soldiers fight!" he shouted, holding the sword, aloft. The whole army marched— marched right towards their death but I was no fool...

I left the battlefield behind and ran back for I wished to live.

"Not today!" my breathing wasn't normal "I don't intend to be defeated by that skull-and-bone." I rode astride my horse, into the jungle, across the river and finally on the road to the suburbs of the city.

Soon, I saw another horseman riding— around 30 others followed him. NO! It was no ordinary horseman. Comprehension dawned: he was my SON! I heard the clouds roaring, in the background.

"So that's how it is?" I smirked and looked at that Grim-Reaper, standing behind the trees. He smiled back. I forced my horse in the other direction and managed to land a crushing blow to the front-lines of the riders, but, meanwhile, I fell on the ground. Surrounded by the riders, I was, with bows-and-arrows pointed towards me. I heard the snapping of the bowstring and the whirring of the arrows that pierced through my body. It was raining— cats-and-dogs. The riders ran away, leaving me behind, where, I fell on the road— as cold as death. The rain was incessant and widowed was the sky: be-darkened and weeping.

"Perhaps my son won't make it," I thought. "Perhaps my sacrifice was all futile and in vain." But all these 'perhaps-and-ifs' did not matter, then.

And after what seemed to be an eternity, I ascended to the ethereal lands of heavens and when I met that skeletal-famished being, I patted on his shoulders and said,

"I did not lose, I only let you win"

It chuckled and murmured,

"Not even little dost thou know,

Whether the rider was thy son,

Or just disguised as thy blood was he,

From among my patrons, one!"

(You have no clue if that rider was really your son or just one of my patrons, disguised as one.)

He smiled, somewhere from the hell; whereas into the oblivion, my soul fell.

(Words: 491)