The forest exhaled a gentle dusk, its edges softening as the sun dipped low, painting the leaves in hues of amber and gold. Devavrata trudged behind Parashurama, the celestial bow slung over his shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort. The day had been relentless, hours of drills, arrows splitting targets under the sage's unyielding eye, but now Parashurama led him away from the usual clearing, deeper into the woods. The air grew cooler, the sounds of Hastinapura fading, replaced by a quiet hum, birds settling, branches swaying, a stillness that felt alive.
"Where are we going?" Devavrata asked, his voice cutting through the hush. His boots crunched on fallen leaves, the Ganga's distant murmur a faint thread in his ears.
Parashurama didn't turn, his axe resting easy on his shoulder, its edge catching the fading light. "Somewhere you'll listen," he said, his tone gruff but lighter than usual. "You've shot enough for war. Time you learned something else."
Devavrata frowned, curiosity tugging at him, but he followed. The trees parted, revealing a glade, a pocket of serenity where the forest floor was carpeted in moss, soft and green, and a small stream trickled through, its water catching the last rays like liquid fire. The air here felt different, cleaner, quieter, a balm against the bruises of training.
Parashurama stopped, setting his axe against a tree with a thud. He pulled his own bow from his back, a rugged thing, carved from dark wood, worn but strong, and faced Devavrata. "Sit," he said, nodding to the moss. "No targets today. Just us."
Devavrata hesitated, then sank cross-legged onto the ground, the celestial bow across his lap. "No targets?" he asked, tilting his head. "What's the lesson, then?"
The sage sat opposite him, his broad frame folding with a grunt, bow resting on his knee. "Archery's not just war, river-son," he said, his voice low, steady. "It's a path, inside, not out. You've got the skill, now hear its song." He nocked an arrow, his movements slow, deliberate, and loosed it into the stream. The shot rippled the water, a soft splash, no force behind it.
Devavrata watched, brow furrowing. "That's it? No wind, no fight?"
Parashurama's grin was faint, almost soft. "Not every shot's a battle. Draw yours, shoot with me. Feel it, not force it."
Devavrata lifted the celestial bow, its runes glowing faintly, and nocked an arrow. He glanced at Parashurama, then loosed, a gentle shot, the arrow arcing into the stream beside the sage's, a twin ripple spreading. The bows hummed together, a low harmony that vibrated through the glade, and for a moment, the world felt still.
"Good," Parashurama said, nodding. "Again. Match my rhythm, let it flow."
They shot together, arrows falling into the stream one after another, their bows singing in unison. The sound wove into the dusk, a quiet melody, steady, alive. Devavrata's shoulders eased, the tension of days melting into the moss beneath him. "It's… different," he said, his voice softer now. "Calm."
Parashurama leaned back, resting his bow across his lap. "That's the point. War's chaos, archery can be peace, if you let it. You're always pushing, Ganga, Shantanu, me. Why?"
Devavrata paused, the question sinking in. He looked at the bow, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat, and the words slipped out. "Duty," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "Father needs a son he can trust, Hastinapura's future. And Ganga…" He trailed off, his fingers brushing the string. "She gave me this. I can't let them down."
Parashurama's eyes narrowed, studying him. "Can't, or won't? Duty's a chain if you don't choose it, boy. You're scared of failing them, I see it."
Devavrata's chest tightened, the sage's words peeling back a layer he'd kept buried. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice barely above the stream's trickle. "Father's so far off, proud, but distant. And Ganga's gone, I don't even know if she'd care. What if I'm not enough for either?"
Parashurama set his bow aside, leaning forward, his scarred hands resting on his knees. "Enough's a fool's game," he said, his tone rough but warm. "I spent years chasing it, after the wars, the blood. I'd wake to silence, no kings left to kill, and still feel empty." He paused, his gaze drifting to the stream. "Took me too long to find this, quiet, not wrath. A bow can steady you, if you listen."
Devavrata stared, the sage's confession a bridge between them. "You found peace?" he asked, tilting his head. "After all that?"
Parashurama's laugh was low, a rumble against the glade's calm. "Bits of it. Never whole, too much red in my hands. But teaching you…" He met Devavrata's eyes, a flicker of something raw there. "It's a piece I didn't expect. You're not just a warrior, you're a chance to get it right."
Devavrata's breath caught, the weight of that sinking in. "Get it right?" he echoed, his voice soft. "You mean me?"
"You," Parashurama said, nodding. "I've broken more than I've built, kings, clans, lives. You're different, steady, not wild. I push you to fight, but this, " he gestured to the glade, the bows, "this is what I want you to carry. Peace with the steel."
Devavrata looked at the stream, their arrows bobbing in the current, and felt the bow's hum in his hands, a song, like Parashurama said. "I've always fought for them," he said, his voice steadying. "But this… it feels like it's for me."
Parashurama's grin returned, faint but real. "That's it, river-son. It's yours, the bow hums for you. What will it sing?" He stood, brushing moss from his knees, and picked up his axe. "Keep shooting. Feel it till it's yours."
Devavrata nodded, rising with him, the celestial bow alive in his grip. They shot again, arrows falling in sync, the harmony weaving through the glade like a thread of light. The dusk deepened, stars pricking the sky, and Devavrata let the rhythm sink in, each shot a note, each breath a beat. It wasn't Ganga's voice, or Shantanu's pride, it was his, a quiet strength he hadn't named.
Parashurama stepped back, watching, his axe resting easy. "You're getting it," he said, his tone gruff but pleased. "War'll come, chaos, blood. But this stays with you. Hold it tight."
Devavrata loosed a final arrow, its arc soft, landing in the stream with a ripple that caught the starlight. "I will," he said, meeting the sage's gaze. "It's not just duty, it's me."
The sage nodded, a rare warmth breaking through his stern face. "Good. Rest here, dawn's another fight." He turned, trudging back through the trees, leaving Devavrata alone in the glade.
The forest settled around him, the stream's trickle a steady pulse, the bow's hum a faint echo in his hands. He sat again, cross-legged, staring at the water. The arrows floated there, his and Parashurama's, side by side, a bond forged in quiet, not wrath. "It sings," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "For me."
The Ganga's whisper lingered in the distance, a mother's presence he'd always sought, but this was different, a song of his own making, born in the glade's calm. He closed his eyes, the bow across his lap, and listened. Parashurama's question hung in the air, The bow hums for you, what will it sing?, a thread to his soul he'd follow, shot by shot.
The stars burned brighter, the glade a haven amidst the forest's sprawl, and Devavrata felt it, a peace he'd craft, a strength he'd claim, beyond the shadows of duty.