The One.


A whisper.

Stifling quiet.

Another whisper.

Something rises in his chest. There is a numbing in his mind, a deep dark nothingness that promises to take him.

It is placid, a vacuum. Bare surroundings, even a bare body. His soul is calm and laying there, for a moment, for a fleeting part of a second he sees it, the end of his journey. The finale of his studies. 

Then suddenly, like a rock echoing off the edge of the cave, or a trickle of drop that filters from the dark doom, there is a sound. A resounding thump in the dark, a sound made of his own heart and he jolts upright with a start. The lights flicker, dulling to a mere glow. 

A frown mars his face. His cold gaze crinkles in distaste. For a moment he is content to stare at the ceiling, wallowing in his own self-pity. The dungeons are cold this time of the night. A chill coursing through the air that becomes unbearable. His silken robes shift when he stands, and with another glimpse at the papers scattered on the floor, he leaves.  

‘There is an old legend, retold among the aristocrats, under the starry gloom of night, sometimes hidden under the ancient paintings of gargoyles, with their dark beady eyes staring back at them. The legends speak of Mana, a feeling so prolific and profound that it leaves every being breathless. It is a mere feeling; it is what they describe it as, a passing of the alive soul into the very heavens.

It is also a sin so astute, that the offender is left into a loop. An eternal punishment, a ceaseless void.’ 

He can’t help but snicker at the description in the book. There is a crisp snap of leather, and he leans back on his chair.

It boggles his mind how people consider scientific progress as miracles. Perhaps they can’t understand, or their meager minds cannot encompass the possibilities his people toy with.

He wonders if there will be a tale of the dungeon hidden beneath the sturdy walls of his castle. If the machines, flickering and beeping there will make them wonder, even for a moment, what they can do. What a man can truly achieve.

But they’ve always been small men, with little minds, occupying the colossal offices. To his greatest displeasure, heading them is but a child, dressed in his silken robes. Sitting fragile and docile on the glittering throne, a throne that should’ve been his. They made the laws, none of which make sense. Not in the bigger scheme of life.

His brow furrows, a bitter taste residing in his mouth. He’ll be the one, he had decided years ago, to prove them wrong, to show them the possibilities they were denying, the possibilities science can enfold.

Once, he thinks getting up hastily, once he is successful in this ordeal, once he finds the fragile balance, once he hits the jackpot of that equation, the human world will not be the one as it was before.

The law will be abolished, and he will rise above them all.

In the dimly lit dungeon, his steps hasten to the humongous capsule. His writing is scrawny, scrawled into bits and pieces. His hands work hastily. 

There is a beating in his mind. He is nearly at the end of this journey. This much he knows.

There is only one formula, one equation to click this all together. 

The world has come far, and somehow it has gone back in its customs. Somehow along with the tidings of time, they had gone back to the shackles of the ancient empires. 

Somewhere along the line, the delicate balance, of democracy, of freedom had shattered. Now they were left with much knowledge, but basic laws prevented them from fulfilling its prospects. 

They had come far, there had been whispers that one of their ancestors had started this era. One of the royal ancestors had tempered with the delicate threads of space. 

One of them had traversed the future, only to abolish the world as they once knew it. It was the reason the king’s family was hailed as sovereign. 

It is simple math. The one thing that has always remained constant, in the rich history of this Earth is the fear of a man. Fear of the unknown, a fear of the sovereign, a fear of the almighty.

With this success, he will instill that effluence into his peers. With this research, he’ll achieve the heights of glory no man in this world had ever known.

He will take the place of the king that made this empire. 

He will be the one to rule this land. 

He will be the supreme, he will be the One

His scribbles become frantic, his eyes widen, veins bulging in his neck. 

He is close, so very close to this mystery. Like a hand grasping the thick edges of the curtains, waiting for a flick to blow them back. 

Suddenly he halts.

He stares at the page in front of him.

Is this-

Before he knows it his feet are rushing towards the master board.

Can his failure only be the result of this minute parallel?

