---
The boat cut silently across the moonlit river, its wooden hull barely creaking beneath the weight of two passengers: one warrior, one wrapped bundle.
Bhishma sat still, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were on the horizon, where the river curved into mist and vanished between ancient trees. The child in his lap did not cry. He rarely did. He had slept through the crossing of three tributaries, through the ritual silence of two shrines, and through Bhishma's own quiet prayers.
But now, as the waters grew colder and the air thicker, the child stirred.
Bhishma looked down. The infant's brow furrowed. His tiny hands curled. Then stilled again.
"You feel it too," Bhishma murmured. "She is near."
The boat reached a bend in the river that no maps showed.
Here, the water was perfectly still—not with stagnation, but with reverence. Trees leaned inward from the banks like worshippers. A hush fell over the world. Even the crickets ceased their song.
Bhishma stepped out, lifting the child carefully in his arms.
The river didn't splash at his feet.
It parted.
A narrow path of smooth stone rose from the riverbed, leading to a circle of white sand. At its center stood a woman draped in blue and silver, her long hair flowing as if underwater.
Her face was radiant—but not bright. It was quiet, like moonlight on ancient stone.
Bhishma bent to one knee and lowered his head. "Mother."
Ganga smiled gently. "My son."
Her voice echoed without sound, like a thought heard in full.
Bhishma rose and stepped forward, holding the child out. "I ask something no man should ask of a goddess."
She took the infant from his arms without hesitation.
And she smiled.
Her hands cradled the boy as if they had known him since before rivers began.
"This child," Bhishma said, "was born under no prophecy. He has no destiny. He has no name in the stars. But I have watched him, and I fear… I fear what silence may grow into."
Ganga did not look away from the baby. "Then you are wise to fear."
"Will you protect him?"
She nodded. "I will raise him as the river raises the root—quietly, but with strength."
Bhishma hesitated.
"There is another boy," Ganga added. "He came to me some years ago. Carried by the wind of shame, left at the banks like driftwood. A child with the sun in his blood and sorrow in his heart."
Bhishma raised an eyebrow.
"You may know him as Karna."
Bhishma's face shifted—surprise, then reflection. "A coincidence?"
"There are no coincidences in the Ganga," she said.
She looked at the baby. "What is his name?"
Bhishma exhaled. "Agasthya."
Ganga's smile widened, and for a moment, the entire bend of the river shimmered with golden ripples.
"A name of weight," she said. "Then let him carry it with ease."
She turned, walking barefoot across the still waters as if on glass. The baby in her arms stirred only slightly, his face soft and unburdened.
Bhishma stood watching until she vanished into the mist at the far end of the river's bend.
Then, alone again, he bowed.
And left.
---
The river bent time. Or perhaps ignored it.
Days passed—or didn't. The world outside forgot the child named Agasthya. But inside the fold of Ganga's sanctuary, a life unfolded.
Agasthya grew.
Not in years—but in weight.
He absorbed sound. Eyes always alert. He began to sit before the others his age would crawl. He reached for the sky before he babbled.
Karna watched him with quiet awe.
They shared a wet stone bench under a great tree, watching the river each day. Karna taught him to throw pebbles. Agasthya never missed.
"You don't talk much," Karna would say. "But you see everything."
Ganga laughed often with them.
She would sit cross-legged on the sand, braiding Karna's hair with fingers of water, then cradling Agasthya in her lap, humming soft hymns no priest had ever taught.
Agasthya would reach up and touch her lips when she sang, as if to taste the sound.
He did not understand the words.
But his heart quieted when she sang.
---
One night, the air shifted.
It was the night of the waxing moon. Ganga sat on a raised slab of polished stone, Agasthya in her lap, Karna leaning against her side half-asleep.
She sang something ancient—so old that even the stars might have forgotten it.
A language of round vowels, of silence between syllables, of something older than Sanskrit.
Agasthya blinked.
The sound rang differently this time.
His breath caught.
Something shifted inside him—like an ancient door creaking open.
He didn't understand the meaning of her words… but he recognized them. As if a veil lifted. As if memory reached up through the roots of his soul.
> [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:]
[FATE HAS SHIFTED.]
> [YOU HAVE RECEIVED LOVE FROM A GODDESS NEVER MEANT TO TOUCH YOUR PATH.]
[THIS IS AN ANOMALY.]
[IMPACT: HIGH.]
> [REWARD UNLOCKED — LANGUAGE OF THE LOST]
[You may now comprehend any divine or ancient script.]
Agasthya's vision blurred.
The song shifted—from sound to symbol. He saw the glyphs in her voice, as though each note carved lines in the air. A flowing script, golden and weeping with power. The language of the before.
The lullaby ended.
Ganga looked down.
Agasthya stared up at her, eyes wide, almost frightened—but not by her.
By what he now knew.
"You heard it," she whispered.
Agasthya nodded.
"You understood."
He nodded again.
She placed her hand gently on his chest. "You are not what they think you are."
He reached up and touched her cheek.
And for the first time, Ganga—the Ganga—felt tears bloom in her eyes.
Not from sorrow.
But from the knowing that someday, this boy would walk away from her.
And she would not be able to follow.
---