The gods were losing.

A mighty demon named Taraka had grown so strong through long, fierce penance that no weapon could harm him and no warrior could stand against him. He had driven the gods from heaven, and they wandered the borders of their own kingdom, defeated and afraid. Even Indra, king of the gods, could not turn the tide.

There was an old promise hidden in the demon's strength: only a son born of Shiva could defeat him. And so, in time, from Shiva's blazing power, a child was born — a child so full of fire that six mothers, the star-maidens of the Krittika, nursed him at once. He grew six faces to drink their love, and they called him Kartikeya, and also Skanda, the one who leapt swiftly into being.

He grew not in years but in moments, the way a flame leaps up a dry branch. And when the gods came to him, weary and hopeless, the boy-warrior rose shining, a spear of golden light in his hand and a peacock at his side.

"Make me your general," he said, "and I will lead you home."

The gods gathered behind him. Brihaspati, the great priest of the gods, the wisest of all who chant and bless, spoke the sacred words over the army and blessed their banners. Then Skanda raised his spear, and the host of heaven surged forward like the sea rising in a storm.

The battle was terrible and brief. Skanda met Taraka without fear. Where the demon had broken every warrior before him, he could not break this one. The spear of light flew true, and the demon who had ruled the worlds fell. The gods poured back into their lost heaven like a river finding the ocean at last.

Afterwards, the gods said that no general had ever led so bravely, and none ever would. He was the foremost of all who command. And Krishna, telling Arjuna of his glories on the chariot at Kurukshetra, named him: "Among generals, I am Skanda."

For wherever someone leads with courage instead of fear — wherever a leader walks first into the hard place so others may follow — there is a spark of the six-faced general, and of the One behind him.