Veins of the Vedas: The Rise of the Immortal Sage

Arav woke up to the faint light of dawn filtering through the charred remains of his village. His body ached, his hands bloodied and raw from the night before. The air was cold, carrying the acrid smell of ash and the haunting silence of death. His head throbbed, and for a moment, he hoped it was all a nightmare. But as his eyes landed on the ruins and the lifeless bodies scattered across the snow, reality crushed him.

He sat up, his gaze falling on Asha's still form beside him. His sister his mischievous, vibrant little sister was gone. A sob broke from his throat, but no tears came. He was empty, his soul drained of everything but a hollow ache. Yet, amidst the grief, a sense of duty stirred within him. These people were his family, his neighbors, his world. He couldn't leave them like this.

Arav stood, his legs trembling, and began the grim task of preparing for the funerals. In India, even in the bitter cold of Frost's Edge, the rites of passage were sacred. Death was not the end but a transition, a journey for the soul. He owed them this much.

First, he went to the remnants of his home. Among the ashes, he found a steel pot, miraculously intact. He filled it with snow, melting it over the faint embers he managed to rekindle. He needed water for purification. Next, he searched the village for anything that could serve as a shroud old sarees, torn cloth, anything to cover the bodies.

One by one, he gathered the remains. His hands trembled as he lifted his parents, their bodies fragile and broken. He placed them carefully on makeshift biers made from broken wood and branches. His mother's face, though burned, still held a trace of the serenity she had in life. His father, even in death, looked strong, like he was shielding them from harm. He whispered a silent prayer, his voice cracking.

"Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya," he chanted, invoking the divine to guide their souls.

For Asha, he found a small piece of unburned fabric pink, her favorite color. He wrapped her tiny body with trembling hands, his tears finally falling onto the cloth. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't save you."

When all the bodies were prepared, Arav faced the next challenge: the pyres. In Hindu tradition, cremation was essential to release the soul. But in Frost's Edge, wood was scarce. He scoured the village, gathering what he could broken furniture, wooden beams, even firewood stored for the harsh winters. His hands were numb, his breath visible in the frigid air, but he didn't stop.

By midday, he had built the pyres. They were uneven and small, but they would suffice. He arranged the bodies gently, placing his parents and Asha on the largest one. He whispered their names, his voice breaking with each syllable.

"Baba, Ma, Asha…"

The rituals began. He performed the "abhishekam," sprinkling the melted snow water over their bodies to purify them. He lit incense sticks he found among the rubble, their faint fragrance mixing with the scent of ash. Then came the most sacred act: lighting the pyres. He held a burning piece of wood, his hands shaking, and circled the pyres thrice, reciting the final rites.

"Om Agnaye Swaha," he chanted, offering their souls to Agni, the god of fire.

The flames caught slowly, hesitant against the dampness of the snow and the crude construction of the pyres. But soon, they roared to life, consuming the bodies. Arav was standing, looking as the smoke dispersed into the sky, carrying with it the essence of his loved ones. His heart felt heavy.

When the flames died down, Arav collected the ashes. He knew he had to immerse them in a river, as tradition demanded, but there were no rivers nearby. Instead, he decided to keep them safe until he could make the journey. He found a small urn among the wreckage, placing the ashes inside with reverence.

For the rest of the village, he repeated the process. Alone, he dragged bodies, built pyres, and performed the rites. Each name he said was like a dagger to his heart, but it didn't stop him. By the time he was done, the sun had set, and the village was bathed in the eerie glow of the pyres.

Exhausted, Arav dropped on the ground, the urn containing his family's ashes clutched tightly in his arms. The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the village a cruel reminder of all he had lost. He looked up at the stars, his voice hoarse as he whispered,

"Ma, Baba, Asha… I'll keep going. I'll honor you. I promise."

The wind blew through the ruins, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and the echoes of a life gone. Arav closed his eyes, the weight of his grief finally pulling him into a restless sleep, the urn still cradled in his arms.

 "I'll make it right," he vowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how, but I will. I promise you both, I'll make this right."

Finally, as the pale light of dawn broke over the mountains, Arav stood in the field, surrounded by the bodies of everyone he had ever known. He had arranged them carefully, side by side, covering each one with what scraps of fabric he could find. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion and cold, but he wasn't done yet.

 "I'll never forget you," he said, his voice breaking. "Any of you. I'll carry your stories with me."

Arav knelt in the snow, watching as the flames consumed everything he had ever loved. The heat warmed his face, but his heart felt colder than ever. He stayed there until the fires burned out, until there was nothing left but ash.

