"You go alone from here," Kratos stated, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "The goal is to train, to become familiar with your own abilities. Remember that. Trust your senses; gauge an opponent before you engage."
"I thought we would be doing this together," Murugan asked, frowning slightly. "Not that I mind going alone, but-"
"You are stronger than you know," Kratos interrupted curtly. "Your instincts are sharp. My presence dulls them."
"That makes sense," Murugan conceded after a moment. "How long should I train alone?"
"Until the shield feels as natural in your hand as the spear," Kratos replied.
Murugan nodded, understanding the implication. He whistled sharply. Moments later, his peacock mount landed nearby with a soft rustle of iridescent feathers. Murugan mounted with a practised leap and, with a final glance at Kratos, urged the bird into the sky disappearing quickly into the distance.
Kratos watched him go. He wouldn't admit it readily, but training the boy offered a certain... efficiency.
There was a sort of satisfaction a teacher received when their student grasped their lesson and grew as a result of it. This was probably why most teachers loved prodigies. Not only did it make the process of pedagogy effortless, but the gratification was nigh instant.
Murugan learned quickly, absorbing lessons with an innate talent that required little direct intervention. It was this rapid progress that made Kratos wonder if his constant supervision was becoming a hindrance rather than a help. The boy needed to test himself and rely on his own judgment. This period of self-led training was necessary.
But that was not the whole truth. Kratos had another reason for sending the boy away. An ulterior motive drove him.
Ever since the night he slaughtered his wife and child in a blind, god-induced fury, their ghosts had haunted him. Every vision ended the same way, with their faces twisted in terror, agony, and betrayal. It was the condemnation he deserved. They stalked his waking thoughts and ruled his nightmares, at least until the cursed axe began feeding him its own violent visions. He had grown accustomed to the torment.
Yet, recently, something had shifted. He had seen them again. The moment Shiva extricated the ash from his skin, and seemingly released their souls from within, for the first time since their deaths their spectral forms appeared without the usual horror marring their features. They looked… peaceful. Maybe a little disappointed, but peaceful.
That fleeting image had lodged itself deep within him. It felt different. More real than the usual visions born of guilt and rage.
And so once again, Kratos found himself navigating through the eerie yet familiar forest, with the river flowing by his side, as he made his way towards the plateau where Shiva danced.
This was usually the time the man began his work of severing the bonds of departed souls and casting them into the cycle of rebirth.
Maybe today, Kratos hoped, his wife and daughter would make their appearance again.
He reached the plateau, but something was different. The usual thrum of feet colliding, the jingle of bells and the thumping of drums felt subdued. Shiva wasn't dancing.
Instead, he sat cross-legged amidst a gentle vortex of swirling ash that tinted the air a pale, off-white. His eyes were closed evoking a picture of stillness in the heart of the dusty whirlwind. As Kratos approached, Shiva's eyes opened, and the swirling ash settled instantly, blanketing the ground like fresh snow.
"Welcome back," Shiva greeted, his voice calm. "It has been some time."
"You were not here before," Kratos stated, crossing his arms.
Shiva chuckled softly. "I do not appreciate being used, Kratos."
"I was not using you," Kratos retorted, though the denial felt hollow even to him.
"My son avoids this place when I perform my duties," Shiva pointed out calmly. "You knew this. You took advantage of my presence to ensure his absence. But that was merely convenient, wasn't it? A side effect of your true purpose in coming here."
Kratos averted his gaze, feeling strangely exposed. Shiva's unnervingly perceptive eyes seemed to peel back his defences, laying bare his hidden motives.
Shiva smoothly shifted the topic, waving aside the tension. "How is my son doing?"
"Well," Kratos grunted.
An awkward silence stretched. Shiva waited patiently for Kratos to elaborate, but after a minute, it became clear no more words were forthcoming. Shiva chuckled again. "A few more details would be appreciated, Kratos."
"He is talented," Kratos added grudgingly.
"Tell me something I do not already know," Shiva replied, shaking his head slightly.
Kratos merely frowned.
"Do not tell me what I can see, tell me what I cannot," the man expounded.
Once again, Kratos remained stoic. His jaw tightened slightly, but no words came.
"How does he fare beyond his training?" Shiva continued with an exasperated sigh.
"I do not know," Kratos dismissed curtly.
Shiva crossed his arms, mirroring Kratos's stance, and a frown started to form on his usually placid face. The air grew heavy. "How do you expect to receive something if you cannot even show a modicum of respect? A simple conversation?" Shiva chastised sternly, his voice losing its earlier calm. "Is this not a transaction?"
