Northwest India, 864 BC
I tracked Krishna to the marshlands that ran parallel to the beach. The humidity was disgusting; something I'd never gotten used to. My hair stuck to my sweaty neck, as did a mosquito. As I stepped around mangrove roots that reached upwards through puddles, cool water flooded my boots.
I stopped cold when I saw him for the first time in decades. His stooped shadow crystallized into an aged man. Ducking behind a tree, I studied him with interest. Krishna was a god in the eyes of many, given that he knew everything about everyone. Yet he was all flesh and blood today—gods that took on human form had to contend with aging bodies.
He hobbled in no particular direction. I thought he might be headed to the ocean to escape via boat, but he drifted aimlessly in the mangroves. Krishna's famously acute mind must have finally withered.
Pausing in the sunlight, he lapped up some fresh water from a puddle. He wore no armor over his dhoti and shirt, but only a shawl. I scoffed to myself; killing him would be all too easy.
Krishna turned to face me; his strange blue eyes were as alert as they'd ever been.