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Go, Varadha had said under the moonlight. He had looked beautiful, framed by the moon with silver around his neck and blood on his hands. You have to go, he said. From the day they met, Deva has never known a man more beautiful, more kind, more perfect than the man who had stood before him and begged him to leave. Don't let them see you, Varadha had said, even thought nothing, not even gods, could hurt Deva when he was besides Varadha.
We have to do this and it has to look convincing, said seven years ago and Deva had looked towards the bloody hands. When Deva had arrived, Varadha had been crumpled at his brother's side, hands hovering over the still body. It was the first time that he had ever looked broken, in all his years of knowing the man.
At his side, thrown aside, was a small letter. As the rightful Kartha commands, it said and Deva's blood ran cold.
But this was Varadha; he knew (of course he did) that there was no part of Deva that could hurt Bacchi. Not the Bacchi he had held in fearful fits and later butted heads with. Not the Bacchi that Varadha loved, so Deva did too.
It was a secret, held so tightly within himself that not even Amma knew. Don't, she had once said, don't raise your hand against another. Not again. Not if you respect me. And there was only ever one person whose orders could supersede hers.
When Aadhya came, Deva had no doubt. It had Radha Rama's fingerprints all over it. Forgive me Kartha, he prayed as he rained down bullets upon his own men. His Varadha's men.
Soon, he knew. Soon, he would be back with his kartha. Soon, all their enemies would be out to play. All Deva has to do right now is get to Khansaar, to his kartha's side.
And then all would be well.