Soft in Strength
They say only time builds closeness. But sometimes, a moment is enough —when she sees the kindness he never speaks, and he sees the strength she never shows.
~~~~~
She is inside, hands trembling, breath uneven. Negativity still curl beneath her skin.
Outside, he is standing, guarding her, watching over the night.
Shaamvi splashes water on her face, wiping away the blood, but not the fear. His words about the five-fold death spell, the Brahmarākṣasa… they echo within her.
"What is all this, God?" she whispers to her reflection.
The mirror returns her gaze—tired, worn, wrapped in a mist of unseen heaviness.
Through the window of the chamber, she sees him—KaanKuwar—his posture alert, yet strangely calm. He's focused on something below, But on what?
She leans forward, curious to see what holds his eyes so intently.
There, on the stone path below, a caterpillar inches forward. Small. Slow. Determined. Unaware of being watched.
Her eyes flick back to his face. He is watching it softly, as if his world has narrowed into that one act.
Suddenly, his expression shifts. She follows his gaze again.
A crack lies ahead of the caterpillar. Jagged. Deep. Too wide for its body to cross. The creature stops, hesitates.
KaanKuwar kneels.
Without a word, he picks up a fallen leaf and places it gently across the gap. The caterpillar climbs. Keeps moving.
A smile spreads across her lips—soft and involuntary. He had noticed. And not just noticed—he had cared.
Not everyone looks at such a tiny life with such quiet attention.
Not everyone sees them…
So to stop, to kneel, to help—that was a rare kindness.
She steps outside.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Nothing," he replies simply. "How do you feel?"
"I don't feel good, of course," she says. "You said your powers can't hold the spell for long. When do you think it will rage again?"
"I don't know," he answers. "Depends on the energy it draws… but maybe two, three hours."
She nods. "I should do a prayer. At least… a protection prayer."
She turns to go, then pauses, looking back. "I know you won't tell me who you really are… but can you at least tell me your name?"
He pauses. No one's ever asked before. No human, at least.
"You can't tell me that either?" she presses.
"…KaanKuwar," he says, barely above a whisper.
"KaanKuwar," she repeats. "You can come inside. Sit with me while I pray. Maybe…..your presence will help."
She doesn't know why she says it—only that it feels right. Something inside her trusts him—instinctively, completely. She doesn't know who he is, what he hides behind those eyes. And yet, her heart knows this much: His presence helps. Not in any way she can explain—only in a way that quiets what aches within.
He nods, and follows her in.
She sets an idol before her—a black stone image of Lord Hari, serene and ancient. She lights the incense and places a small bowl of milk as an offering. Then she sits cross-legged, sacred beads held gently in her hands.
KaanKuwar stands before the idol. Slowly, he bows—head lowered in quiet reverence—then moves quietly to the corner of the room.
Shaamvi's lips part, and her voice begins to rise in a quiet invocation. She chants her prayer: "O Lord Hari, I call You."
"Please purify me—inside and out."
"Cleanse me of all that clings, all that binds."
"Free me from the weight I cannot name."
"Protect me from what moves in shadows."
"Surround me with Your light, Your presence, Your mercy."
"O Lord Hari, I surrender unto Your lotus feet."
"If I must walk through fire, let it be with Your name on my tongue."
"If I must fall, let it be into Your arms."
Her voice is steady, but her body trembles.
Her fingers move slowly over each bead.
She continues her chant—"Hari… Hari… Hari…"
And he, the Dragon of the dark river, watches her.
He sees her fragile hands circling the beads with sacred discipline.
He sees her soft lips murmuring the heaviest prayers of all.
He sees her shoulders tremble with ache, still refuse to surrender.
She is unlike any soul he has known—fierce in faith, soft in strength.