The goddess has arrived.

****

Just as Ishvara parted the curtain to look at Revat, a shock traversed her spine. It didn't take her long to feel she knew this place like the back of her hand.

Aged men and women, reduced to skin clinging to bones, prostrated in front of them. They begged for mercy, to be given a crumb of bread, to be shown some love. Even a careless caress would be a cup of elixir.

Aryamna travelled beside the palanquin, to the right. The Rajan and Indumala were way ahead. They were a group of almost a hundred people. Despite the strength in their numbers and Ishvara's belief in the power of the Rajan, her faith dwindled. She found herself growing fearful and vulnerable when beholding the hungry children, the crying women and men returning home empty-handed.

A storm was born in her mind's eye. She braced herself, braving the tempest of hazy memories that hurled at her. She called them ghosts of the past, now dead, but once they used to be alive. It made them strong and valid enough to be true, for they existed long back.

They laughed at her miserable state, at her inability to banish them. She was labelled an anomaly of nature, a creation of which even the gods would be embarrassed. She belonged to those sects who were untouchables, shunned by society. Being the wife of a royal man didn't excuse her from the punishment of being born.

This time, the visions were darker than before. The morphed faces of lustful men, their lecherous gaze travelling up her thighs made her shut her eyes in disgust. Their phantom hands brushed against her skin. She shrivelled up in indignation, her feet curling inwards. Ishvara knew that these were all figments of her imagination, remnants of a deplorable past, now no more. But why did these creepy spirits hunt her, even after so many years since the plague? Did they come to her even when she was in the assumed eternal sleep? Aryamna, the one connecting string to her past, was so close to her, but she didn't want to trouble him. She was sure he knew about her nightmares, maybe he knew everything about her, even more than she did.

But he was bound to be quiet, and she had decided to not reveal before she could at least draw the storyline of her eventful life.

And to understand who she really was– how from Princess Nadira she became the Senapati's wife Ishvara, how Rajan Aryam became the humble Aryamna, how glorious Ishgar changed over the years– she had to face these visions. So, putting up a brave front, she charged ahead with her unwavering love for the divine. If Shiva had placed her in this revolting mess, he knew she was capable of handling it and coming out victorious even if not unscathed. Some scars would always exist. Pain elevated the sweetness of life.

She smiled at those spirits of her past. The shadows of the plague could not plague her forever. She allowed the image of Ranavato to mock her; she looked daggers at the beastly horned-man who offered her his callous hand; she held on to Aryam when he would fall in the abyss of the unknown curse. Their footing in her reality trembled. Slowly, they faded away, vanishing all of a sudden just like they came.

She had won. For now, at least.

"What is Revat to me?"

The place, despite its frightening aura, challenged her to be a warrior who could stand alone without the support of another. It beguiled her to submit, but a strange hushed sensation sibilated in her ears to continue. Thus, she kept walking, suppressing all doubts of self-worth. She could taste tears on her lips, sniff the dread in the air, but out of nowhere came an infinite strength to smash all who tried to malign her.

The men in her nightmares would regard her as a prize, a beauty otherworldly, unmatched. The beast in particular would talk of marriage, no less than a bondage, and point at a tower, calling it her peaceful abode. Her mother Ranavato would warn her of his arrival, intimidate her to accept that diabolical man. He would try to lure her with gossamer silks and gold, and when she didn't speak in his favour, terrorise her. Perhaps the men had been successful in leaving their imprints on her soul.

"Nadira will carry the wounds with pride," she trumpeted to the winds, spelling the name she was adorned with at birth. After all, the memories had made her remember it. "If someone can assault me, it's my own hand. If someone can heal me, it's my own kiss. No other entity has a right over my mind, body and soul. For I am the curse and the blessing, I am the maiden ashamed of being ruined and I am the queen purest. I am the mirror to my insanity and the friend of my wisdom."

The illusions would chase her and tempt her to give in. Neither the beast nor Aryam would be able to conquer her. She wasn't a piece of filthy land. She wasn't gold, silver or ruby. She wasn't an object to be manhandled. She was a woman, a reflection of God. Ishvara knew Aryam was no more a monster to stay away from, yet she would make it clear to him that she chose him not because she was forced to do so sometime in the past, but because it was her will. It was now. She was beside him and allowed him to be intimate because she wanted it.

It was her wish that mattered.

Maybe Nadira, despite being a princess, had a hard time raising her voice in times of distress. Ishvara was not here to only mourn– she was here to hiss akin to a snake if danger flaunted its own hood.

Revelling in her newfound might, she didn't notice a foreign hand touch her. She yelped when it gripped her too coarsely. At once was the palanquin stopped and men of the Rajan rushed to her side. It was an old man, his eyes white as the noon sun and ribcage visible through the almost bloodless translucent skin.

"I have heard of your ethereal powers, mother."

He spread his hands in a solemn prayer. His sight was a sore to the eyes, the personification of all sufferings life knew. Ishvara initially cowered, but then said in her dulcet voice, "Speak."

"I have heard you cure the ones in whom runs the corroded blood of the plague." His blind orbs frantically darted around, skeletal hands scratching on the sides of the palanquin. "You are Ishvara, God herself!"

Aryamna came and stood in front of her and the man. "Get away." He bared his teeth. "Don't come near her."

"My Lord, Amun incarnate, I see not with the eyes of my body but with the sight you have granted me. I seek you every day and every night."

Aryamna gasped. Ishvara saw him grow pale like grey clouds. His hands shook. He was rattled by the presence of this indigent man on the brink of death.

She would remember the poor man's words.

Ishvara didn't know what took hold of her. She stormed out of the palanquin and pushed aside her husband. Aryamna held her by the hand, but she yanked away her arm. The men gaped at her courage as she peered through the soul of the old man. Her body grew warmer. Aryamna flinched as he touched her burning skin. Ishvara's beautiful doe eyes changed to an overpowering purple shade. She extended her hand towards the almost dead man. "What do you seek?"

"Heal me, my mother."

"You won't survive my power."

"Turn me to ashes, Mother. I have no thirst to live. Give me shelter at your lotus feet."

"So be it."

Ishvara placed a hand between his brows. He slurred and gurgled, saliva rolling down his lips. His limbs turned limp and he fell to the ground like a dead weight.

After a long time, Ishvara showcased her infamous yet celebrated power in public.

Ishvara's eyes returned to normalcy. She inhaled, trying to keep balance on her wobbly knees. Aryamna hugged her from behind. The temperature subsided.

Her face, stoic and wan, glowed like a sickly moon. "He is gone. Let us continue the journey."

Indumala and the Rajan had come here by now. Aryamna was too engrossed in Ishvara to pay attention to the two blooming lovers. "Do not strain yourself, Ishvara. This is not Gandhar. You don't need to overwork yourself to heal the downtrodden."

"I didn't overwork myself, Aryam. I just did what God has assigned me to do." Ishvara freed herself from his arms and entered the palanquin. "Do not be worrisome, Aryam. Revat might have tortured me in the past," she gazed at the corpse of the man, "now it is too weak to shatter my soul."

Aryamna was baffled by her bold revelation.

Ishvara was ready to be the golden soaring eagle, unafraid and unfettered.