Ascension of Dharma : A Mythic Retelling of the Mahabharata

Some time had passed since Devavrata returned to the capital to attend to courtly duties. The wind-borne prince had left quietly, offering Shantanu a knowing smile and Satyavati a respectful nod that lingered just a moment longer than formality required. Since then, the forest paths had grown familiar with the weight of a king's steps—not as a monarch, but as a man who had rediscovered the art of waiting beside water.

Shantanu still came, often at twilight. Always in plain robes, a small pouch of spices or tea tucked into his sash, and sometimes—rarely—with a pressed lotus he'd tried to dry himself. He'd long since learned to roll up his robes before stepping into the skiff. The ducks no longer feared him.

This evening, the clouds had settled low, pearlescent and gentle, casting the river in the glow of a dream half-remembered. Satyavati sat cross-legged by the fire pit near her hut, drying herbs in a wide, woven fan while a pot of sweet barley simmered nearby.

"You'll spoil the mood if you keep looking at me like that," she said without glancing up.

"I'm practicing," Shantanu replied, settling beside her. "The art of admiring without alarming."

She snorted. "You're improving. Last week, you startled my catfish into hiding for a day."

They fell into the easy rhythm of silence—the kind not empty, but shared. The kind where hearts could rest without explaining themselves.

Then, after a while, Satyavati added, "He hasn't asked yet."

"Who?"

"My father."

Shantanu raised an eyebrow.

"He knows someone comes," she said, voice light but edged with something delicate. "He sees the footsteps. The offerings. The fresh scuff marks by the skiff. But he hasn't come down from the marshes. He says the river will speak before he does."

"Should I be worried?"

She tilted her head. "Only if you intend to lie."

"I would rather face rakshasas than your father's silence," he said.

"You may get both," she said sweetly, handing him a bowl of barley. "Eat. You'll need your strength."

There was laughter again, flowing like the current between them. It was easy, natural. Yet beneath it, the water hummed differently tonight—as though listening.

As stars blinked into the darkening sky and fireflies crowned the reeds like floating lanterns, Shantanu reached into his robes and pulled out something small: a river pearl, unpolished, but strung on a thread of sun-hardened lotus root.

It smelled faintly of smoke and river-salt, as though it still carried the breath of the waters that raised her.

"I… know this is not the way kings propose."

Satyavati blinked, surprised into stillness.

She had dreamed of many things—a life not bound by riverweed and reed-nets, a love not measured by dowry or legacy. But she had never let herself imagine this—a king with his crown set aside, offering not a throne, but a moment.

Her heart beat once, loud and raw in her chest. Hope, she realized, was a dangerous thing.

"No court. No heralds. No scrolls bound in gold. Only river-stained hands and a foolish man hoping."

He held it out.

"But I have nothing more precious than this moment. Or you."

Satyavati didn't reach for it immediately. Her gaze turned to the river, then to the sky, and finally back to him.

She looked at him—truly looked. At the lines in his face that had softened over weeks of shared silences, at the way his spirit sat quietly beside hers without pressing forward or away. Then she smiled. Not with grandeur, but with something honest, lit from within.

Her fingers brushed the pearl. "The river does move strangely, doesn't it?" she said.

Then, still smiling, she added, "My father will want to meet you. He'll test your intentions."

"I wouldn't expect less," Shantanu replied, eyes bright. "I'd do the same if the heavens gave me a daughter like you."

She gave a soft, startled laugh, then slipped the necklace into her sash—no fanfare, no answer, only presence.

And in the reeds beyond, as if in quiet blessing, a white heron took flight—its wings scattering dew and moonlight alike.

It was just after dawn when Shantanu returned—not as a king with retinue and banners, but as a man dressed in a simple linen robe still scented faintly with riverwind and lotus smoke. His crown remained in Hastinapura; his pride had been left beside his son's honor. Two weeks have passed since the proposal.

The village slumbered in that sacred hour when even the birds had not yet found their song. The marshlands, however, whispered in their own ancient tongue—soft rustles of wind-stirred reeds, the hum of unseen dragonflies, the slow, patient breath of water beneath lotus leaves. Mist clung low to the earth, veiling the path ahead in shifting silver.

Satyavati waited by the water's edge, her braid loose, her eyes storm-colored and unreadable. She did not greet him with her usual smile, nor tease him as she once did.

"He is expecting you," she said quietly, her voice as calm as a temple bell after prayer.

They walked in silence.

With every step, the land seemed to unmake the world behind them. Trees bowed inward. Insects stilled mid-chirp. The air grew cool—not with breeze, but breath.

The path grew stranger as they moved deeper into the wetlands. Reeds rose tall and close, thick as spears, brushing against them with a susurrus like whispered omens. The light dimmed though the sky remained clear. An enchantment lay upon the land—not of spellwork, but of will shaped by time and purpose. This was a realm where mortals must walk softly, no matter what blood ran in their veins.

Even Shantanu's breath grew shallower, as though the very air had thickened with unseen judgment. Somewhere in the reeds, a bullfrog croaked once—and fell silent, as if rebuked by something older than sound. Time did not pass here. It paused, watching.

At last, they came to it.

A clearing in the reeds—half water, half earth—where a massive, fallen banyan root jutted from the mire like the petrified limb of a sleeping god. The reeds parted like the pages of an old, unreadable scripture—and they entered the sentence that would decide everything. At its base, on a mat woven of river-thorns and salt-bark, sat the man Shantanu had come to meet.

The Marsh King. The Fisherman Chieftain. Dasharaja.

Satyavati's father.

His gaze met Shantanu's—not with anger, nor welcome, but the kind of patience that had buried kings before.