The Sundarbans trembled that day, though the wind did not blow.
The rivers roared, the mangroves quivered, and even the heavens seemed to hold their breath.
Banesh arrived too late.
The scene before him was chaos frozen in time. Blood-stained soil, broken branches, the remnants of shattered divine energy. The echoes of shouts and battle cries had faded into an eerie silence.
And there… lying still… limp in a pool of scarlet and moonlight… was Hemketu.
Banesh froze, unable to move. His eyes widened, heart skipping, then shattering.
"No… no… this isn't… this can't be…"
His legs betrayed him, trembling violently, and he fell to his knees on the blood-soaked earth.
The air felt heavier, pressing down like grief itself had weight.
He crawled, his movements frantic, as if the distance could undo the centuries of love and the horror before him.
Hemketu's golden hair, matted with blood and rain, glistened in the dim light. His amber eyes were closed, his mischievous, teasing smile forever stilled.
Banesh reached out, shaking, hands trembling violently.
"Hemketu… oh… Hemketu…" His voice cracked, breaking into a strangled sob.
"No… you can't… they lied… they lied to me… why… why… why…"
He wrapped his arms around Hemketu, pressing him to his chest, rocking gently but violently, like he could pull him back to life.
"Don't leave me… I can't… I can't do this… I can't…"
Tears streamed freely down Banesh's face, soaking Hemketu's robes. His sobs rang loud, tearing through the silence, reverberating across the mangroves:
"You promised… you promised we'd be eternal… you promised…"
He clenched Hemketu tightly, biting his lip to stop a scream, but it broke free anyway:
"Why… why did they do this… to you… to me… to us…!"
The betrayal burned hotter than grief. Banesh's mind spun with rage — at the gods, at humans, at demons, at the cruelty of fate. He shook Hemketu's lifeless body.
"Do you hear me, Hemketu?! Tell me… tell me you're not gone! I will burn the heavens if I must! I will tear down every world that dared to touch you!"
His cries became ragged, desperate, as he pressed his lips to Hemketu's, whispering broken words:
"…I am yours… I have always been yours… and now… now you're gone… gone… gone!"
Banesh's body trembled violently with grief and fury, sobs racking him, until finally he collapsed against Hemketu completely, rocking slowly, murmuring, whispering, crying.
"Why… why didn't you wait for me? They tricked me… they kept me away… I should have been there… I should have… I should have…"
The mangroves seemed to mourn with him. The rivers wept. Even the skies darkened, as if the heavens themselves could not bear to witness this grief.
Banesh pressed Hemketu tighter, feeling the heat of what life had been and the void of death. His voice broke, wailing into the night:
"I am your Gahana-Dev… I am yours… always… even if I am left alone… I will carry you… I will never forget… never forgive… never…"
And there, in the ruins of battle, amidst the blood and the silence, Banesh's soul shattered — a soundless scream echoing through the Sundarbans, through the heavens, through eternity itself.
Chapter 5 — The Calm Before the Storm
Banesh entered the Celestial Court.
The grand hall, usually vibrant with divine energy, felt hollow. Statues of gods loomed silently, the banners of the heavens hanging limp, and the Fifteen High Officials awaited, stiff and pale.
On his shoulder, Hemketu's lifeless body swayed slightly in Banesh's grasp, wrapped in his arms as if he were nothing more than a fragile child. Blood had stained his golden hair, the tiger-gold robes clinging to him in the dim light.
The court's whispers died the moment Banesh appeared.
He walked with a calm, measured grace, each step echoing in the hall like the tolling of a bell. His eyes, soft with sorrow, yet burning with quiet fury, scanned the gathered gods and officials.
Banesh stopped before the highest dais, a faint, almost sad smile on his lips. His voice was soft, sorrowful, almost melodic, carrying through the hall like the gentle lapping of a river, yet it cut deeper than any blade:
"Why…?" His words were calm, almost polite, yet each syllable trembled with grief.
"Why have you taken Hemketu from me?"
He adjusted his hold, cradling Hemketu as though shielding him from the very walls of the court.
"Why… give him this… vulgar, despicable death?" His voice broke for the briefest moment, just enough for the court to feel the weight of centuries of love and devotion.
"Why… trick him… trick me… make me blind to his final moments?"
The court shifted nervously. No one dared meet his eyes.
Banesh lowered his gaze, brushing Hemketu's blood-streaked hair from his face.
"I ask… not as a god seeking vengeance… but as the one who loves him," he murmured, voice soft but carrying, echoing through the cold, stone hall.
"You took from me what I cannot regain… centuries of life… laughter… mischief… warmth… How dare you treat him… like this?"
He straightened, the faint smile gone, replaced by a terrifying serenity. A calm so deep it unnerved even the strongest of gods.
The air thickened. The very walls of the Celestial Court trembled. Even the chandeliers seemed to sway with unease.
Banesh's fingers tightened around Hemketu's arm, the subtle pressure enough to hint at the storm contained within him.
"I will not speak of punishment… yet." His voice was low, deliberate, like a whisper that could split mountains.
"But know this… know every god, every mortal, every being who dared lay a hand on Hemketu… will see the heavens burn, the rivers boil, and the forests fall to ash… if I so will it."
He knelt, pressing Hemketu to his chest in a gesture of desperate devotion, looking up at the council with all the grief, rage, and betrayal of centuries.
"Why… why did you think yourselves clever enough to deceive me? To hide his suffering from me?"
Tears fell silently down his cheeks, but his composure did not break. The court shivered, feeling the devastation coiled behind his calm facade.
"Answer me!" Banesh's voice rose, no longer just sorrowful, but piercing, demanding, like the roar of a river dammed for centuries.
"Who among you… who dares justify this… this heinous act… this mockery of life?"
And in that moment, the heavens themselves seemed to quake, the rivers whispering threats of floods, the skies darkening as if anticipating the wrath of Gahana-Dev, the calm god whose grief could unmake worlds.
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