He clicks the button.

His system lights up. Gleaming and shining.

He stares at the electricity crackling in the capsule. His orbs twinkle, his smile turning borderline maniac.

The rays slither across the floor, neon, gleaming.

His hand reaches out.

There is oblivion that surrounds him.

The machines churn. His masterpiece trembles to a start. 

Then there is quiet

A whisper, like the flutter of the wind.

Stifling quiet.

Another whisper.

Something rises in his chest. This time there is no sound.

For a while, he is divulged into nihilism. For a while, he remains like that. Still, unconscious, delved into the pitch dark. At the crease of the world. At the border of their dimension.

Then there is a rush. His heart pulsates in his chest and he gasps, stumbling forward. He drops to his knees. There is precipitation, drops of salty water that dribble down his chin, and he heaves, trying to pace himself. Trying to stay alive.

His hands clutch the dirt, and it snaps his consciousness back to his surroundings.

Dirt, mud, right beneath his skin.

His head shoots up.

There are buildings, the remains of which he had seen in his time. Those rusted decays, overgrown with mold, yellow in their essence, with cracks shaking up their very foundations.

They stand there, tall and miraculous in their glory. Shining, and gleaming in the diffused rays of the sun. 

The air is clean, cleaner than the murk they have in his time, and if he tilts his head back he can see the twinkles of the stars, stretching across the sky. 

It is a magnificent scene. The rainbow hues of the setting sun and the moon, a small curve, shimmering beyond his grasp, in the embrace of thousands of the stars, glittering in their home. 

A glorious scene, fit for his glorious beginning. 

He smiles. His eyes widen, a sickness overtaking his features. His hands finger the syringe. 

He couldn’t have brought a knife. 

He was not a murderer. It was for a glorious cause. For a better empire. 

He takes his time, walking along the cobblestone, strolling along the paths, his lips are curved into a satisfied smile. A smile that barely contained his pride.

He had done his research. He knows where the revolution had begun. He knows of the man that started this all. 

All he needs to do is to annihilate him, and the world as they once knew it will fall into his hands.

It will be his line that will take up the throne. 

The building he arrives at is pathetic. A miserable structure of red stone, barely holding onto its own seams. The insides are dusty, cobwebs residing in the walls as if it has not seen human life in many moons. 

He knows that is not the case. 

He moves into the shadows. 

In the last hall, there is a movement that catches his gaze, a small flutter of the rag, that could’ve once been a curtain, and his hands flicker to the drug in his pocket. 

His steps are quiet, measured, and his hands’ strain, flexed against the pump of the syringe. 

There is a smile on his face, a gentle curve of his lips. 

He sees a shadow before him, a little later a hunched figure appears, scribbling furiously at a paper. 

There is something about that situation, about the papers scattered about, a capsule gleaming before him that causes a sense of deja vu, but he is consumed. Consumed by his ambition, by his greed, and by his years of struggle that he doesn’t pay it much mind. 

He rushes forward, the thin needle flashes in the neon before it is embedded in the wrinkled neck of his victim. 

It is then, that he sees the eyes staring back at him in shock. 

Those eyes. He knows them. He knows them well. They’re his eyes. 

His hands quiver and he stumbles away from the crumpling man. 

How? He doesn’t know. He had calculated, he had formulated the plan to perfection. He knew everything, everything about his target. In the end, somehow, he knows nothing

He feels his body shaking. His heart dropping to his knees and a gloom beginning to overtake his mind. 

He has yearned for this feeling before in his life. He has worked hard for this, this feeling of the thousand condensed dimensions. Of the fulfillment of the laws of physics, and of the results of the great theories. But now there is only fear, dark and wholesome that grips his chest. 

He gasps, withers, but there is nothing he can do. 

The last thing he sees is a tear, anguished and doleful that crawls down that man’s face. 

“It always,” the voice, his voice, croaks, “It always ends like this.” 

His heart drops. 

Then there is quiet. 

A whisper. 

Stifling quiet. 

Another whisper. 

