The chains didn't rattle tonight.
Devaki lay on the cold slab of stone, her breaths coming in quiet gasps. Sweat clung to her brow like dew on gravestone marble. The pain came in waves—sharp, pulling—yet she barely whimpered. She had learned long ago not to scream.
Kamsa didn't like screaming.
Even when her firstborn had been torn from her arms. Even when the third had opened his eyes for only a second before a guard's blade made him part of history.
Even then, she had not screamed.
But tonight, the silence was worse than the pain.
It shouldn't be possible, she thought. Not after Krishna. Not after all that passed.
Her womb had been empty for years. Krishna had broken the prophecy, escaped Kamsa's grasp, vanished like light into the forest of fate. She had thought herself barren after. Her body hollowed by grief, used up by destiny.
Yet now—this.
A child.
Again.
But no god came to her in dreams. No celestial signs appeared in the stars. No thunder shook the heavens as it had the night Krishna was born.
Just… silence.
Even the guards outside had grown still.
What kind of child comes without a shadow? she wondered.
The pain surged again. She clutched her belly, breath hitching. Her hair stuck to her face like cobwebs. The scent of iron and fear coated the air.
"Gently," whispered the midwife—an old palace servant Kamsa never bothered to kill. She worked silently, hands quick, prayers muttered under breath like apologies.
Devaki felt the child leave her, as though her soul were being drawn out thread by thread. And then—
Nothing.
No cry.
Just breath. A wet, whispery breath.
Her heart stopped.
"Is he—?"
"He lives," the midwife said softly.
The infant let out a single sharp cough, as if testing the air of a cursed world, then fell silent again.
Devaki reached out, arms trembling, and the baby was placed on her chest.
Warm.
Breathing.
But… quiet. Too quiet.
She stared at him. Dark hair already curling. Eyes closed tightly, but brows furrowed, like one lost in a dream he didn't want to return from.
She didn't cry.
She wanted to. But the tears wouldn't come.
Instead, she whispered, "Why have you come back to me?"
The baby stirred.
"I had made peace," she said. "I told myself I was done birthing corpses."
The midwife looked away, respectful. Perhaps ashamed.
"Why now?" Devaki asked the air. "Why, when I have nothing left to give you—not a home, not a name, not even the right to live more than a night?"
There was no answer. No wind. No holy presence.
Just the soft exhale of her son. Her new son.
Devaki closed her eyes, afraid to look too long.
A strange guilt clawed through her chest. She didn't want to name him. Names were dangerous. Names made children real.
This child must not be real.
He must be... passing.
Just like the others.
She kissed his forehead. Once. Not twice. Just once—like a seal, not a farewell.
And then, the iron bolts groaned.
The door opened.
Devaki turned her face away on instinct, shielding the child.
But it wasn't Kamsa. It was Vasudeva.
And he looked as if death had forgotten him too.
Hair graying, face drawn, he entered with no guards, only shadow. His feet were bare. His eyes—wet.
"You came," she whispered.
He dropped to his knees beside her. "The guards changed. I bribed one. I had to see him."
Devaki nodded. "Then look. Before you have to carry him away."
Vasudeva reached out with shaking hands. But paused. Didn't touch.
"He's so quiet," he murmured.
"I think he knows," Devaki said. "That he isn't allowed to be loud. Not in this world."
They sat in silence.
A flickering lamp nearby sputtered. The room smelled of damp stone and sacred things abandoned.
"Does Kamsa know?" she asked.
"No," Vasudeva said. "And he won't. This birth... it wasn't marked. No signs. No whispers. No sages. It's as if the gods blinked."
Devaki's voice broke then.
"Then he's free?"
Vasudeva looked at her—and in that look was a thousand apologies.
"No. He's hidden. But not free."
He touched the baby gently, barely a graze. The child didn't stir.
"I'm taking him," Vasudeva said. "Tonight. To Hastinapur. Bhishma is there. I've arranged it."
Devaki's breath hitched. "So soon?"
"We don't have days," he said. "We don't even have dawn. If Kamsa hears of this…"
She pulled the child close. Tighter.
Vasudeva waited.
"Give me an hour," she whispered. "Just one. Let me hold him for one hour. That's all I'll ever ask."
"I'm sorry," Vasudeva said. "We don't have even that."
Devaki looked at the child. And for the first time—only once—she smiled.
Not joyfully.
The way one smiles before dying.
She leaned down and placed her lips on the baby's ear.
"Forgive me."
Then, almost inaudibly, she said: "I name you nothing. I name you silence. So that they may forget you before they find you."
She kissed him again. This time twice. And handed him to Vasudeva.
But her hands didn't let go immediately. Her fingers clung for a moment longer than they should have.
Then—emptiness.
She turned her face to the wall.
Vasudeva stood. The child barely moved, cradled in white linen.
And as he disappeared through the prison door, no god intervened.
No omen flashed.
Only Devaki's voice, cracking softly in the dark:
"Don't let him cry."
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