The water in the bucket was cool, catching the slanting afternoon light. Agni knelt, dipping a cloth into it, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. He wrung it out over Neer's brow, the droplets tracing paths through the dust and dried sweat on his friend's still face. He did it again. And again. A silent, patient ritual.
A flutter. A faint tremor of dark lashes. Then, Neer's eyes opened, hazy and unfocused, looking at the thatched roof above as if it were a foreign sky.
Agni's breath, which he hadn't realized he was holding, escaped in a soft rush. He slid an arm behind Neer's shoulders, his touch firm yet infinitely careful, lifting him to a sitting position. He brought a cup of water to Neer's lips, tipping it slowly, watching his throat work as he swallowed. Only then, with Neer awake and drinking, did the coiled tension in Agni's own shoulders loosen. He set the cup aside and, without a word, pulled Neer into a tight embrace. It wasn't a celebration; it was a confirmation. He held him, feeling the steady, living heartbeat against his own chest, and for a long moment, the world was just that sound.
"You're here," Agni murmured into his shoulder, the words muffled but thick with relief. "Tell me you're truly here."
Neer blinked slowly, leaning into the support. His voice was a dry rustle. "I'm… here. Where is 'here'? And the… the Brahmarakshas?"
"Gone," Agni said, pulling back just enough to look at him. His hands stayed on Neer's arms, grounding them both. "Not destroyed. Freed. You… you spent yourself to a shadow saving me. After you fell, Gurudev's voice came. He showed me the truth of it. It was a soul in torment. The Narayan Kavach… that was the key."
Awe softened the lingering confusion in Neer's eyes. "Gurudev guided you? From so far?"
A faint, weary smile touched Agni's lips. "He guides us in ways we don't always see. But now, you need to be still. You poured your very essence out. You have to let it refill."
Neer looked down at his own hands, then back at Agni, a flicker of something like shame crossing his face. "How did you know? That I'd used everything?"
Agni's smile didn't waver. He reached out, his thumb brushing slowly over the back of Neer's hand, a gesture so small it carried the weight of a vow. "Gurudev told me. But even if he hadn't… I would have known, Neer. I was right here."
Neer's gaze dropped to their hands. He shook his head, the motion slight. "It wasn't just for you. I had to stop it. For everyone it would have hurt next."
A low hum of understanding came from Agni. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of Neer's knuckles. "I know. I do. Now, rest. Save your strength." His voice was a gentle command.
A ghost of Neer's old smirk appeared. "How can I ever hope to keep up with you?"
"What was that?" Agni's eyebrow arched, a spark of familiar challenge returning to his eyes.
"Nothing," Neer mumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Good. Rest."
---
The days that followed were woven from quiet rhythms. Agni moved through the small, watchful village like a shadow himself—fetching food, preparing simple meals, his attention a constant, warm pressure on Neer. He was there with a supporting hand when Neer stood, his grip firm under an elbow when a wave of dizziness hit. He would talk of inconsequential things the shape of a cloud, the chatter of squirrels but his eyes were never still, always reading the faint signs of fatigue or pain on Neer's face. Neer, in turn, began to notice the language of these silent cares the way Agni would always place the warmest piece of bread near him, how his own cup of water was never empty, how Agni's gaze would find him instantly if he so much as shifted in his sleep.
Yet, for all their personal peace, the village breathed unease. It was in the way people's conversations died when they approached, in the hurried glances cast toward the western tree line where an ancient banyan tree brooded, in the palpable silence that thickened as the sun began to bleed into the horizon.
Driven by a warrior's itch and a protector's unease, they found themselves at the village's ragged edge one afternoon, before a hut that seemed held together by memory and cobwebs. An old man emerged, his face a map of sorrows older than the hut itself.
Neer stepped forward, dipping his head. "Greetings, Baba."
The man's eyes, milky with age and something sharper fear scraped over them. "You are not from here. Your road lies elsewhere. Turn your feet."
