The forest sighed as the storm faded, its fury spent, leaving a damp stillness in its wake. Devavrata trudged through the trees, his boots sinking into the mud, the celestial bow slung across his shoulder. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from the leaves, a soft patter against the earth. His arms ached from the cliffside training, his fingers raw where the bowstring had bitten them. Yet it wasn't the pain that weighed on him, it was something quieter, heavier, a shadow that clung to his thoughts.
He broke through the forest's edge, the Ganga stretching before him, its waters a silver thread under a sky bruised with dusk. Hastinapura glimmered in the distance, torchlight flickering like stars, but here, by the river, it was just him. He set the bow down, its runes glowing faintly, and knelt at the bank. The Ganga lapped at his knees, cool and familiar, a touch he'd known since birth.
"Mother," he said, his voice low, barely above the river's murmur. He traced a hand through the water, watching ripples spread. "You shaped me, gave me this strength. But you're not here." His chest tightened, a knot he couldn't name. "I fire arrows that bend the wind, but for what? To prove I'm yours?"
The river didn't answer, its silence a mirror to the void he felt. He'd returned to Hastinapura a warrior, Ganga's divine mark on him, but the weight of her absence pressed harder now. Shantanu's pride was distant, Parashurama's lessons relentless, yet none filled the space she'd left. He closed his eyes, the Ganga's pulse faint in his veins, and wondered if he'd ever hear her voice again.
A twig snapped behind him. Devavrata tensed, hand twitching toward the bow, but it was Parashurama, stepping from the trees. The sage's broad frame loomed, his axe slung over his shoulder, rain still clinging to his scarred skin. His eyes narrowed, sharp as arrowheads, taking in Devavrata's hunched form.
"Training's done for the day, river-son," Parashurama said, his voice a rough growl. "What's this, kneeling by the water like a lost child?"
Devavrata stood, brushing mud from his knees, his face a mask of calm. "I'm not lost. Just… thinking."
Parashurama snorted, planting the axe in the ground with a thud. "Thinking's a luxury warriors don't get. You hit every target today, bent the storm to your will. Why the long face?"
Devavrata hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He glanced at the Ganga, then back at the sage. "It's not the targets. It's why I'm hitting them. You push me, Father expects me, but it all started with her. Ganga. I don't even know if she sees me now."
The sage's grin faded, his gaze softening, just a flicker, but enough to surprise Devavrata. Parashurama stepped closer, his shadow falling over the riverbank. "You think she's watching from some celestial perch, judging every shot?"
"Maybe," Devavrata said, his voice quieter now. "She gave me this bow, this life. I can't fail her."
Parashurama crossed his arms, rain dripping from his hair. "I knew a mother once. Renuka. She was everything, until she wasn't. I cleaved the world apart for her, and it didn't bring her back." He paused, his tone rougher. "You're chasing a ghost, boy. Ganga's gone. What's driving you, is it her, or you?"
Devavrata blinked, the question a stone dropped into his thoughts. "I don't know," he admitted, looking down at the bow. "I've always been her son. The river's gift. What if that's all I am?"
Parashurama's laugh was sharp, cutting through the stillness. "All you are? You're a fool if you think that bow's just her doing. I've seen you, steady as iron, fierce as a storm. That's not Ganga. That's you." He jabbed a finger at Devavrata's chest. "Figure out why you're fighting, or you'll break under it."
Devavrata stared at him, the words sinking in, stirring something raw. He opened his mouth to reply, but a voice cut through the dusk, sharp, mocking, familiar.
"Talking to the river again, motherless river pup?" Kshema stepped from the trees, his crimson leather slick with damp, his bow slung lazily over his shoulder. His dark eyes glinted, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What's it say back? Nothing, I bet."
Devavrata's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest. He turned, meeting Kshema's gaze. "It says more than you ever will," he said, his tone even but edged. "Go back to your taunts, Kshema. They're all you've got."
Kshema laughed, a harsh bark that grated against the quiet. "Oh, I've got plenty, skill, blood, a name that's mine, not borrowed from some water goddess. You're just a shadow of her, playing warrior by the bank."
Parashurama's eyes flicked between them, his grin returning, sly and dangerous. "Keep flapping your tongue, noble's brat," he said to Kshema. "It'll get you an arrow in it one day." He looked at Devavrata. "And you, don't let him crawl under your skin. Prove him wrong with steel, not words."
Kshema sneered, stepping closer. "Prove it? He's too busy crying to the river. Maybe that's why she left him, couldn't stand the whining."
The anger flared hotter, a flame Devavrata fought to smother. He took a breath, the Ganga's cool touch grounding him, and faced Kshema fully. "You don't know her. Or me. Keep your venom, I've got better things to waste my arrows on."
Kshema's smirk faltered, just for a moment, but he shrugged, turning away. "We'll see, river pup. Chaos is coming. Hope your mother's ghost saves you." His boots crunched through the mud as he vanished into the trees, leaving a sting in the air.
Parashurama watched him go, then turned back to Devavrata, his expression unreadable. "He's a jackal, snapping at your heels. But he's not wrong about chaos. It's coming, faster than you think."
Devavrata nodded, the weight of the words settling over him. "I'll be ready," he said, though doubt lingered in his gut. He picked up the bow, its runes pulsing faintly, and faced the Ganga again. Parashurama's footsteps faded behind him, leaving him alone once more.
The river stretched before him, its surface a mirror of the fading sky, violet, gold, a hint of shadow. He sat, cross-legged, the bow across his lap, and stared into the water. His reflection stared back, a youth with sharp eyes, a jaw set hard, but beneath it, something softer, uncertain. "I've trained for you," he said, his voice a whisper now. "Fired every arrow to make you proud. But you're not here to tell me if it's enough."
He leaned closer, the Ganga's ripples distorting his face. "I hear you in the water, feel you in this bow. But it's not the same." A pause, his breath hitching. "I push myself, every day, every shot. For Father, for Parashurama, for Hastinapura. But mostly for you." His fingers tightened on the bow. "Mother, am I enough?"
The river stayed silent, its current steady, unyielding. No voice answered, no sign broke the surface, just the Ganga, flowing as it always had, a mother's presence he could feel but not hold. Devavrata's shoulders slumped, the weight of his question unanswered, and he sat there, the dusk deepening around him.
Parashurama's words echoed in his mind: What's driving you, is it her, or you? He didn't have an answer, not yet. But the bow in his hands, the Ganga at his feet, the taunts ringing in his ears, they were pieces of something bigger, a puzzle he'd solve with every arrow he loosed.
The forest grew dark, the first stars piercing the sky, and Devavrata stood, slinging the bow over his shoulder. Kshema's words stung, Parashurama's challenge loomed, but the Ganga's pulse remained, a quiet strength he'd carry forward. He turned back toward the trees, his steps firm despite the ache, ready to face whatever came next