There is a clang and he wakes. He is old, his skin is wrinkled, sagging. 

He is in the same room, with the papers scattered around him. 

He startles, stumbling, looking about. 

There was one parallel that he didn’t think of. 

One loop that he had overlooked because of its sheer insanity. But all of this, the theories, the warping of dimension, it was all maniac, to begin with. Then why not that single loop. 

He rushes towards his notes. There is no time, but at least he knows how he is fated to die. He can still prevent-

There is a bang, he feels the wetness of his own blood. 

In the shattered shards of glass, he sees his own eyes, years younger, staring at him in shock. 

A tear, desolate and dolorous forms in his orbs. 

In that second, his mind is a whirlwind, showing his memories he had never known existed. 

There is one thing he’s sure of. 

“It always,” he croaks, his voice is old, dying, “It always ends like this.” 

It is true when they say that pride hath a fall, but it was also the greed that made Icarus fall to his demise, and it was his greed that made his world the desolate place that he despised. 

He withers and shivers, floating in the condensed dimension. 

He screams and no voice comes out, he laments but in the vacuum, there is no one to heed his cries. Just him and the eternal loop, this eternal void.

It is the third century of their new era. The world is aphotic, foul. A gloomy piece of land now seldom inhabited. In the murky hills beyond the lease of the great empire, there stands a mountain sole and tall. Some say that you can see a mansion, standing steep in those hills. So ancient and desolate that it collapses in on itself. 

And in its bleak windows, you can see two orbs, maniac, and grey, staring out helplessly into the desolate shadows below.

The End.


“It’s simple,”

Zelzrynth cocks his head, a gentle curve of his long neck. He chest rumbles, flames blazing beneath his ribs. His scales glitter, shimmering in the fire that burned beneath.

Vahaelon, his master, his companion, laughs at his agitation, a guffaw that seems to echo. His grey orbs twinkle. There is a merry innocence, a spark of such contrast with his burly body.

He points upto the sky, upto the grey depth; to the bleak and dreary hollowness, promising punishment for those that rise against it.

“We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he knows this, to fly against this delicate balance. It will be a plight of resistance, of retribution, trying to break their years of suffering. It can never be simple, such tasks. Call it history, or call it the price of success, but these tasks, they never end pretty.

Still, he sees the cock of his master’s head, the easy smile that overtakes his features. He knows that Vahaelon is aware, and he doesn’t know whether his perpetual quietude is a sign of courage or insanity.

The moment his wings flap against the winds, with the weight of Vahaelon against his back and the cold waft tumbling through his scales, he concludes that it must be courage.

In the end, he is nothing but a creature, an animal bound to the fate of his master. They were awarded with grace, his race, they were awarded with wisdom, and a strength to crumble the soil beneath their claws.

It doesn’t matter, he realises, as another gurgle draws his breath away. They were awarded with strength and wisdom, yet there is not a single bone in his limp body that will move to his command. Perhaps that is why they say that they were rewarded. The heavens knew when to take back their blessings.

There is a finger that inches into his periphery, hair that trickle the soft flesh of his chest. It is twisted, the hand, broken, shattered, and yet it stands, pointing towards the sky.

“It’s okay Zelzrynth.”

There is a rumble in his chest. He is listening, quiet, bated.

They were given wisdom, his race, they were given foresight. That is why he knows, he knows when a man is speaking his last.

He wants to quieten him, if only it means he can inhale another breath. If only, on his enormous body, he can feel the heat, the life in his master’s body for another moment.

If it had been a novel, a legend of olden times, they would’ve had that moment. Perhaps they would’ve even lived. But reality shatters that delicate expectation. Life is callous, cruel at every instance, and while leaving a man’s body, it doesn’t wait for his tirades.

He waits for another word, another sound. It is a long bit filed with roars and cries, yells and blazes, filled with the agony that came with the war, but in his little bubble, there is just him and a body, on his chest, turning cold and slack.
If he closes his eyes, he can pretend, just for a moment, that he sees the grey, the twinkle of those orbs and that he hears a loud guffaw.

