In the aftermath of the fierce battle, the mighty tree of the rākṣasa king—its shoots of firmness, its flowers of great austerity, and its roots deep with valor—was felled by the wind of Rāghava. Rāvaṇa, radiant and formidable, whose lineage stretched across generations, whose hands dispensed both wrath and favor, now lay upon the earth, his powerful body grasped by the lion of the Ikṣvāku line. The elephant that was Rāvaṇa, undefeated and proud, slept on the battlefield. His valor had blazed like fire, his breath billowed like smoke, his pride rooted in his own strength. Yet this rākṣasa fire, so potent in combat, was extinguished by the raincloud that was Rāma. Rāvaṇa, with the mane of a lion, the hump of a bull, the horns of a rhinoceros, and the gait of a triumphant elephant, with restless ears and eyes, was struck down by the tiger among kings. Rāma, seeing Vibhīṣaṇa overcome by sorrow and speaking with reason and certainty, addressed him with compassion. “This one is not destroyed nor motionless; fierce in battle and lofty in enthusiasm, he has fallen without fear. Warriors who fall on the battlefield seeking glory do not grieve thus when slain. He who terrified Indra and the gods, who struck fear into the three worlds, has met his end in time; this is not the moment for mourning. In battle, absolute victory is never assured—a hero either slays others or is himself slain. This is the path honored by ancient warriors: it is certain that a warrior slain in battle is not to be mourned. Therefore, knowing this truth and free from sorrow, consider what must be done hereafter.” Vibhīṣaṇa, afflicted by grief, spoke to Rāma, his words meant for the benefit of his fallen brother. “He who was never defeated, not even by the gods or Indra, has been broken upon encountering you, just as the ocean is checked by its shore. He gave gifts to forest-dwellers, enjoyed pleasures, cared for his servants, entrusted wealth to friends, and endured enmity with foes. He was a fire to enemies, possessed great austerity, versed in the Vedas, and foremost in valor and deeds. Whatever rites are due for one who has departed, I wish to perform them with your favor.” The great-souled prince, hearing Vibhīṣaṇa’s compassionate words, instructed the performance of heavenly rites, his spirit unwavering. “Hostilities end with death; our purpose is fulfilled. Let his funeral rites be performed; let mine be as yours.” Thus, the story continued into the next chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Book of War. Hearing that Rāvaṇa had been slain by the noble Rāghava, the demon women, emaciated by grief, came forth from the inner chambers. Though repeatedly restrained, they rolled upon the earth’s dust, their hair disheveled, afflicted by sorrow, like cows bereft of their calves. Exiting by the northern gate with the demons, they entered the dreadful battlefield, searching for their slain husband. Crying, “O noble prince!” and “Alas, our protector!” they fell upon the blood-soaked, mud-stained earth, embracing his corpse. Their eyes flooded with tears, overcome by grief for their husband, they wailed like she-elephants whose leader has been slain. They saw Rāvaṇa, of immense body, great valor, and radiant splendor, lying slain on the ground, resembling a heap of dark collyrium. Suddenly seeing their husband lying in the dust of battle, they fell upon his limbs like severed forest creepers. Out of deep affection, one embraced him and wept; another clung to his feet, and another held fast to his neck. One, raising her arms, rolled upon the ground; seeing his lifeless face, another fell into a swoon. One placed his head on her lap, gazing at his face and weeping, bathing it with tears like dewdrops upon a lotus. Tormented, seeing Rāvaṇa slain upon the earth, they cried out in many ways from grief and lamented all the more. They remembered: he who terrified Indra, he who terrified Yama, he who deprived King Kubera of the Pushpaka chariot; he who brought fear in battle to Gandharvas, sages, and the great gods—now lay slain on the battlefield. He who knew no fear from asuras, gods, or even serpents—this was the fear he met from a mortal. He who was invulnerable to gods and the foremost of demons and rākṣasas—now lay slain in battle by a human foot-soldier. He whom gods, yakṣas, and asuras could not slay—he, as if by fate, met death at the hands of a mortal. Thus speaking, those sorrowful women wept for him, overwhelmed by grief, lamenting again and again. They mourned: because he did not heed the constant good counsel of friends, Sītā was brought here for his death, the rākṣasas have been destroyed, and now we, and he himself, have been brought down. Even though his dear brother Vibhīṣaṇa spoke words of good advice, out of delusion he saw him as harsh, desiring his own destruction. If Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, had been returned to Rāma, this terrible, root-destroying calamity would not have befallen us. Your brother would have been satisfied, Rāma would have become an ally, we all would not be widows, our desires fulfilled, and there would be no enemies. But by you, cruelly detaining Sītā by force, the rākṣasas, we, and you yourself—three have been equally destroyed.