"I do not want anything from you," Kratos denied immediately, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He hated this - this feeling of withdrawal, this need. It felt alien. Like a weakness injected into him.
His paranoia returned in an instant. Gods were manipulators. They offered poisoned gifts and aid that bound you in chains. He had sworn never again to be their pawn, yet here he stood, driven by a desperate hope only a god seemed capable of fulfilling. Was this hope even his own, or another divine trick designed to make him pliable-
"That is a lie," Shiva rebutted plainly, interrupting his thoughts and cutting through his internal turmoil.
Just as Kratos opened his mouth to snap back, Shiva leaned closer and locked his gaze on Kratos'. Though tranquil on the surface, an immense force emanated from his eyes. The pressure silenced Kratos almost instinctively. It wasn't fear. It was just that within the void-black pupils of the man, Kratos saw himself. Stripped. Nude. Exposed.
"You wish to see them again?" Shiva asked, his tone gentle once more, yet piercingly direct.
Kratos felt his carefully constructed defences crumble under that incisive gaze. The denial, the anger, the stubborn refusal – all felt thin and useless. Shiva saw through it all, saw the raw, bleeding wound beneath the scar tissue. He saw the hope Kratos barely dared acknowledge even to himself. The agenda he'd tried so hard to bury was laid bare.
The word 'yes' clawed its way up Kratos' throat, but his inner sceptic caught it before it escaped. "No," he forced out through gritted teeth.
Shiva sighed, a sound like wind through ancient stones. "You know," he began, his voice steady and unadorned, "Bhuloka - the mortal realm - it is the crucible. It's the only place where souls are truly formed, shaped by action and consequence. Think of a soul not as a being itself, but as a container. It carries the essence of a life - the experiences, the memories, the lessons learned or ignored. It holds the imprint of what a being was."
He paused and let the silence stretch, marked only by the faint whisper of settling ash. "But the soul alone cannot act. It cannot feel the sun or taste the rain. It needs a vessel. A body is that vessel, the temporary home that allows the soul to interact with Bhuloka, to gather those experiences that define it. The body lives, breathes, struggles, and learns. The soul simply... records."
"Eventually, the vessel wears out. Its purpose is fulfilled or cut short. It dies. But the connection isn't instantly severed. The soul remains tethered to the physical form and is bound."
Shiva picked up a pinch of the grey ash from the ground, letting it sift through his fingers. "Burning the body is the first step. Fire consumes the physical shell, breaking that primary bond. But that is not wholly sufficient. The soul is still tied to Bhuloka, even without its body. It needs a final release to move on."
He gestured vaguely towards the unseen river flowing beyond the plateau's edge. "The waters of Ganga serve a purpose here. They wash away the last physical traces and carry the ash down to the vastness of the sea. That dissolves that final material link. But the soul itself, as it is freed from the downward pull of the physical, begins a different journey. It travels upstream, towards the source, towards liberation."
Shiva looked directly at Kratos, his gaze steady. "I am at the end of that journey. I am the gateway. Souls that reach this place and that are ready for release will first merge with me. They become one with my essence. Only then are they truly liberated and freed from the attachments and burdens of their past life, ready to re-enter the great cycle of existence."
He leaned forward slightly, the weariness in his eyes deepening. "But understand this, Kratos. This liberation is a catalytic process, and I am the catalyst. I must first absorb the soul, including all that it is and all that it was. I experience its entire existence in Bhuloka, all at once. Every joy, every fear, every moment of love and loss, every act of kindness and cruelty. I feel the sting of every betrayal, the warmth of every embrace, the weight of every regret that soul carried. Imagine lifetimes flashing before you, not as images, but as raw, lived experience."
Hearing this, Kratos mentally performed a set of rough calculations. If what Shiva said was true, then-
"You can stop looking at me that way," Shiva dismissed as he immediately read the incredulity in Kratos' expression, even though it was hidden within many layers of irritation. "So, as I was saying, I have lived through every soul I have ever liberated."
Kratos' eyes widened as a realisation set in, and he involuntarily scooted aside in shame. If Shiva had absorbed the souls of his wife and daughter, then he had experienced their final moments - their terror, their pain, his betrayal - not as an observer, but as if it were his own. The thought was sickening.
He scrambled to his feet, turning to leave, needing distance from this god who now held the echoes of his greatest crime within him.