He shivers and grunts, and in the end raises his wing, pointing his sharp claws towards the sky.

It is grey again, dark and admonishing.

He closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear it, the baritone of his master, he can see the small smile accompanying his every word.

“It’s simple, We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he murmurs. They rose and they were beaten. The roared but they were silenced.
They tried to fly against the sinful heavens, but they were thrown listlessly to the hard ground.

It was not simple, he had always known. But there was no tale that followed the insignificant and no hero has ever risen without any sacrifice.

It wasn’t either, folly or might. In end, he realises, bravery was always tinted with a tinge of insanity.

The End.

A/N: If it’s not obvious, the story is about a Dragon and his master.

Chain of Virtue

A short story told in first person narrative. (It may or may not be based on a teensy instance of my life.)

The sun was setting in the hues of purple, the sky shifting towards the starry dark of the night. The air was filled with the hum of the ‘Azan‘ and our car rolled to a stop at the large doors of the mosque whose bulb flickered menacingly in the dark, swarmed with a horde of mosquitoes dancing around the dim flicker.

Tired after a day of work, my mother sighed as we stepped onto the paved sidewalk seeing the car, that carried my grandfather, roll into the gates and vanish from the sight. Looking at the address written on the paper, of the wife of the Qazi who had once known our family, my mom held my hand. The heat of the July day was melting into the cool of the night and my mother, with a small look about her, at the isolated road took to the dark alley at the back of a magnificent house.

What a contrast was presented on the first view! Behind the patrician mansion, we came to the alley reserved for the plebeians. The trenches on the road were filled to the brim, their murky depths emanating foul stench that made me cling to my mother’s shirt.

The house we stopped at bore an old wooden door, ragged to its end and the walls of the house were cracking blocks of cement. With a moment’s hesitation, a knock resounded in the dark alley. The doors opened to reveal a woman covered in a scarf. The words (that my grandfather was saying his prayers just around the corner and we needed a space ourselves) were barely out of my mother’s mouth before, with a bare hint of surprise, she ushered us into the rooms. What should’ve been a satisfactory abode, was a shabby quarter bearing a tiny room and an even smaller kitchen. All for the family of the ‘Qaari‘ who led every prayer for the many ranks of people behind him. Yet, even in the run-down conditions, the home was furnished with warmth and the joyously flushed faces of the Lady and her small daughter made us relax into our seats.

Without any hesitation, we were allowed to pray and a sweet ‘Sherbet‘ was served whose cool, tangy essence made the heat of the day melt away. The conversation with the lady, who although was shy and demure was also amiable and had an elegance to her mannerisms that not many possessed.
We were taking up our things, about to leave when out of nowhere the question arose, “Are you acquainted with my husband?”.

My mother turned to her with a furrow in her brow, and a question at the tip of her tongue, “You don’t know who we are?”
With the same smile, she shook her head, her gaze falling down to her hands folded on her lap.
“Yet you let us in?” my mother’s words were now filled with an indecipherable hesitancy.
“How could I refuse someone who came to my door asking for assistance?”
Was the answer we received as the lady’s face bloomed into a smile that was no longer only demure but held a sweetness that seemed to shine from beneath.

It might’ve been a small instance, a few words or even foolishness in the eyes of some but that day, standing there as a small child of six who was growing up in a country caught in the crossfire of powers, where the peace of mind was nonexistent and where every man, even those with whom you associated love and compassion, was a stranger whom you couldn’t trust, she became a woman stronger than most I’ve ever seen.

In the end, the strength that we always measure in the grand gestures; in the thickness of the muscles or in the deepness of the pockets some people still measured their strength in the goodness that was inherent in a man’s soul.

What that woman did that day, was not just an act of kindness. To let people who are strangers to you feel comfortable and welcome while not a grand gesture, is surely a beauty that not many can contain. But what she’ll perhaps never know is that she made a small child, who would’ve grown with a mind catering towards only their needs, realise what the true essence of courage was and now as I type these words on the paper, I can’t deny that that small child whose days revolved around her own self grew into a person whose only mission in life became a struggle to hold upright the virtue of humanity.

