The Ganga flowed on, unyielding, its waters a mirror to the heavens' indifference. In Hastinapura, the palace stood as a monument to glory, its marble halls gleaming under torchlight, but within, King Shantanu was a man unmoored. The memory of his firstborn's cry, silenced by the river's embrace, haunted him like a specter. Ganga, his queen, moved through the court with the grace of a goddess, her beauty a flame that both warmed and burned. Yet her eyes, those fathomless depths, held no answers, only a quiet command to honor the oath he'd sworn: never question her, or lose her forever.
Days after the first drowning, Shantanu stood by the riverbank at dawn, alone. The water lapped at his boots, cold and mocking. He clutched the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, as if he could cleave the truth from the current. His son was gone, his heir, swallowed without explanation.
Ganga had returned to the palace as if nothing had happened, her silks trailing, her voice soft as she spoke of courtly matters. The court saw her radiance, but Shantanu saw only the ripple where his child had vanished. He wanted to scream, to demand why, but the oath bound his tongue like iron.
That night, in their chambers, Ganga's touch was fire. She pressed herself against him, her breath warm against his neck, her fingers tracing the scars of old battles. "You are troubled, my king," she murmured, her voice a river's caress. "Let me ease you."
He wanted to resist, to push her away, but her presence was a tide, pulling him under. Their lovemaking was fierce, desperate, his need warring with his grief, her passion a storm that drowned his questions. The bed creaked under their weight, the air thick with sandalwood and longing.
Yet as he lay beside her after, staring at the canopy's shadows, he felt the chasm between them widen. She was his queen, his goddess, but she was also a mystery he could not unravel.
Months passed, and Ganga grew heavy with child again. The court buzzed with cautious hope, their whispers tinged with fear. Shantanu's heart twisted, hope clashing with dread. He stood vigil during the birth, pacing outside the chamber, his boots echoing on marble. When the midwife emerged, her eyes bright with news "A son, my lord, strong and hale"
Shantanu's chest tightened. He pushed past her, expecting to cradle his child, to defy the nightmare of before.
Ganga stood by the window, the newborn in her arms, his cries sharp in the morning air. Her face was serene, untouched by the joy of motherhood. Shantanu's voice caught in his throat. "Ganga," he said, stepping forward, "let me see him."
She turned, her eyes meeting his, and in them, he saw the river's cold depths. "You know my path, Shantanu," she said, her voice steady. "Do not stand in its way."
He followed her, helpless, as she descended to the riverbank. The court trailed behind, their murmurs a low hum of dread. The Ganga glittered under the sun, its surface deceptively calm. Ganga waded into the shallows, the infant's wails piercing the silence. Shantanu's hand twitched toward his sword, his oath a chain around his heart. "Stop," he whispered, but the word was too soft, lost in the wind.
With a single motion, Ganga cast the child into the water. The river swallowed him, a ripple spreading, then nothing. The court gasped, some falling to their knees, others turning away. Shantanu stood frozen, his vision blurring, his hands trembling. Ganga emerged from the water, her silks clinging to her, and walked past him without a glance. "Honor your vow," she said, her voice a blade.
The years blurred into a cycle of pain. Five more sons were born, each a fleeting hope, each doomed to the river's embrace. The second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, Ganga's ritual never wavered. She bore each child with grace, cradled them briefly, then offered them to the Ganga's depths. Shantanu aged with each loss, his hair streaking gray, his shoulders bowing under grief's weight. The court whispered of curses, of a queen possessed, but none dared speak openly. Hastinapura's glory dimmed, its king a shadow of the warrior he'd been.
In their chambers, Ganga remained a paradox, tender in her touch, distant in her gaze. Their nights were a battlefield of passion and silence, his love for her a wound that bled anew with each child lost. He searched her face for remorse, for explanation, but found only the river's calm. "Why do you stay?" he asked once, his voice raw, after the fifth drowning. She only smiled, her fingers brushing his cheek, and said, "Because you swore."
By the eighth pregnancy, Shantanu was a husk. The court no longer celebrated births; they awaited tragedy. When the midwife announced another son, Shantanu felt no joy, only a sickening certainty. He followed Ganga to the birthing chamber, his steps heavy, his heart a storm. She stood with the child, a boy with eyes like storm clouds, his cries strong and defiant. Shantanu's resolve cracked like dry earth.
"No more," he roared, seizing her arm. "You will not take this one! I am your king, Ganga, tell me why you drown our sons!"
The air shimmered, and Ganga's form seemed to glow, her eyes blazing with divine light. The court recoiled, sensing the goddess within. "You have broken your oath, Shantanu," she said, her voice echoing like thunder over the river. "But I will answer, for this child's fate differs. These seven were the Vasus, celestial beings cursed by Sage Vashistha for stealing his sacred cow. They sought me to birth them and free them swiftly from mortal life. I granted their wish, sparing them suffering. This eighth, their leader in the crime, must bear the curse longer. He will live, a warrior unmatched, but his path will be heavy with destiny."
Shantanu's grip loosened, his mind reeling. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice a whisper.
"Devavrata," Ganga said, cradling the boy. "Raise him well, for he will carry your name beyond the ages. But know this, Shantanu, fate spares no one, not even a king."
Before he could speak, Ganga stepped toward the river, her silks trailing like liquid moonlight. The water rose to meet her, embracing her form. In a flash of light, she dissolved, merging with the Ganga's flow, leaving Shantanu alone with the child. The boy's cries filled the silence, a promise and a burden.
Shantanu clutched Devavrata to his chest, his tears falling on the infant's face. The court watched, silent, as their king returned to the palace, a man both broken and reborn. But as he crossed the threshold, a shadow lingered in his heart. Ganga was gone, but her words echoed 'Fate spares no one.'
And in the distance, the river whispered of trials yet to come.