"Do you regret what you did?" Shiva asked quietly, his voice stopping Kratos in his tracks.
Kratos whirled around, fury instantly replacing shame. His hand clenched, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "You mock me?!" he roared, the sound raw with pain and rage.
"Consider it curiosity," Shiva replied evenly, unfazed by the outburst. "Regret is a human concept I have experienced countless times through others. It often stems from believing an action was 'wrong'. But what defines wrong? Laws? Society's shifting rules? I find a simpler measure works best: Did you like the consequences of your action? If yes, it was right for you. If not, it was wrong for you."
He gestured to the ash-covered ground. "But what use is dwelling on that 'wrongness'? You cannot turn back time. You cannot undo what is done. Regret becomes a poison if you let it fester. What matters is acknowledging the consequence you disliked, understanding why it happened, and striving not to repeat the mistake. Learn from it. Not drown in it."
"Easy for you to say!" Kratos spat, his voice thick with contempt. "You preach of consequences and moving on, but you have not lived through what I have! You said it yourself. You are not human. You do not feel what we feel. You have not felt the weight of..." He couldn't finish the sentence, choked by the enormity of his own actions.
Shiva's expression softened, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Perhaps not your exact circumstances," he conceded. "But pain and regret are not exclusive to you, Kratos. Gods can err too. Even gods can cause irreparable harm."
He paused, his gaze distant. "Have you wondered why my eldest has a head of an elephant but a body of a boy?"
Kratos remained silent, wary.
"I am tasked with an enormously involved duty," Shiva began, his voice low. "If I do not liberate these souls, they remain in the realm. They fester. And souls are exceptionally susceptible to negative energies that are present in the world. As a result, they grow corrupted. In order to avoid such disastrous consequences, I would often go away for months, if not years."
___
Parvathy gazed into the clear stream, the reflection showing only her own face staring back from the rippling surface of the Ganga. Two years. Two years since he had left, leaving her in the vast silence of Kailasha. Parvathy understood the burden placed upon her husband. But sympathy did not mean that she was free from the sting of loneliness.
The mountain air was crisp, and the birds sang, but the silence beneath it all felt heavier each day.
Her hand trailed in the cool water, then brushed against the soft, damp earth of the riverbank. The clay yielded easily under her touch. An idea sparked, faint at first, then growing stronger. She scooped up a handful of the rich, dark soil. Her fingers, deft and sure, began to shape it. Not a pot or a simple vessel, but something smaller, more intricate. The form of a little boy took shape under her palms, rough and simple, yet holding a certain promise. She set it carefully on a flat rock to dry in the sun.
The next day, Parvathy amended the still-soft clay figurine. Her first attempt was too lacking. It looked amateurish at best. She took another handful of clay and started to fix the lacking definition in the blobs that were supposed to be hands. Each day that followed, Parvathy added more and more detail as the figurine started to gain definition.
Days turned into weeks. At one point, Parvathy found herself limited by the space available for her to work with - the small figure wasn't enough. She gathered more soil, mixing it with the river's water, and began again, larger this time.
The work became a ritual. And as the statue gained clarity, she started to hold a conversation with it. Because slowly, and patiently, the figure grew under her hands and took on the shape of a young, sturdy, and strong boy.
She spent hours refining the form. Her fingertips traced the curve of a cheek, smoothed the line of a shoulder, and defined the shape of small hands and feet. She etched gentle waves into the clay for hair, shaped rounded ears, and pressed slight indentations for eyes that remained closed. There was a focus in her movements, an absorption that pushed the silence away, filling the space with the quiet sounds of creation.
When the form felt complete, she began to sew. Using silks spun with celestial light and threads dyed with mountain flowers, she crafted small garments – a simple dhoti, a soft tunic. Her needle flew, placing each stitch with meticulous care. Finally, she dressed the clay figure, smoothing the fabric, and adjusting the fit until it looked just right. She placed him near the water's edge. This was her new companion in her time of longing.
Her daily ritual changed. Her time spent wasting away by the riverside was now replaced with the bustle of a one-sided conversation. Parvathy bore out her soul to the statue of the boy. She revealed her inner thoughts, her wants, her dreams, her songs, her dances, and even her cooking! She had no one else to share them with, after all.
One afternoon, drawn by the familiar path, she approached the riverbank. The air seemed different, warmer somehow. The sound of splashing water reached her ears before she saw him. There, in the shallows where her clay figure usually stood, a real boy bathed, his skin glowing in the sunlight, water cascading off his shoulders. He looked up as she approached, breaking into a wide, radiant smile that chased away every shadow.
