A host of simian warriors, valiant and swift, rose like birds of fire into the vault of the sky, seeking the shadowy lair of Indrajit, son of Ravana—the wielder of dark arts—whose unseen arrows rained torment upon their hosts and struck even the noblest among them.
Below, amidst the earth soaked in crimson grief, Rama and Lakshmana lay breathless. Arrows pierced their flesh like thorns on a golden bloom; they appeared more as offerings upon a bed of darts than sons of the Ikshvaku line. Their limbs trembled faintly, like serpents struck but not yet slain. Life ebbed, strength waned, and hope faltered. Vibhishana, noble of soul and pure in heart, stood among the commanders who wept not only for wounds of body but for a fear that clouded reason.
Though the simians scoured the clouds and crevices, Indrajit eluded them. Veiled by sorcery, that crooked scion of darkness rained dread from the firmament. Yet Vibhishana, guided by wisdom beyond mortals, pierced the veil of illusion and discerned the truth: Indrajit, afloat in the sky, was unleashing ruin upon dharma itself.
From the mists above, the demon prince thundered his vanity: that even the gods could not unbind the bonds he had woven with his Nagastra; that Rama and Lakshmana—foes of evil, thorns to Ravana, shakers of Lanka’s peace—were now vanquished. He proclaimed that no celestial force could raise them again, and the demon hordes hailed him with cries of hollow victory.
He descended like a tempest, his arrows sharp as curses. Neela, commander of the simians, fell stricken by nine dread shafts. Minda and Dvivida, pierced each thrice at points where life flows deepest, dropped to the soil. The barrage of missiles rained upon the mighty Jambavan, the fearless Hanuman, the valorous Gavaksha, and Sarabha. Even Angada, son of Vali, caught the fury of dread astras. Indrajit’s pride roared louder than his arrows; he mocked the vanaras with laughter crueller than war itself.
He declared the twins of Ayodhya fallen, bound and lifeless, and returned to his father. Ravana, rapt in delight, embraced his son and adorned him with praises, blind to the deceit and illusion that shadowed this seeming triumph. Indrajit, with a cunning tongue, recounted how sanctified weapons brought down the sons of Dasaratha, and the demon court bathed in joy’s delusion.
Yet upon the battlefield, the breath of life still flickered.
Around the wounded brothers, the vanara warriors formed a circle of protection. Trees were their lances, stones their shields. Hanuman, Angada, Neela, Sushena, Kumuda, Gaja, Nala, Panasa, Shatabali, and others stood vigilant, guarding every breath of Rama and Lakshmana. A single leaf stirring drew their notice—such was their watchfulness.
Ravana, weaving further deceit, summoned the demoness Trijata and her sisters. “Tell Sita,” he ordered, “that her saviors lie slain. Take her in the Pushpaka chariot and show her the ruin—then shall she come to me, stripped of pride and hope.” Obedient to his will, the demoness horde lifted the sorrowful queen from the Ashoka grove and bore her aloft.
From the sky, Sita beheld the dreadful tableau. Below, a field drowned in blood and bodies—vanaras and rakshasas alike—stretched to the horizon. Her heart seized as her eyes found Rama and Lakshmana, noble and golden, now still upon the earth. Shields shattered, bows broken, their bodies pierced and streaming with blood, they seemed no longer men but fallen gods. Her soul cried in silence; grief struck her like thunder, and her eyes wept not only for her lord, but for all light that had fled the world.
In the moment of despair, Sugreeva, king of vanaras, stood shaken. His voice silent, his eyes dim, his strength abandoned him. But Vibhishana, the beacon in darkness, raised him with words of fire and wisdom. “Do not drown in sorrow,” he said. “Grief now is as deadly as the foe. Rama shall not perish—see, his aura remains. The light that clings to him does not linger over corpses. This is the work of illusion and dark art. Cast off fear, and lead.”
He sanctified water and washed Sugreeva’s eyes, as if to cleanse not just sight but soul. “Stand,” he said. “In war, fate dances on a sword’s edge. Let us guard them until they rise. If we protect dharma, it shall protect us.”
Among the vanaras, rumor and dread had begun to spread—some mistook Vibhishana’s form for Indrajit’s. But order was restored, as faith returned. They calmed one another and stood fast once more.
And as the demon court rejoiced in false victory, fate yet held her quill steady, preparing the next verse of destiny—of Sita’s sorrow, of Rama’s return, and the end of illusion’s reign.
