The Ganga flowed like a silver vein through the heart of Bharat, its waters whispering secrets older than the gods.
On its banks, under a twilight sky bruised with crimson, King Shantanu of Hastinapura rode alone. His stallion's hooves churned the earth, the rhythm steady as his pulse, but his heart was a hollow drum.
At forty, he was a lion of a man with broad-chested, arms forged by war and eyes that burned with the weight of command.
Hastinapura, his city, stood as a beacon of power, its towers piercing the heavens, yet its king was a man adrift. His queen had died years ago, leaving no heir, and the throne's emptiness gnawed at him like a wound that would not heal.
The river's song grew louder as he slowed his mount, drawn by a scent of lotus and musk, wild and intoxicating. There, by the water's edge, stood a woman. Her beauty was a blade, sharp and sudden, cutting through the dusk. Her skin glowed like moonlit ivory, her hair cascaded like the river itself, and her eyes held the depth of a starless night. She stood barefoot on the pebbled shore, her silken robes clinging to curves that spoke of both grace and power. Shantanu's breath caught, his warrior's instincts silenced by a longing he hadn't felt in years.
"Who are you?" he asked, dismounting, his voice rough from years of barking orders across battlefields.
She turned, her gaze locking with his, and a smile curved her lips, both gentle and dangerous. "I am Ganga," she said, her voice a melody of rushing waters, soft yet unyielding. "And you, Shantanu, king of men, are a soul in search of something greater than a crown."
His name on her lips sent a shiver through him. "How do you know me?" he demanded, stepping closer, the air between them electric.
"I know many things," she replied, her eyes glinting with secrets. "The river sees all, carries all. If you would have me as your queen, swear an oath: Never question my actions, no matter how they wound you. Break it, and I am lost to you forever."
Shantanu's heart pounded, desire warring with caution. He was no stranger to vows, oaths of war, of loyalty, but this was different. Her presence was a tide, pulling him under. "I swear it," he said, the words heavy, binding. "Be mine, Ganga."
That night, in the torchlit halls of Hastinapura, they wed. The ceremony was swift, the court's murmurs drowned by the fire in Shantanu's eyes. In his chambers, their union was a storm, fierce, consuming, her touch both tender and wild. Her body moved with the rhythm of the river, and he surrendered to it, lost in a passion that felt like worship. The palace walls seemed to pulse with their heat, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and sweat. For the first time in years, Shantanu felt alive, whole.
Months passed, and Ganga's beauty only grew, her presence a quiet power in the court. Rumours followed hersome called her a goddess, others a sorceress, but Shantanu did not cared. His love was a fire, burning away doubt. When she grew heavy with child, hope bloomed in his chest. A son, an heir, a future for Hastinapura. The day she gave birth, the palace buzzed with anticipation. Servants rushed to the king, their faces alight. "A boy, my lord," they said. "Strong, with eyes like yours."
Shantanu burst into the birthing chamber, expecting to see Ganga cradling their child. Instead, he found her standing by the window, the infant in her arms, her face unreadable. The boy was perfect, small but sturdy, his cries sharp and vital. Shantanu reached for him, but Ganga turned, her movements deliberate, and stepped toward the open balcony overlooking the Ganga's distant flow.
"What are you doing?" Shantanu asked, a chill creeping into his voice.
She didn't answer. Her eyes, cold as the river's depths, held no warmth. Without a word, she walked past him, descending the palace stairs. Shantanu followed, his heart hammering, dread coiling in his gut. The court parted as Ganga moved, her silks trailing like water. She reached the riverbank, the same shore where they'd met, now cloaked in dawn's pale light. The infant's cries grew louder, piercing.
"Ganga," Shantanu said, his voice breaking. "What is this?"
She turned to him, her face a mask of divine calm. "You swore, Shantanu. Do not question me."
Before he could move, she stepped into the shallows, the water lapping at her ankles. With a single, fluid motion, she cast the child into the river. The boy's cries cut off as the current swallowed him, a ripple spreading outward, then nothing. Silence, save for the Ganga's endless flow.
Shantanu's knees buckled, his sword hand trembling. A scream clawed at his throat, but the oath stopped it cold. Question her, and she'd vanish. His love, his queen, his goddess was gone. He stared at the water, the spot where his son had disappeared, his mind a storm of grief and rage. Ganga stood unmoved, her gaze distant, as if the act were as natural as the river's course.
"Why?" he whispered, the word escaping despite himself. But she only looked at him, her eyes a warning, and walked back toward the palace, leaving him alone by the river.
Days bled into weeks, then months. Ganga remained at his side, her beauty undimmed, her touch still fire. But the palace felt haunted, the court's whispers now laced with fear. Shantanu ruled as if in a trance, his days filled with decrees, his nights with Ganga's embrace, each moment tainted by the memory of that ripple in the water. He searched her eyes for answers, for remorse, but found only depths he could not fathom.
When she grew pregnant again, hope warred with terror. Would this child live? Could he bear to watch another sink beneath the waves? The court held its breath, and Shantanu's heart hung on a knife's edge. As the birth drew near, he paced the palace halls, his shadow long and restless.
The day arrived, and a servant's voice broke the silence. "Another son, my lord."
Shantanu rushed to Ganga's chamber, his pulse a war drum. She stood by the same window, the newborn in her arms, his cries echoing. Her face was serene, her steps already turning toward the door.
"No," Shantanu whispered, his voice a plea. But her eyes met his, unyielding, and he knew, she would walk to the river again.