Chapter 64 - 62: Gift From the Love... Between Them...
(A/N):
Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.
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The corridor leading to Devara’s chamber no longer echoed with urgency.
Now—it carried aftermath.
When Bhishma, Vidura, Drona, Subala, along with Shakuni, his brothers, and Ashwatthama arrived. They stopped.
Not because of danger.
Because of what remained.
The guards were already at work.
Water poured. Cloths dragged.
Red slowly turning... less red.
But not gone. It never fully leaves.
A silence settled among the elders.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Drona’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"...All of them?"
A guard bowed hearing his question.
"Yes, Acharya. No survivors left."
Ashwatthama exhaled slowly looking at the carnage before him.
-Sigh!
"...Twenty-seven."
Even he sounded impressed.
Shakuni tilted his head, gaze scanning the room.
"...Efficient."
That was his word for it.
King Subala’s expression was harder to read.
This was his palace. His walls.
And yet—It was someone else who had answered the threat.
Then—A soft chuckle.
-Chuckle!
"...."
"...."
"...."
All eyes turned to Bhishma who had just chuckled.
"...He hasn’t changed."
His gaze lingered on the faint stains.
"In fact ...he’s grown into it."
A pause.
"He always did have a... certain way of fighting."
Not cruel. But complete.
Bhishma’s eyes drifted slightly, not seeing the room anymore—But something from years ago.
"...Ten years back..."
He murmured as he remembered.
"When he saved Gandhari..."
A faint breath.
"He cut down two Rakshasa without hesitation."
No pride in his voice. No concern. Just... recollection.
"And when he stood before me..."
A slight pause.
"...for Amba."
That memory carried weight.
Not many could stand before Bhishma.
Fewer could fight him with purpose.
"...There is something in him."
Bhishma said quietly as he evaluate his own brother higer.
"Once it awakens... It does not hold back."
Drona crossed his arms.
"...I have seen skilled warriors."
A glance at the room.
"...I have seen ruthless ones."
Then—A slight shake of his head.
"But this ...this is different."
Ashwatthama didn’t respond immediately.
The precision. The calm. The lack of hesitation in each cut.
"...He wasn’t angry."
He said finally.
"That’s what’s strange."
Silence followed.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Because that detail mattered. Very much.
"Then we should be grateful."
All eyes shifted.
"Because if he ever is..."
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Shakuni let out a quiet breath.
"Well ...at least we don’t need to search the palace anymore."
A faint smirk formed on his face.
-Smirk!
"Our guests have already been... handled."
King Subala nodded slowly.
-Nod!
"Still..."
His voice firmed.
"We do not lower our guard."
Because one truth remained.
Those were assassins. Not the army. They strike in shadows but were now Devara as dealt with them.
The palace still buzzed above—Voices, footsteps, urgency.
But Devara chose something else.
Silence.
"...."
"...."
"...."
After washing away the blood and weight of the night, he walked—not toward chambers, not toward guards—But toward the garden.
The pond greeted him quietly which was located at the end of the royal garden.
Which had Clear. Still. Alive water.
The same pond...
That had changed under his touch.
He didn’t any attention to the changes. He didn’t hesitate.
A step forward. And took a breath.
Then—He jumped.
The water embraced him without resistance.
No splash echoed loudly.
No disturbance lingered.
As He sank. Deeper. Past the surface glow. Past the drifting plants.
Fish moved aside as if recognizing the calming aura he carried with him.
At the bottom—A stone slab waited. Unmoved. But perfect for the replacement for bed for the night.
He settled onto it.
Not tense. Not alert. But At peace.
Above him—The surface shimmered faintly like a distant sky.
Below—Only stillness.
Devara closed his eyes.
Feeling at peace under the water.
"...."
For the first time that night—There was no threat.
No voices. No weight. Only memory.
"...Mother..."
He remembered his mother Goddess Ganga
The thought came quietly.
Not spoken. Felt.
Water wrapped around him—Not cold. Not distant.
But Comforting.
