None of the gods care. Not one would lift a finger to stop the darkness spreading across Bhu-loka. Lord Surya clenched his jaw as he began the grueling ascent of the eastern mountain, his thoughts heavy with anger and disbelief. Below, his devotees—once so fervent and devout—were losing faith. For each unanswered prayer, for every unheeded cry, doubt grew like a spreading rot. How could the gods be so indifferent?
With each step, Surya’s frustration deepened. It was as if a shadow had fallen across Swarga-loka, muting the gods’ compassion, turning their eyes from the suffering of mortals. Not one had offered to speak with Lord Purandhara, the Lord of the Heavens, nor to challenge this apathy. Was it fear of disturbing the harmony, or a collective, unspoken belief that mortals were beneath their concern? Surya’s heart ached with the cries of his people, with the temples that had been desecrated into oblivion, and with the fear that he, the god of the sun, would soon be forgotten. How could gods, who once brought light and hope, afford to be so complacent?
The mountain loomed above him, its snow-capped peaks piercing the heavens. This was no ordinary place—it was sacred ground, where gods came to strip away their powers, seeking purification and penance. Here, Surya’s divine might was reduced to that of a mortal, leaving him exposed to the mountain’s raw, unrelenting elements. The freezing wind roared down from the summit, driving him back, and biting into his skin with each blast. His feet slipped on the frozen stone, his hands scraping against sharp rocks. He had never felt so weak, so vulnerable.
Breath clouding in the cold, Surya pressed onward. He clung to his anger, using it to fuel each step, but the climb wore on his body and mind. Soon, the fury that had burned within him began to ebb, leaving only a heavy ache. His steps grew slower, his movements more deliberate. He began to climb with strategy, waiting for lulls in the wind before pressing forward, hiding behind jagged rocks as gusts threatened to knock him back. He inched upward, each step an act of sheer will.
As he climbed, memories drifted into his mind—the faces of his devotees, their voices calling out to him in prayer. Once, those voices had been filled with reverence and trust. But now, he saw their eyes, shadowed with doubt, their voices laced with bitterness. How long before their faith turned to resentment, their devotion to hatred? The thought cut deeper than any of the mountain’s icy winds.
After what felt like an eternity, a faint glow caught his eye. A small cave lay concealed among the rocks, emanating a pulse of spiritual energy that beckoned him forward. He stumbled the last few steps, ducking inside and leaving the freezing wind behind. The air within was warm, almost tender, carrying the soft, ethereal sound of a veena.
There, seated on a dais of ice, was Lady Ila, the Lady of the East and leader of the gandharvas. Her figure glowed with a gentle, boundless energy, radiating peace. Silver hair cascaded around her, and her eyes remained closed in a deep meditation. Her hands moved over the veena’s strings with effortless grace, each note resonant, ancient, and powerful. The music seemed to flow from her very being, a sound of both tranquillity and strength.
Surya knelt before her, bowing his head low, the weight of his journey and desperation pressing on his shoulders. For a moment, he simply listened to the music, its haunting beauty filling the space around him, resonating within his chest. There was peace in the melody, yet it sharpened his sense of urgency, underlining the suffering that persisted on Bhu-loka even as he knelt here.
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“Lady Ila,” he called, his voice thick with fatigue. “Please, awaken. The barrier between Swarga-loka and Bhu-loka is sealed.”
The veena’s notes continued, flowing uninterrupted as if his voice were nothing but a whisper lost in the wind.
“Lady Ila,” he said again, louder this time, pleading. “The gods—all of them—are stranded in Swarga-loka. We cannot descend to help those who cry out to us. Darkness spreads unchecked on Bhu-loka.”
Still, her hands moved, fingers plucking the strings in an endless, delicate rhythm, as though bound by some sacred duty to the music alone.
Surya’s voice trembled. “Lady Ila, my devotees are losing faith. They pray and receive only silence. They feel abandoned. The people suffer, and we cannot help.”
Surya knelt, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and waited, hoping—praying—that she would respond. But her serene expression did not change, her eyes remaining closed, her face as still as water. The melody continued, unbroken, and his words seemed to dissolve into the music, like a pebble sinking into the depths of a vast, indifferent ocean.
What more could he say? What more could he do? Desperation clawed at him, gnawing at his last shreds of resolve. The weight of every unanswered prayer, every unheeded plea, pressed down on him, until even breathing felt like an effort. He had crossed freezing winds, climbed sharp rocks, and left behind the comfort of his own realm—yet here he was, powerless, ignored, a god pleading in vain.
For the first time, Lord Surya, god of the sun, wondered if he was truly as helpless as the mortals below. What good was his light if it could not reach them? What kind of god was he, if he could not protect his own devotees? He had always believed that his existence mattered, that his radiance gave strength to the world below. But now, a cold dread gripped him, whispering that perhaps even his light was fading, that he, too, would be forgotten.
He lowered his head, his mind reeling, grasping for anything, any word or memory that might break through her trance. But every thought felt hollow, every plea swallowed by silence. This was the end of his strength. He had nothing left to offer.
Then, just as the last glimmer of hope began to fade, a memory rose within him—faint, like a spark flickering in the darkness. A memory of Lady Ila’s son, a child on Bhu-loka. Prince Aryaman.
The thought struck him with the force of a revelation. His heart stilled, then surged as if infused with a new, vital energy. Aryaman—Lady Ila’s only son, bound to the mortal world. In that moment, Surya felt a clarity that cut through his exhaustion, a divine intuition whispering that this was the way to reach her.
Surya lifted his head, a sense of purpose coursing through him. He straightened, summoning every last ounce of strength. In a voice barely above a whisper, but laden with urgency, he said, “Prince Aryaman is in danger.”
The music ceased. Her fingers stilled, hovering over the strings. Slowly, Lady Ila opened her eyes, their depths vast and knowing, like the break of dawn after a long, dark night.
Far away, in the celestial palace, Lady Sachi stood on her balcony, gazing toward the eastern mountain. The distant rumble of an avalanche broke the stillness, and she watched as snow tumbled down the peak, the mountain shaking. Her brows furrowed, heart pounding as she turned back to the shadowed figure of her husband in their bed chamber, the Lord of the Heavens, still deep in his soma-induced slumber.
Lady Ila awakens, thought Lady Sachi, watching the snow cascade down the mountainside, her grip tightening on the balcony rail.