"We are from a Gurukul, Baba," Neer said, his voice respectful but firm. He felt Agni shift subtly closer to his shoulder. "But this place… it sits under a shadow. We can feel it."
"There is no shadow but the one cast by the setting sun," the old man rasped, turning away. "Leave."
Neer's gaze flicked to Agni, who still moved with a slight stiffness. An idea formed. "Baba, forgive us. My friend… he is recovering. He is weak, and thirst claws at his throat. Could we trouble you for a little water?"
The old man paused, his shoulders slumping. After a long moment, he gestured them inside with a curt nod.
The hut was all gloom and dust. As the old man handed Agni a clay cup, a charred piece of wood, dislodged from the crumbling roof, tumbled down directly toward the old man's head. Neer moved without thought—a flash of motion, a snatch of his hand, and he hurled the ember out the doorway.
The old man stumbled back, not from the ember, but from the act itself. His eyes went wide with a terror that had nothing to do with fire. "You… you should not have done that. Now it is too late. The time has come… no one survives its notice. You must flee! Now!"
Agni's voice was calm steel in the dimness. "Who has come, Baba? Speak plainly."
A shudder wracked the old man's frame. The word left his lips as a sigh of absolute dread. "The Vetala."
The name hung in the still, dusty air. Neer felt a cold finger trace his spine. "A Vetala? Here?"
"Every new moon," the old man whispered, sinking onto a stool as if his bones could no longer hold him. "It demands… a sacrifice. From the village. Always… always one is taken."
Agni and Neer exchanged a look a full, silent conversation flowing between them in an instant. This is the source. This is the fear.
"How do we stop it?" Neer asked, his hand coming to rest briefly on Agni's forearm, a touch of both question and solidarity.
The old man laughed, a sound like dry sticks breaking. "Stop it? You children… it dwells in the oldest banyan. Skin like a twilight sky, eyes of spilled blood, hung from the branches like a terrible fruit. It is desire itself… twisted, unfulfilled, vengeful. A soul betrayed in life, bound by curse or its own unmet yearning. It does not stop. It consumes, until its wish is granted… or it is granted peace."
Neer's jaw tightened. The protective instinct that had lain quietly during his recovery surged forward, bright and fierce. He straightened, his body subtly angling itself between Agni and the door, as if the threat were already at the threshold. "Then we will find it. We will face it, and we will break its curse. Tell us what to do."
The old man looked from Neer's determined face to Agni's calm, watchful one. His eyes lingered on the space between them, on the way Neer's stance was both shield and support, on the way Agni's gaze never truly left Neer. He saw not just two warriors, but a bond that was itself a kind of power.
"Some truths," the old man murmured, his voice fading, "are not given. They are earned in the dark. Some shadows… can only be lifted by a light that comes from within."
Agni's hand came up, resting on the small of Neer's back, a solid, reassuring weight. His voice was for Neer alone, a low murmur. "Whatever waits in that tree… we meet it together. You have carried me long enough. Let me stand beside you this time."
Neer leaned back, just slightly, into that touch. The fear was there, cold and real, but it was dwarfed by the warmth at his back and the fire in his own spirit. A faint, grateful smile touched his lips, meant only for Agni.
Outside, the last sliver of sun vanished. Night poured into the village, thick and liquid. The usual evening sounds the chatter of families, the clatter of pots were absent, swallowed by a waiting silence. The ancient banyan stood in the distance, a darker blotch against the dark, its hanging roots like nooses in the gloom.
Neer's fingers found the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw it, but the readiness was in his stance. "Then we wait for the moon to hide," he said, his voice quiet but clear in the hush. "And we go to meet its shadow."
Agni nodded, his eyes reflecting the first few brave stars. "We go together."
The village held its breath. The forest watched. And from the direction of the great banyan, a subtle, chilling pressure began to swell the weight of a centuries-old sorrow, and the test of a bond still tender from its last trial. The Vetala was awake. And it was waiting.