Like something that had always known him.
Like something that remembered.
His breathing slowed. His body stilled completely.
And sleep—Took him.
Not restless by his earlier fight. Not broken.
Deep sleep.
The kind of sleep only those who have faced death without fear can find.
Above—The palace remained on edge.
Guards walked around every corner.
Torches burned in their hands.
Plans formed to counter and prevent any future assassins from entering the royal castle.
But below—In the quiet heart of the pond—Devara rested sleeping soundly.
Far from the quiet pond where Devara slept—The world had already chosen violence.
The borders did not whisper.
They stood ready for battle at any moment.
On one side—The combined forces of Gandhara and Hastinapura.
Disciplined by training and battle. Layered by their variety. Unyielding by their will.
Under the command of Bhishma and Dhritarashtra’s authority.
On the other—A storm gathering teeth.
The army of Mathura. Not just soldiers.
But something darker mixed within—Rakshasa
Waiting. Hungry.
And at the heart of that storm—King Kamsa.
He had just arrived at the borders.
He entered the war tent like a man who had already decided the outcome.
The general bowed immediately.
"My lord... The wedding is tomorrow."
Kamsa sat at the seat which was meant to him.
"The royals—of Gandhara ...has tightened the palace defenses."
A pause.
"And the assassins we sent..."
The general hesitated.
"...have all been killed by the prince who we send them after."
Silence.
"...."
"...."
"...."
For a moment—Nothing moved pin drop silence.
Then—Kamsa smiled slowly.
Not in anger. Not in frustration.
But in Confidence.
"...All of them?"
"Yes, my lord."
Kamsa leaned back slightly. A low chuckle escaped him.
-Chuckle!
"So ...he can fight."
The words held no concern.
Only interest.
His hand rested on his mace. A slow grip.
"That changes nothing."
The general remained silent.
"...."
Because he understood—This was not a man who measured threats.
He crushed them.
"The palace is tight?"
Kamsa asked rising an eye brow but not suprised.
"Yes, my lord."
"And the kingdom?"
"Even tighter."
Kamsa nodded slowly as he felt satisfied how serious these kingdom took him even before the war as began.
-Nod!
"Good."
A pause.
"Then we will not sneak."
The words dropped like a hammer.
"We will enter."
The general looked up slightly.
"My lord... the combined forces—"
Kamsa raised a hand.
"Let them stand."
His eyes gleamed.
"They protect him outside."
A faint smirk which had not left his face till now.
-Smirk!
"I will take what I want ...inside."
Silence thickened.
"....."
"....."
"....."
Because this was no longer strategy.
This was certainty of how confidence their king had.
"They celebrate tomorrow? Right..."
"Yes."
Kamsa stood from his seat.
"Then tomorrow..."
His voice lowered.
"...they will remember."
The torches flickered violently around the camp.
"Not as a wedding."
A step forward.
"...but as the day..."
His grip tightened on the mace.
"...their prince failed."
Outside—The armies waited for the orders from their head.
Inside—The decision had been made.
Next day...
Morning did not arrive with noise.
It arrived... with light as it reflected through the fresh pure water.
A soft blue glow filtered through the pond, touching Devara’s face like a quiet invitation to wake.
His eyes opened slowly since its time for him to wake up.
He was stunned to find two familiar figures.
On either side of him—Two presences that felt older and purer than any gods.
Warmer than memory.
Goddess Ganga and Goddess Bhudevi Sitting calmly on the stone slab.
"...."
"...."
As if they had always been there.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
Their voices flowed like water and earth—Gentle. Certain.
For a moment—Devara didn’t move.
"...."
Then—Recognition came to his face as his sleepiness vanished.
"...Mom..."
He rose instantly and pulled them both into an embrace.
No hesitation. No restraint.
And they responded the same way.
Hands on his back.
Fingers brushing through his hair—Now drifting in soft waves under the water.
No divinity in that moment.
Only... mothers who were greeting their son. Only warmth between.
Only belonging.
A quiet pause passed between them—Not empty.