"Mother!" he called out in a bright and clear voice, echoing slightly over the water. "You are back!"
Parvathy stopped, and her breath got caught in her throat. The world seemed to hold still and the river's murmur faded.
___
"When I finally returned," Shiva continued, his voice heavy with remembered weariness, "I was drained. Absorbing millennia of mortal lives takes its toll. All I wanted was to reach my home and see Parvathy, and to find some peace in her presence."
He ran a hand over his face. "But as I approached our chambers, my path was blocked. A boy I did not recognise stood guard. He was young but resolute. He told me that Parvathy had forbidden anyone entry while she bathed."
Shiva shook his head slowly. "I was exhausted. Impatient. My temper began to boil. I demanded entry. I told him who I was. He refused. He stood his ground. He was fiercely loyal to the command his mother had given him."
His voice dropped lower, laced with self-reproach. "My exhaustion curdled into rage. Who was this child to deny me access to my own wife, in my own home? I ordered him aside. He refused again, more vehemently this time, raising a staff she must have given him. At that moment, blinded by fatigue and fury, I saw only an obstacle. An insolent challenge."
Shiva looked away, unable to meet Kratos' eyes. "I drew my trident... and I struck him down. I cut off his head."
The silence that followed was thick with the weight of the admission.
"You should have seen the look in her eyes when she saw the headless boy," Shiva said in a low whisper. "There was horror at first. Immense grief. But then in an instant, it was all gone and then there was only acceptance. That is what hurts the most. Because in her eyes, my actions were expected. She had accepted that this was the kind of man I was."
"She then looked me in the eyes and requested that I 'forgive' the boy for his insolence and give him a second chance," Shiva added with a sigh. "I sent out my ganas to bring back the head of the first living creature they could find."
"They returned swiftly with the head of a great bull elephant. Then, using the power that flows through me, the same power that liberates souls, I joined the elephant's head to the boy's neck. I poured life back into the vessel I had broken."
He looked at Kratos again. "That is the only action in my long existence that I truly regret. If only I had controlled my rage. If only I had listened. But, as I said, regret is useless if it does not lead to change. I learned. I try to be better. Yet," he sighed, "it does hurt to see the consequence of my actions at my lowest point looking back at me every day I sit down for lunch and dinner."
"It is not the same," Kratos growled. "Your son lives."
"I am not trying to compete against you to see who has suffered the worst," Shiva responded. "Do you really think facing your family again will change anything? Will you miraculously move on from your inner demons by hearing them accept your apology? They have moved on, Kratos. What you saw were just motes of remnants of their souls that still cling to the ash embedded into your skin. It is time that you do too."
Kratos scoffed. "You speak of moving on, yet you admit that your own regret eats at you daily. Hypocrite!"
Shiva nodded, accepting the accusation without defence. "True. I am still working on it. Acceptance is a path, not a destination." He paused, then placed a hand gently on Kratos's shoulder in a surprisingly grounding gesture. "But tell me again about Murugan. Is he... well? In his mind? Should I be concerned?"
Kratos considered this, pushing aside his own turmoil for a moment. "The boy sees the world is larger and more complex than he knew," he admitted gruffly. "His eyes are open now. He adapts. Learns quickly."
A genuine smile touched Shiva's lips. "Good. That is good." He withdrew his hand. "My mistake with Ganesh taught me two hard lessons. I did not like losing control of my anger. And I did not like seeing my wife give up on me and accept my rage as inevitable."
He met Kratos's gaze squarely. "You have helped my other son grow. Aiding Murugan's development and opening his eyes as you say, is a significant boon to me as a father since that wasn't part of the agreement you struck with Ganesh. Transactionally, I owe you."
Shiva's expression became thoughtful. "But I know you will not ask for anything. So, I will give you something regardless. Something I believe you will find useful."
Kratos eyed him with suspicion. "What?"
Shiva simply offered a small, mysterious smile. Without another word, he turned, and the ash around him began to swirl once more and obscured his form. Within moments, the vortex dissipated, leaving Kratos alone on the silent, ash-covered plateau.
___
Murugan soared high above the treeline on his mount, the wind cool against his face. His Guru had tasked him with training his instincts by seeking worthy opponents. But his thoughts kept straying from the hunt. He had learned recently, and quite brutally, that monsters often wore human faces. Dealing with petty human cruelty, however, felt less like training and more like pest control; it offered little challenge and honed none of the skills his guru demanded. Still, ignoring such darkness felt wrong, especially after... the incident.