They say that a single act of kindness can start a chain of beauty that can lend fiery compassion to the cold and stoic man of the twenty-first century, and that moment was a reflection of that truth.

A/N: Do you realise what I wanted to say, Cuz I sure don’t, lol :’)


They throw him against the wall. Punch him, pummel him. Until his world is tinted, coated in a haze of colours. Until his eyes darken, and his shaking limbs fade to the bliss of unconsciousness.

Weak they label him. A coward. A freak.

There is a darkness they’re still blind to.

The screams of pain that he is now deaf to. There are bruises and slashes that he has learnt to ignore. There are broken noses, there is a damaged face, a damaged body that he’s learnt to cure.

But still, they’re right, he thinks, as he wipes a hand over the face wet with his own tears. He was a coward who bowed in the face of his own destruction. A weakling who couldn’t even protect the fragile tendrils of his heart.

Curse of Hatred

The Curse of Hatred was what they labeled it. But what they never realised was that it was the cost of their love.

No sharingan developed without the desire to protect and no desire ever stemmed without the roots of love.

It was pure in its execution this simple compassion. The world had never let the pure survive, the heart that had once blossomed was dripping with blood.

It was then that the tomoe began to churn.

The Snakes Fly.


In hindsight, all phenomenal moments in our life start with something insignificant. Something, that looking back on we don’t immediately recognise as the cause of the disruption. It’s fleeting; a passing word, a shallow smile, a small delay and somehow they end up setting in motion changes that shape someone as a person, the changes that become the focal of one’s latter life.

Her story begins with a piece of ribbon.
‘They had been warned,’ she thought, her frail body failing at the last moment. She tumbled to the ground, the mud cloaking her torn dress, and her bruises aching with their freshness. She holds back a choke, and rubbing a pale, cold hand over her drenched hair stumbles to her feet. Behind her the forest is quiet. It is stifling and ominous. It raises the hair on her back, and makes her heart platter in a frenzy.
A twig snaps somewhere. The rain had stopped to a light drizzle, so she hears it clearly. She gathers her skirts and rushes forward; heaving and battered but still desperate enough to continue.
She stumbles to an end. From the bleary vision she makes out the well, and it is a moment of insanity, perhaps the desperation had clouded her judgment and she cuts her hand on the stub of a rock.
The blood pools in her palm and she looks behind. It is a look that seems admonishing for a moment, a look that wanted the predetor to realise the significance of her latter action, and then despite the heaviness of her heart and the hesitation of her mind, she squeezes her blood into the well. It vanishes in front of her gaze. She closes her eyes, and with a quivering lip she shouts the words, “I will,” her voice cracks. There is a fuzz in her brain, she can suddenly not fathom anything. There is another crack behind, closer. She squeezes her palm and screams with all her might, “I will die when the snakes fly!”
There is a crackle of lightning, as if the heavens themselves have cemented the oath. As if her pact has been written in cold blood. A spark illuminates the dark crevices of the night, and there are two orbs that fill her hysterical vision.
The last thing she remembers is a blade sinking in her stomach, the warmth pooling her insides, and a wetness that blurs her eyes, but most importantly a red hot flash of pain that takes her with it.

They say that all fictional stories begin with something grand, or at least they lead to something phenomenal. This story however begins with muddy boots, drenched dresses, and words spoken too loud in moments of hysteresis.

To be continued…

A/N: It’ll be a 8 part story.

Charred Ends

Her fingers brush over the fabric, it’s thick and coarse surface scratching the tips of her wrinkled hand. There is a familiarity in that piece of clothing, something that nags at the back of her mind. Perhaps it’s something that she should remember. She only feels such constrictions when she is forgetting something, something important that is. That fuzziness takes her brain. Blinking a moment later, and wondering why she was sitting in the dank room holding the coat, she makes to get up. Her bones creak under the pressure, and there is a pain in her joints that is situated deep, making her tremble. She leans on the dusky wall.