Full.
"...."
"...."
"...."
Then—Devara pulled back slightly.
And noticed. Everything around finally.
The pond—No longer just clear—But alive.
Radiant.
Flowers bloomed where none had existed before.
Colors unfamiliar. Shapes unimagined.
They swayed gently in the water—As if greeting him.
"...This..."
He looked around slowly.
"Mom ...Did you do this?"
His gaze turned to Goddess Bhudevi.
She smiled hearing his question. Not proudly. Knowingly.
Her hand lifted, gently brushing his cheek.
"No."
A pause.
"This ...is not something I created."
Her eyes softened looking at her son’s confused face.
"It is something that responded."
Devara frowned slightly. Curiosity written all over his face.
-Frown!
Bhudevi continued with her explanation—
"When you and Gandhari sat here... When your hands touched the same water which ripped after Ghandhari left where she had touched it..."
"...something was acknowledged."
The flowers shimmered softly.
"Nature does not ignore truth."
"It recognizes it."
Another pause.
"And sometimes ...it answers."
Devara looked around again.
Understanding slowly forming.
"These are ...for her?"
Goddess Ganga smiled this time.
"For you to give."
The meaning settled.
Ten flowers. Different. Beautiful.
Not yet found by him.
But his love as Given him that.
Which will Fulfilled the condition no a request put forth by Gandhari.
Without effort. Without search.
It was the gift given to them by their love for each other which blossomed between them.
Because the request—Had already been heard.
Devara exhaled slowly.
-Sigh!
"...That was fast way to fullfill someone’s request."
Bhudevi chuckled softly.
-Chuckle!
"Love does not wait for permission."
Ganga added gently—
"Nor does it follow time."
The water around them shimmered again.
And for a moment—Everything felt... right.
No pressure of the war which was blooming.
No danger which could reach him.
No shadow of Kamsa.
Just a son—And his mothers who were sharing their moments with each other.
Just a promise he had given to his future wife—Already fulfilled by the love between them.
The royal palace answered with color, song, and turmeric.
Today’s morning the time where was Haldi cermoney would take place.
Courtyards glowed in shades of yellow.
Bowls of turmeric paste shimmered like captured sunlight—mixed with oil and water, blessed in the name of Parvati.
Laughter threaded through chants.
Hands waited to anoint.
But at the pond—Something quieter unfolded.
Devara stepped out of the water, ten flowers gathered—each a different hue, each unlike anything grown in ordinary soil.
Not picked.
Gifted to him and Ghandhari.
Behind him—Two presences walked as if the world itself made way:
Goddess Ganga and Goddess Bhudevi
On the shore, guards stiffened seeing Devara had really stayed the whole night under the water.
Not from fear—From reverence.
Ashwatthama’s grin broke first.
-Grin!
A short laugh escaped him.
"-Hahaha!"
"I knew it."
He stepped forward and bowed deeply to Ganga.
"My respects."
Then, without hesitation, he turned to Bhudevi—And bowed again.
Even though he had never seen her before.
Devara had told him enough.
Shakuni, meanwhile, stood frozen for a heartbeat too long.
"...Oh."
Then reality struck him like a delayed arrow. He bent quickly, bowing low.
"My respects..."
His usual ease faltered just slightly.
Because this—Was not court. Not politics. This was... presence.
Meeting even one such being was said to be the fruit of lifetimes.
And here—Two stood before him.
Ashwatthama straightened, glancing sideways at Devara.
"...You really don’t do things halfway, do you?"
Devara only smirked faintly.
-Smirk!
"Apparently not."
The flowers in his hand shimmered softly.
Ten colors. Ten answers.
One promise already fulfilled.
Ganga’s gaze rested on him with quiet pride.
Bhudevi’s eyes held something gentler—A knowing.
Because what he carried now—Was not just flowers.
It was acknowledgment.
And as the palace called him forward—Toward ritual, toward celebration, toward Gandhari who he will be giving her the flowers she requested.
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(Author note:)
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