He found himself circling, almost unconsciously, near the tribal village nestled in the forest below. He wasn't sure why. Duty? Curiosity? Or perhaps it was the nagging voice, amplified after a brief, awkward consultation with his elder brother who suggested that his explosive solution might have deeply frightened the girl, Valli. He needed to know she was alright.
Keeping his mount hidden amongst the clouds, Murugan watched the village. Life moved at its own pace below: women grinding grain, men mending nets, children chasing dogs. Then, he saw her. Valli emerged from a hut, carrying a water pot. She moved stiffly.
He watched as she walked through the village. She offered greetings to those she passed, but the smile on her face seemed fragile, like thin ice over deep water. When a group of village men walked by, laughing amongst themselves and offering her a warm greeting, Murugan saw her flinch almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders tightened before she forced another smile.
He followed her path from above as she headed towards the river. With the shrubbery growing thicker, he alighted from his mount and started to follow on foot. She bypassed the main bathing area where other women chatted and washed clothes, continuing further upstream towards a more secluded bend shrouded by thick bushes. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the trees with a flicker of apprehension, before setting down her pot and beginning to unfasten the simple wrap of her upper garment.
Murugan felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks. He quickly averted his gaze, embarrassed by the intrusion. He needed to leave, but calling his mount now might startle her. He pressed himself flat against the thick trunk of the banyan tree, closing his eyes, intending to wait until she was gone.
But then, a sudden, icy cold pressure touched the back of his neck. He froze.
"Who are you?" a low, tense voice demanded right behind his ear. "And what are you doing sneaking around here?"
Murugan slowly turned around and immediately averted his gaze. She was only wearing a plain roll of cloth covering her chest.
"You!" Valli exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
Before Murugan could form a response, another voice called out from further down the riverbank. "Valli! Are you alright? I thought I heard you shout!"
Valli visibly panicked, her eyes darting between Murugan and the direction of the voice. "Mother!" she mouthed silently, her expression frantic. Without a second thought, she grabbed Murugan's arm and shoved him bodily into a narrow, shadowed crevice formed by the tangled roots of the banyan tree, squeezing in beside him just as her mother appeared around the bend.
They stood pressed together in the cramped space, the scent of damp earth and river water mingling with the faint, lingering metallic tang of dried blood from Murugan's clothes. He could feel the warmth radiating from her bare shoulder against his arm. Valli held her breath, listening intently as her mother called her name again, closer now. The footsteps paused nearby, then, moved away again downriver.
Only when the sound of her mother's receding calls faded completely did Valli let out a shaky breath. She turned to Murugan in the dim light of the crevice, her eyes narrowed. He risked a quick glance up before focusing back on the dirt floor.
"Why were you hiding?" he whispered, genuinely confused.
Valli didn't answer immediately. Instead, a deep blush crept up her neck and spread across her cheeks. Murugan frowned, puzzled by her reaction, until he became acutely aware of just how close they were standing in the tight confines of the root hollow. Their arms brushed; he could feel the slight tremor running through her. Realization dawned, and his own face flushed hot. He practically leapt backwards out of the crevice, stumbling slightly as he put distance between them.
"Ah... apologies," he stammered, avoiding her eyes. He cleared his throat. "I... I came to see if you were alright. After... yesterday." He paused, then added sincerely, "And I wanted to apologize. For... for the blood. That was... ill-considered."
Valli watched him, her initial anger and suspicion slowly giving way to curiosity, though her arms remained crossed protectively over the cloth covering her chest. "Who are you?" she asked again, her voice steadier now. "You fight like no ordinary boy, and you appear and disappear..."
"Did I forget to introduce myself? How uncouth of me," Murugan said, straightening up slightly, his earlier awkwardness momentarily forgotten. "My name is Murugan. My father is Shiva, and my mother is Parvathy."
Valli stared at him for a long moment. Then, a disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. "Shiva and Parvathy? The gods?" She chuckled again, shaking her head. "You expect me to believe-" Her laughter died abruptly as she looked at his face. He wasn't smiling. His expression was open, earnest, perhaps a little confused by her amusement, but completely serious. The certainty in his eyes made her falter. "...Believe that?" she finished lamely, her brow furrowing in sudden doubt.
"You're joking... right?"
She waited for a response, only to receive an innocent head shake from Murugan.
"Right?"