Work Text:
Torchlights flickered across the battlefield, growing smaller and smaller as they guided the way to the Pandava encampment and marked its center. Sipahis from both armies were bedded down for the night. Their banners folded, their flags laid down with their weapons. The precious hours between dusk and dawn were only a temporary reprieve from bloodshed. Honor dictated it, though Karna was quite certain they had left honor behind them some days ago. Months. Years. He fought in its name, in Duryodhana's name, but the word no longer held meaning. There was only war. Only his arrows finding target, felling a thousand faceless men who had done him no personal injury. The weight of it ate a hole in his gut, and the fennel water his bearer had brought him did nothing to settle his uneasy stomach.
But this was the way of a kshatriya, a warrior. His dharma. Written in his stars and tattooed on his palms.
And yet these very hands had taken the life of an untutored, brash child today… found his vulnerabilities and exploited them. How many children had he killed? How many brothers, sons and nephews? Did dharma truly dictate such destruction? Somewhere across the camp, his greatest foe was mourning his greatest loss. And this brought Karna no joy, no sense of success. For as Arjuna wept for Abhimanyu and swore vengeance, so did the boy's mother. And he knew all too well that a mother's tears were the most bitter of all.
He slumped on the low divan, letters from Ponnuruvi scattered amidst the silk-lined cushions. She worried, as so many other wives did, that her husband would not come home. He had ceased returning her correspondence, for he believed the very same thing. He would die at Kurukshetra. This, too, was written in his stars.
Suddenly, the watchman posted at the opening flap of the tent called out, "Visitor!" No, not "visitor!" but "enemy." And Karna rose from the floor and reached, instinctively, for his sword. "Who is it?" he demanded, as he strode to the entryway. The sentry, a young man who couldn't be much older than his own son, only cowered in terror. And when Karna's eyes lit upon the interloper, he instantly knew why.
Krishna. Even in the darkness, the charioteer who was not a charioteer at all shone. His coal-black eyes held infinite wisdom and infinite calculation. The plain garments he'd donned only served to emphasize his splendor. But he was not Karna's Lord, not Karna's Master. This, he needed to remember. Karna had long ago sworn fealty to another, and he would not waver from that path. No matter what following in Krishna's footsteps could offer him.
Brothers. Krishna as his very own cousin. Another mother. A father who controlled the brightest light in the cosmos, the sun. It was all just shy of his grasp. And it could not be. It was not meant for him. Karna's eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears, and he cursed. Cursed his existence, cursed his fate. Cursed the man who had earned his trust with whispers, promises, and a body more taut than any bowstring. Such was life, so full of cruel ironies. Only in the next would he be free of these constraints… and only with moksha would he be free entirely.
"I have burdened you, Radheya, with the truth of your heritage," the flute player murmured, his voice as musical as any song… and as deadly as any poison. Karna had heard the stories, of course, of Krishna as a boy… dancing on the head of a massive serpent, rendering it to pulp with just the soles of his feet. It had occurred to him a thousand times in these thirteen days that Kurukshetra, too, was the Lord's dance. "You are overcome. You hate me for it."
"No." He stepped back, allowing Krishna into the tent, dismissing the watchman with a sharp shake of his head. "No, I have no hate. Only weariness."
A smile cut the other man's serious countenance, and he settled himself on the divan as if he belonged there. His fingers fluttered across Ponnuruvi's letters before coming to rest, folded, in his lap. "Do not fear, Karna. The war, for you, will soon be over. I swear it. And just as I promised, you will be reborn into a house of brahmins, never to set foot on a battlefield again."
He suspected Krishna knew exactly when he would breathe his last. Perhaps on the morrow. Perhaps the day after that. And the method… the method was also written, was it not? He had vowed to the venerable Kunti that he would only take the life of Arjuna… spare her other sons… and that meant the duel was inevitable. He could not imagine that Krishna would let him vanquish Arjuna in battle. Perhaps that was why he'd come… and any moment now, he would pull a wineskin from the folds of his dhoti and suggest they while away the hours till sunrise with a drink and a game of chance. Perhaps he would ensure that Karna indulged himself into insensibility, and dulled his skill for the next day's battle.
As if he knew the direction of Karna's thoughts --and it was likely that he did-- the flute player's elegant brows arched with amusement. For a moment the depth of his beauty stunned Karna. It was more powerful than any divine astra, than any weapon at his disposal.
And images flashed before his eyes, unbidden, of those early days with Duryodhana. When his loyalty was bought with their mingled breaths and the echo of their laughter, as they tumbled into the dust of the archery field and tore at one another's garments. "You are beautiful, prince of Anga," Duryodhana had gasped against his cheek with the unmistakable fervor of youth. "Swear you'll never leave my side."
Years later, he still held to that promise.
It bound him tighter than his pre-ordained duty. Even though Duryodhana's embrace had long since stopped doing the same.
"I have no tricks, Radheya," Krishna assured, raising his arms as if to show that the sleeves of his simple kurta were empty. "I am only here to spend a few hours with a friend before we once again face each other as foes at dawn. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Are we friends?" he wondered. "Truly?" Karna was not a fool. Not in this, at least. Nothing Krishna did was so pure in motive, so devoid of subterfuge.
"You are one of the noblest men I have ever known, son of Radha, son of Kunti. There is no lie in this." Krishna's dark eyes burned with sincerity… like the solemn flames of a funeral pyre. "Would that circumstances were different, that your honor was not quite your best quality. Then we would be on the same side of this unfortunate war."
It was Karna's turn to arch his eyebrows in amusement. "And then you would be forced to choose between me and my brother, Arjuna, whom you claim to love so well."
The flute player had the grace to look discomfited. And after a moment, he tapped his foot against the packed dirt floor, the rhythm like the drums of war. "There would be no choice to make," he said, simply. "But it does no good to speak of 'what if,' does it, my friend? There is only 'what will be.'"
Karna was certain he would die on the morrow or the next day or the day after that.
And their fate was written. Tattooed on their palms.
So, he held his out for the bittersweet liquor that Krishna had indeed drawn from the folds of his clothing. "Come, Janardana," he urged, softly. "Let us drink to my continued health."