SWNOVELXO Chapter 57: Lotus Roots and Laughter
Later that day, as the sun dipped into hues of honey and rose, the three of them strolled together through the winding paths of the riverside village—one that smelled of turmeric smoke, fermented plum jars, and wet reeds drying on fences.
Satyavati walked between father and son, a woven basket hooked over her elbow. From time to time, villagers passed by—fishermen hauling nets slick with silver, children racing dragonfly kites strung with spirit-thread, old women spinning thread from lotus stalks dyed in riverberry ink. Everyone seemed to glance up not with fear or protocol, but curiosity laced with delight.
The king—their king—was walking like one of them, bare-footed, hair wind-tossed, laughing softly at a joke whispered to him by the boat girl of the river.
And beside him, the son who bore the mark of lightning and storm—Devavrata, the war-disciple of Parashurama himself—was not radiating silent pressure or divine distance. He was smiling, faintly but genuinely. He had the look of a man unarmored not by battle, but by peace.
As they reached a turn near the temple of the River's Smile, Satyavati unwrapped something from a leaf bundle and offered it to Devavrata. It was a golden dumpling, soft and fragrant, still warm from being steamed in lotus petals. The aroma was something of dream and hearth—ginger, wild onion, sacred root.
"It's humble food," she said, placing the dumpling into his palm with an arched brow. "But blessed by the river's mood."
Devavrata took a bite, then blinked. "Either the river's been apprenticing under a celestial gourmet… or you've been hiding serious cultivation techniques inside your kitchen."
"Only in dumplings," she replied, perfectly deadpan. "They're my one mystical art. I've transcended the mundane realm in flavor, if not power."
Devavrata laughed—a true, unguarded laugh that echoed like a soft chime through the village's warm air
Shantanu chuckled beside her, clearly familiar with this kind of teasing by now. Devavrata swallowed another bite and tilted his head at her.
"You jest, but this tastes like it's been steamed in moonlight and tempered with pepper oil. What realm did you forage this from?"
"I bartered it from a passing monk," she said, eyes dancing. "He claimed it was a relic recipe passed down from the Order of the Laughing Bellies."
Devavrata laughed. A true laugh, not the quiet polite one he used at court functions. It rang across the village path like a soft chime—surprising even him. Shantanu glanced sideways at his son, some hidden knot in his chest uncoiling further. This was a version of Devavrata even he hadn't seen in years.
As they walked, the dirt path twisted past homes framed in dried bamboo and smooth white clay, under tattered prayer flags fluttering in the wind. Several villagers peeked from their thresholds, curiosity warming into welcome.
Old Amma, the net-weaver, paused from her weaving circle where spirit-silk was being spun into fishing lines blessed by wind-charms. She leaned toward her apprentice and whispered just loud enough for them to hear, "Even the River-born walks gentler beside her."
Devavrata heard it. His steps paused—not from offense, but reflection. His gaze shifted to Satyavati, not in scrutiny but with the quiet regard one might offer a teacher or elder.
She, too, had caught the whisper. Her tone, when she spoke, was serene. "Does it seem strange to you, Prince, that the river makes companions of unlikely travelers?"
Devavrata gave a respectful nod. "Not strange," he said. "Only rare. Most men speak of the river but do not know how to listen. You do. That deserves respect."
Satyavati inclined her head—not in pride, but acknowledgment. "The river teaches those who wait in silence."
Devavrata looked toward the cranes roosting along the temple eaves. "Then I have more to learn. And you have listened long."
They reached a grove of blue-leafed banyan trees shaped by years of river wind. Lantern-glow fruits hung from the branches—plants cultivated with low-level qi runes that absorbed sunlight and glowed gently after dusk. Children giggled beneath the branches, chasing small orb-lights released by fireflies infused with harmless spiritual essence.
Satyavati turned to the two men beside her.
"You know," she said softly, "if we weren't being watched by every curious eye in the village… I'd show you the secret of the river reeds. They hum when you whistle the right way. Not a useful technique. But it's beautiful."
Devavrata nodded, eyes bright with respect, not mockery. "Then let us come back at night," he said. "When the reeds can hum only for those who care enough to listen."
Shantanu said nothing—just smiled. A deep, quiet smile that reached past his years and into the younger man he once was.
Satyavati met both of their gazes. In that moment, something very old passed between them. Not fate. Not prophecy. But the gentle blooming of new trust.
As the sun slipped behind the horizon, the three of them walked onward. In a kingdom shaped by dharma, duty, and divine will—there, by the river—they carved out something smaller.
Something human.
Something whole
They came upon an ancient river shrine nestled beneath a canopy of banyan branches, its weathered stones half-swallowed by moss and tangled morning glories. The scent of damp earth mingled with the soft hum of cicadas, and the shrine's carved bas-reliefs—once vibrant with the likeness of a forgotten water spirit—were now worn smooth by time and whispered prayers.