As the last embers faded, Arav rose, his body weak but his resolve stronger than ever. He turned toward the mountains, where the Ashura had come from, where the strange lights had been seen. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew one thing:

He would not rest until he found answers. Until he found justice. Until he made them pay.

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, turning the sky into a tapestry of gold and orange as Arav trudged forward. His legs, heavy with fatigue, carried him toward the first signs of life he had seen in days a small village cradled between rugged cliffs and a lush, green valley. The air here was different. Crisp, almost alive, it carried the mingling scents of salt from the distant ocean and the earthy richness of the forest. It was nothing like the cold, suffocating air of Frost's Edge, the village he had left behind now reduced to ash and silence.

A bundle hung from his shoulders, wrapped tightly and secured with cloth—fragile yet unbearably heavy. Inside were the ashes of his people, each urn etched with a name or symbol that Arav had painstakingly carved during sleepless nights. The weight was crushing, but he bore it without complaint. He wasn't just carrying remnants of his village. He was carrying their memories, their stories, and his unspoken promise to honor them.

As he stepped into the village, it was as though he'd entered another world. Wooden houses stood on tall stilts, their sloped roofs painted in warm reds and yellows that seemed to glow in the soft morning light. Strings of colorful flags fluttered between homes and trees, each bearing intricate designs of the sun's rays. The whole place felt alive, like it had awakened with the sunrise itself.

Around the village, the land embraced it gently. Rolling hills formed a natural barrier, dotted with swaying palm trees and bright wildflowers. Beyond them, the cliffs opened up to reveal the vast ocean, where waves crashed against jagged rocks in a steady, rhythmic dance. The sound of the sea blended seamlessly with the chatter of the villagers, who were already busy with their morning routines.

Women carried water pots on their heads, moving gracefully along well-worn paths. Children darted between the houses, their laughter sharp and free, while men hauled fishing nets from the shore, their calls rising over the rustling palms. The atmosphere was vibrant yet unhurried, as though time here moved at its own deliberate pace.

Arav stopped at the edge of the village, unsure of his place in this peaceful scene. His clothes were stained from the road, his face worn with exhaustion, and the bundle on his back felt like a stone carving into his shoulders. He stood there, motionless, until an elderly man noticed him and approached with a gentle smile.

"Namaste, traveler," the man said, his voice carrying the calm assurance of someone who had seen many seasons. "You look like you've journeyed far. How can we help you?"

Arav pressed his palms together and bowed his head slightly in greeting. "Namaste, Baba. My name is Arav. I've come to perform the Asthi Visarjan for my village. I was told this land has a sacred river. Can you guide me to it?"

The old man's smile faltered for a moment as his gaze shifted to the bundle on Arav's back. His eyes, deep with understanding, softened with sympathy. "You've carried more than most can bear, child," he said quietly. "Come. Let us sit for a moment. The river is near, and we'll help you when the time comes."

He led Arav to the heart of the village, where an ancient banyan tree spread its roots like a protective canopy. Beneath its shade, shrines adorned with marigold garlands stood in quiet reverence. The ground beneath the tree was soft and cool, its roots forming natural seats. Villagers gathered at a respectful distance, their faces kind but curious.

The elder offered Arav a cup of water, carved from wood and filled with a freshness that seemed to soothe more than just thirst. "Drink," he said. "Rest your voice, and when you're ready, tell us your story."

Arav took the cup, nodding his thanks. The water was cold, sliding down his parched throat and steadying his breath. For a moment, he let the stillness of the banyan's shade settle over him. Then, with the weight of his journey still pressing down, he began to speak.

He told them of Frost's Edge, of the vibrant life it once held and the darkness that descended on it like a storm. He spoke of the Ashura, the fire, and the grief that had left nothing but silence in its wake. His voice cracked as he recounted his parents, his sister Asha, and the unthinkable loss that had driven him here.

The elder placed a hand on Arav's shoulder, grounding him. "You've walked a path few could survive, Arav," he said softly. "But you've brought them here, to this sacred place. That is no small thing. The river will accept them, but you must rest first. Your body and spirit need strength for what lies ahead."

Arav hesitated, his instincts screaming to keep moving, to finish what he had started. But the elder's words carried the same weight as the air in this place—a quiet, unshakable truth. "Thank you, Baba," he said finally. "I will rest, but only for a little while."

The villagers prepared a simple meal of rice and lentils, served with fresh fruits that tasted sweeter than anything Arav could remember. They gave him space to wash away the dust of the road and offered him a corner of the village to lay down. As he lay on the woven mat, staring at the sky now glowing with the warmth of the rising sun, he felt a strange and unfamiliar sensation a glimmer of peace.

