Chapter Text
Men liked to believe it was they who rolled the dice. That they were players, not pawns.
But long before kingdoms burned, before Kurukshetra’s ground choked on the blood of kin, there were gods.
And the ruin born of their bruised prides.
Phalguna gave way to Chaitra, and the new year bloomed with all the promises of spring. The realm of mortals prepared for harvest, for the new cycle.
But Amaravati wasn't quite ready to move on yet.
The city of gods stood adorned like a bride. Ever-burning diyas lit up every corner with their deathless flames, painting the city orange. Shining flowers—the likes of which no mortal had ever laid eyes upon—carpetted the road walked upon by the devas.
In the centre of it all, Devendra’s palace loomed, blinding in its golden glory.
The devas lounged within the marble halls, their mirth more intoxicating than the flowing amrit. The divine music of gandharvas and kinnaras swirled through the air as a living thing, carrying every graceful step of the apsaras.
The celebrations began nearly three weeks ago, when Indra's godly son had been born from Pritha's womb. It seemed they weren't coming to an end any time soon.
At the far end of the hall, the twelve Adithyas sat together, drinking from golden chalices. Here alone, the festivities were somehow quieter. Like something heavier had curled up between them.
“My son,” Indra declared, draped across his throne, for what felt like the hundredth time, “will reshape the world. He will be Vishnu’s right hand, the greatest archer to ever live. And when dharma triumphs, the heavens will say—Indra’s son led the charge.”
No one spoke to contradict him. Not Surya, radiant and weary. Not Vivasvan, lips thinned and eyes burning.
“He is mine.” Indra's voice struck again, resounding like thunder. “My son. Parth Arjun. Born for power. Born for glory. His legacy will live on for millenia to come.”
Dhata tried to smile. Tried not to show it on his face how tired he was of hearing the same words for the millionth time.
His trial was in vain.
The smile looked like it hurt.
Indra spoke again, and a few looked away before they started a war by yelling.
But not Varuna. He watched, silent as the oceanic depths, patient as the rivers that carve through rocks.
Then, voice soft, he said, “Let destiny take its course, Indra.”
That caught Indra’s attention. His gaze turned, sharp with triumph.
“I haven't heard you speak once since Phalguna Purnima. And when you finally speak, this is what you say? What is it, Varuna? Envy?”
Varuna's nostrils flared, but he didn't speak. Vishnu sat up straighter, lotus eyes darkening.
But Indra wasn't done. He smiled, milk white teeth bared.
“You mustn't look so unhappy, bratha. Not everyone gets to father legends. Not everyone gets chosen.” Indra's smile sharpened. “It's just the way of things, you know? Kunti is blameless here. She prayed to the skies and the wind and to dharma. Because the waters are treacherous, Varuna. And no mortal wants a son they can't trust. Oceans—”
“That is enough, Devendra,” Vishnu cut in, warning in his voice. “This is an occasion of joy. Do not ruin it.”
“I'm not ruining anything,” Indra said. “I've been seeing it, you know? The way he looks at me. At Surya. It is pure, bitter envy.”
“Devendra—” Suryadev began, but he was cut off by a sharp laugh.
“Envy what? Your son?” Varuna chuckled, low and dangerous. “Ahankaar is ruinous, brother. Do not let it consume you.”
The god rose to his feet, slamming his chalice onto the low table. Before Indra could speak, he turned on his heels and walked out of the hall of the gods.
Yojanas beneath him, the oceans of the earth began to stir.
And on the first purnima of the year, a daughter was shaped from the waves.
Ten fingers, ten toes, and seaborn vengeance in her veins.
As Varuna pulled her out of the sea, a storm was already brewing on the horizon. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.
“What have you created, Varuna?”
The voice came wrapped in silence, bearing the weight of endless time.
Varuna turned. There, Vishnu stood upon the waves, watching the fractured waters beneath his feet.
“A daughter,” the jaldev answered simply.
“An anomaly,” Vishnu corrected. “Something inhuman.”
“I wasn't trying for a human, Narayana.” Varuna's eyes gleamed with something deeper than defiance. “All I need is a daughter to walk among those sons of gods. Nothing turns the world on its head like the will of a woman.”
Vishnu lifted his chin, midnight-dark eyes shining with a timeless fury. “You play a dangerous game. This is not creation. This is vengeance.”
“Nahi, Narayana. It is balance.”
In Varuna's arms, the baby cooed. Vishnu looked at her, and his face softened. But not his eyes.
“You will unleash her into the world over Indra's insults?”
Varuna shook his head. “The moon is full, and the tides are high. Tonight, the waves will take her onto land. She will find her own way after that.”
“We do not know what she will bring,” Vishnu said, almost sad now. “She might unravel the cosmic order, Varuna.”
“Or she might not,” the sea god said. “She is not a danav. She's my daughter.”
A silence stretched between the two gods. Storm clouds swelled in the sky above, blocking out the son. A low rumble of thunder in the distance made the baby squirm.
At last, Vishnu let out a breath that carried the weight of the universe.
“Listen to me, Adithya,” he spoke. “I will let her pave her own path. But if that path leads to destruction—of the world, of herself—then I will have no mercy left for her.”
Varuna smiled then, slow as the tides. He looked down at the baby in his arms, that gleam still bright in his eyes.
“Then let us hope she learns to control the ocean within her. Water answers to no one, afterall.”