The great hall had stood witness to many dark days. Yet nothing compared to the one that was taking place.

Draped in the simplest of clothes, with his long hair flowing and his streak of ashes so neatly kept, stood the most revered saint of the time. His head bowed, his palms together and his face stained with the ebbing tears. There he stood begging on his knees, for mercy, from the one who was hailed to be the righteous of them all. 

Across him, seated on the most powerful and cursed seat of that time, the King looked at him without a trace of remorse on his face. Annoyance and arrogance streaked across his face at the words of the saint. Flanking his sides, stood his most devoted brothers. 

“For one last time, I ask you. Will you fulfill this request of mine or not?” the King inquired in a voice so hard, and cold, proving his lineage and power.

“But my lord. How can I weave such false facts?” asked the saint, in a frail voice.

“You say that you cannot follow a direct order from your king? You say that you cannot fulfill his humble request?” boomed a haughty voice. The mighty second brother, who was told to be the easiest to anger, looked down at the saint, with a hand resting on his weapon. 

“Oh Mighty one! You must surely know that I possibly cannot mean that! But this is the will of the Gods! Please, I beg you! Understand my plight. I am all but a mere servant of the Almighty.”

“You serve the Almighty but dare defy your king?! How dare you!” spoke the voice of the gentlest of the five. 

“My lord. I don’t wish to defy the King!” said the saint, fear trickling into his voice. Another brother was about to retort when the King stopped him and stood up. Staring directly into the eyes of the revered one, he walked down from the throne.

“I tried hard, oh wise one. Yet you seem to leave me with no other option.” echoed the sinister voice of the King. 

“My King. I don’t understand- ” said the confused voice of the wise saint. 

These politics weren’t new to him, for he had lost the love of his mother to her lust for the throne. The saint knew, the day he was tasked with writing the entire history of the famed clan, that he was to face challenges. He knew that the truth would anger many in positions of power. Yet he had hoped to remain true to his conscience. To be true to his virtues. He was determined to be strong on his stance even amongst the mighty winds of influence. It was one of the many reasons the Gods had selected him to write the famed epic. Yet now on hearing the tone of the King seemed to suggest otherwise. His instincts screamed that he was going to fail his virtues. That he was going to do the very thing he vowed not to. That he, the great saint of the era, was going to write a false story.

“My dear revered one. Haven’t you wondered what happened to your most beloved followers?” asked the King. 

The face of the saint paled. His followers. The ones whom he cared for like his own sons. Even at times more than his sons. The most devoted and intelligent students of his. The one whom he had so carefully handpicked to carry on the legacy to the future about the scriptures of the old. It had been two nights since they all had disappeared. He had held onto hope that they had just gone off into the woods to meditate and that they would come back. But to hear of their plight…

His spiraling thoughts were disrupted, by the rattling of chains behind him.  Slowly standing up the aged saint turned to see his most beloveds. Their faces were worn and their clothes tattered. The fatherly side of him wept on seeing the condition of his adopted sons. 

“I still haven’t asked the guards to beat them you know,” said the cold voice behind him. Disbelief warped the face of the great saint. Disbelief that his own legacy would turn out so cruel. His own blood would be so power hungry and merciless. Yet, it was nothing new to the ancient one, for after all, his own mother had been so. 

“Please, my King. I beg you,” he pleaded, in hopes that there maybe some mercy within that wretched heart. 

“Oh wise one!” started his oldest, ” Don’t. He isn’t even worthy of your words. Don’t worry about us oh great one. Please don’t concede to his-” 

Crack!

The sound of the whip striking against flesh resonated through every corner of that great hall.

“My lord! Please!” the saint whimpered. 

“Oh wise one. Don’t worry about us. The world needs to know the truth about these tyrants,” rang the loud voice of another of his followers only for him to get beaten up as the first.

“Please, my King. Spare them. They are children,” wailed the saint.

“Do as I say and they shall all be unharmed. Else it is their urns which will reach the shore of the sacred waters before yours,” said the King, glancing at his brother who stood coiling the whip, ready to strike the next who speaks in defiance.

The sage took one glance at his beloved children and stood straight. He wiped the streaming tears from his face and looked straight into the eye of the King.

“I agree to your wish. I shall weave my words to your favor but on one condition. Not a single hair on them is to be harmed.”

“Fine. But if I even find the slightest of truth portrayed within your words. Every single one of them shall be tortured to death.” 

The wise saint looked straight into the eye of the King and nodded his head in agreement. He shall write the false history they wanted him to weave. But he shall write so cleverly that one day, the future questions it. That one day these mighty warriors, hailed to be the most righteous and glorious of their time, shall be known for their true nature. That one day the valor of the greatest warriors who fell unjustly in battle, shall be known. 

He shall write the fabled history so detailed that, one day, it will be rewritten and the truth will shine.

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