For the first time in days, the rhythm of the waves and the whispers of the trees felt like a lullaby, not a reminder of what he had lost. He allowed himself to close his eyes, to breathe deeply, and to let the land's embrace cradle him.

Tomorrow, he would fulfill his promise. But for now, he surrendered to the stillness, letting it wash over him like the sacred river he had yet to see.

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees when Arav woke up. The gentle hum of the ocean in the distance mixed with the chirping of birds, creating a calming rhythm that seemed to match the quiet resolve in his heart. The villagers were already awake, moving with a kind of peaceful efficiency that felt worlds away from the chaos Arav had left behind.

The elder, now a familiar and reassuring presence, approached with his wooden staff. He nodded at Arav, his expression both solemn and encouraging.

"It's time," he said softly. "The river waits."

A few villagers gathered near them, holding small offerings fresh marigolds, clay lamps, and bundles of incense.

The path to the river wound through a forest so lush it felt like stepping into another world. The air was cool, filled with the earthy scent of damp leaves and wildflowers. Sunlight pierced through the canopy above in golden streaks, casting moving patterns on the ground as the wind played with the branches. The only sounds were the crunch of footsteps on the dirt trail, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the distant murmur of water growing louder with every step.

When they finally reached the river, it was as though the world opened up. The sight of it was breathtaking. The water sparkled under the sun, shifting between shades of silver and blue as it flowed gently but with unmistakable purpose. Its banks were lined with tall grasses and scattered wildflowers, their colors vibrant against the soft greens and browns of the surrounding land. Beyond the river, the horizon stretched endlessly, where the sky seemed to bow and kiss the earth.

"This is where the river's spirit is strongest," the elder said, his voice low and reverent. "It's the perfect place."

A small altar had already been prepared a simple mound of earth adorned with flowers and a brass lamp. It wasn't grand or imposing, but it felt right, as though it belonged here as much as the river itself.

Arav placed the bundle of urns carefully on the ground and knelt before the altar. The villagers stood back, giving him space, their silence a quiet acknowledgment of the sacredness of the moment.

The elder began a soft chant, his voice blending with the sounds of the river. It was a prayer—one that honored the sun, the river goddess, and the departed souls who would now find their way to eternity. The words, ancient and melodic, seemed to hang in the air, wrapping around Arav like a protective cocoon.

One by one, he opened the urns. His hands shook as he poured the ashes into the water, the fine gray dust swirling briefly on the surface before dissolving into the current. Each time he poured, he whispered a prayer.

"Aai, Baba…" His voice caught, but he pressed on. "Asha… and all of you, I brought you here because I promised. May you find peace. May you find Moksha."

The villagers stepped forward quietly, placing their offerings into the river bright marigold garlands, lamps, and rice. The flowers floated on the surface, vibrant and alive, while the lamps burned softly, their flames dancing before finally flickering out. It was as if the river itself was embracing the moment, carrying everything gently downstream, becoming one with it all.

As the last urn was emptied, Arav stayed kneeling by the water. His head bowed, his shoulders trembling. The weight he had carried for so long—both the physical burden of the ashes and the crushing grief was gone now. And yet, the emptiness it left behind was overwhelming.

The elder placed a hand on Arav's shoulder, steadying him. "You've done something few could bear," he said. "You've given them peace. The river will carry their stories forward, always."

Arav nodded but couldn't speak. His throat felt tight, and tears burned in his eyes, spilling over silently. The villagers didn't intrude on his grief. They simply stood with him, their presence a quiet support as the river continued its eternal journey.

When he finally stood, the sun had risen higher, warming the land and casting a golden glow over everything. The river looked brighter now, almost alive, as it carried the ashes and offerings far into the horizon. Arav turned back to the villagers, bowing deeply.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was hoarse, but the gratitude in it was unmistakable. "For everything for helping me keep my promise."

They bowed in return, offering small smiles and murmurs of acknowledgment. As they began the walk back to the village, Arav looked over his shoulder one last time at the river. It sparkled in the sunlight, its flow steady and unstoppable.

He didn't know what lay ahead. He didn't know where his path would take him or how he would carry the memories of those he had lost. But for now, he felt lighter, as though the river had not only carried the ashes of his people but a piece of his own sorrow as well.

And in that moment, under the warmth of the sun and the gentle embrace of the land, he allowed himself to believe that peace even if only fleeting was possible.