Only the birds and the breeze remained as its devoted worshippers, perching lightly on the mossy altar or drifting through broken pillars.
The carved bas-reliefs—once vibrant with the likeness of a forgotten water spirit—were now smooth, their stories whispered away like river silt in flood.
Satyavati stepped forward, her footsteps silent as a ripple across still water. She paused, eyes tracing the faded etchings, then glanced sideways at Devavrata.
"Do you miss her?" she asked quietly, her voice soft as the river's early mist—curious, not accusing.
Devavrata lingered a moment before answering. He knelt by the stone basin filled with crystal-clear water, brushing away a fallen petal with deliberate care. The surface shimmered faintly under his fingers—an echo, a whisper of Ganga's serene presence lingering like the last note of a long-forgotten song.
"I always will," he said after a breath. "She was my first silence, my first lesson in restraint. Like the river's quiet depths, she held more than words could say." His eyes softened, distant yet peaceful. "But she left with the river's flow, carrying away the sorrows and leaving space for new currents."
He rose, turning to face Satyavati with a look unguarded and open, almost a boy again—ready to share something long kept within.
"I'm glad the river brought you here," he admitted with a faint, shy smile. "I think… I was ready to see him happy again. I just didn't know it until now."
Satyavati's gaze softened, her own vulnerability flickering briefly like a candle's flame. "I'm not trying to replace her," she said gently, stepping closer, the scent of lotus and rain fresh on her skin. "Only to walk beside him… for as long as the river allows."
A breeze stirred, ruffling their robes and carrying the faintest hint of jasmine and wet stone. Devavrata smiled warmly, a lightness in his chest that had nothing to do with ceremony or duty.
"Then walk boldly," he said, voice steady and kind, "for he needs someone who won't bow just because he wears a crown."
Their eyes met—two souls finding a quiet understanding, the fragile beginnings of something deeper than grief or rivalry. Nearby, a kingfisher darted across the water's surface, a flash of blue like a blessing from the river itself.
Satyavati's lips twitched in a small, genuine smile, the first of many to come.
"Thank you, Devavrata," she whispered, "for that."
And for a moment, beneath the ancient stones and whispering leaves, the past and the future danced gently together—held in the soft embrace of the river's endless flow.
As twilight unfurled its violet arms across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of lavender and molten gold, the village settled into a quiet hush. The river's murmur softened, mingling with the distant call of night birds.
By a small fire that flickered like a captured star, Shantanu, Devavrata, and Satyavati gathered—not as king, crown prince, and commoner, but simply as three souls sharing a moment of fragile peace.
Three cups of jasmine-root tea steamed gently before them, releasing a scent both earthy and floral, promising calm in every sip. There was no throne, no courtly weight or the rigid dance of politics here. Only earth beneath them, the crackling fire between, and the vast, endless sky above. The kind of space where truths grew like wildflowers—free and unguarded.
Devavrata, eyes reflecting the firelight, glanced at his father with a softness that had not been there in years.
"You've grown, Father," he said, voice warm with something tender and new.
Shantanu blinked, caught off guard. "I thought you were the one reaching for the realm beyond Void Ascension," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
Devavrata chuckled, nudging his father gently. "I meant in the heart. And the ribs," he added with a grin. "I think love has expanded your chest—like a true cultivator of the spirit."
Satyavati snorted into her tea, a light, breathy sound that made both men glance at her. Shantanu's cheeks flushed a soft rose beneath the firelight.
"I will have you know," he said, mock-defiantly, "I have faced demons in battle without so much as a hint of blushing."
"Yes," Devavrata replied, voice heavy with mock solemnity, "but have you survived teasing from someone who will one day call you 'Father'?"
The teasing sparked a pause—a long, heavy silence where only the fire's crackle dared to speak. Then laughter blossomed between them—deep, full, and healing—rolling out over the darkening fields like the Yamuna's own endless song. It was laughter that carried away old grief and made room for new beginnings.
Above them, perched silently in the twisting branches of a neem tree, a heron tilted its head, watching quietly with ancient eyes. Its stillness seemed to bless the moment, as if even the spirits of the river and sky approved of this fragile new harmony.
Satyavati reached over, lightly brushing a stray ash from Shantanu's shoulder. Her touch was soft—no longer a stranger's, but a promise woven in quiet strength.
"And Your Highness," she added with a teasing smile, "if you ever need lessons in humility, you know exactly where to find us."
Shantanu grinned, eyes sparkling with warmth. "Then I shall visit often—perhaps even more than the court allows."
Devavrata laughed, the sound mingling with the firelight and the river's song—three souls bound not by blood alone, but by something older and stronger: a newfound family, growing like lotus blooms from river mud, unexpected and beautiful.