I see him. Sprawled on the battlefield. Struck in the chest. The greatest archer in the world. Killed by the son I brought up. His son. I see the Empress - my son’s mother. Beating her chest. Lamenting. Crying for her husband who was dead. Sobbing for her son who was the cause of it. I see the king - my son. In a stupor. Unable to understand how this had come about. Unable to fathom that he had just killed his father. His father whom he was seeing for the very first time. I see them both look at me. With questions in their eyes. With blame etched on their faces. No words uttered. I should be there with them. On the battlefield. Lamenting my husband’s death. Consoling my son. Holding my dead husband’s head on my lap. Hugging his inert body close to my chest. Sobbing for being a widow once over again. Yet, I smiled. I remembered the day I had seen him for the first time. By the riverside. Offering his ablutions. Praying earnestly. His sinewed arms. The calmne...