A pant makes its way past her lips. The familiar buzzing is back around her head, it has been there for a while now. A sensation of doom, clutching to her from the minute streaks of the dawn to the dark crevices of the night. But she forgets. She racks her brain, she frowns her brow, but nothing can make her relieve. After all, she was a woman who carried her name on her chest, lest she forgets. Lest the disease in her brain eats away the very consciousness of her own self.

The attic of this home is smaller, she thinks. She calls it her home but it’s unfamiliar. There is a vagueness in the feel of there walls that she hasn’t felt before, a chill in these halls that freezes her to the very bones.

But who else will let her into their house and so she smiles, taps herself on the head, and wobbles down the stairs. The coat is still in her hands, wrapped around her chest, and she clutches it a bit tighter when she reaches the bleak living room.

She ponders what led her to decorate her home in such despondent colors.

The panes of wood feel harder under her feet and the windows are open, the curtains fluttering before them. She frowns wondering when she had left them like that.

But she is a forgetful woman, she is a patient. So, she brushes it off.

Hastily placing the fabric on the table, she rushes to close the glass. The night is cold, after many days, perhaps, it is why the chill is causing her to shake uncontrollably.

There is a thud behind her and the coat is lying sprawled on the polished wood.

There is a paper peeking from behind, the charred ends of it churning her vision. The curiosity takes her by surprise, but the hesitation in her movements even more so.

The nagging suspicion is back. It taps at her brain, like a voice that speaks at her. A voice she knows but she can’t remember. Perhaps it is her son. He is the only person she saw these days, the blonde boy with cold hands and even colder eyes.

She calls him her son, and a bitter tang touches her mouth. There is a revulsion she feels, but she is old and she is ailing, so she pins it down to the babbling of an old lady and smiles at the child, offering him cold soup.

He chides her gently because she forgets to warm it. Even in his gentleness there is an edge that makes her freeze but he is her son, this is their house, so she brushes it off.

Her fingers trace the corner of the picture, feeling the prickle of the end.

There is an agony that promises to blast her head open. Her heart tumbles to her throat and she rips the picture from the pocket.

The sight that greets her turns her blood into ice because her own ecstatic face stares back at her, with a boy that matches her chipper smile. He is a brunette, with an ample face and a toothy smile, just like her.

The window is opened again, she realizes, the chilled air is again flowing in.

Her body freezes, her mind moves in a whirlwind.

She remembers the fire, she remembers the accident. She remembers begging for help. There is a blond man, with cold eyes and an even colder smile that approaches. His steps are soft, patient and even her gasps cannot make him move faster. Screams are begging for mercy, her screams begging for mercy. She can only stare, only cry when a knife makes its way into her son’s heart. She is trembling, refusing to look up towards the monster. There is the stifling cold of the night as if the heavens have shut their merciful door. As if no one could listen to this misery no more. Then there are cold hands that grasp her neck, and blond hair that invade her vision.

The last thing she remembers is the crimson blood, stark and sickly against the pale white of snow. A defeated boy, Her defeated boy, with a knife sticking out of his gut, and a too-familiar voice breathing down her neck.

She clutches the photos to her chest. She remembers, suddenly she remembers.

There are steps behind her, she turns to come face to face with the frosty eyes, the cruel smile. The last thing she remembers is the eyes, the merciless hands that take her neck, and a name, Boyle, that had once sweetly left her lips.

A two-story villa is dark, doused in gloom even during the beautiful panorama of the spring. She sees the flowers blooming across the yard, an array of colors that entice her.

She turns towards the stairs, leading to the hallway. There is a nagging suspicion that takes her mind, and the dark attic makes her head go soft.

There is a repulsion that she feels at the sight of the blond boy, at the boy she calls her son, but she is an old woman, nearing her death, so she forgets.

When he comes back home she smiles at him, and serves him cold soup, waiting for a rebuke.

The End.