A weary rider, traveling by foot and horseback, arrived at the gates of Zabulistan with tidings so dire they chilled the souls of all who heard: the ferocious elephant of Iran, Rostam son of Zal, had been laid low in the dust, and Zavareh alongside his host had perished in the selfsame treacherous snare. At this heartbreaking news, a torrent of lamentation billowed across the realm of Zabulistan. The white-haired Zal poured black earth upon his head and shoulders, tore his royal robes, and lacerated his face in agonizing grief. Weeping bitterly for his mighty son, he cried out: 'O Elephant-bodied champion, brave dragon of battle! How could a vile, cursed fox like Shaghad uproot such a majestic royal tree? Where now is your dragon-emblazoned banner, your heavy mace, and your violet sword? Why was I left alive in this world to behold your tragic doom?'
When the first wave of mourning subsided, Zal ordered Faramarz, the valiant son of Rostam, to lead a formidable host to Kabulistan to avenge his father and retrieve the sacred bodies. Upon arriving in Kabul, Faramarz found the city abandoned by its nobles and its remaining inhabitants weeping in terror. He rode straight to the hunting grounds where the hidden pits had been dug. When the young hero beheld his father's blood-soaked body lying lifeless upon the dirt, he let out a roar like a wounded lion. Throwing himself onto the earth, he swore by Almighty God and by the pure spirits of Sam and Nariman that he would never remove his coat of mail until he had exacted full vengeance upon the King of Kabul and every traitor involved.
Faramarz commanded heavy timber frames and royal thrones to be brought to the pit. With boundless reverence, they lifted the titan body of Rostam from the abyss, unbuckled his armor, and gently washed the dried blood from his ivory-bearded visage and massive limbs. Skilled stitchers bound his mortal wounds, while attendants anointed his chest and brow with pure rosewater, refined camphor, ambergris, and saffron, before wrapping his frame in rich royal silks. So immense was Rostam's stature that no single bier could accommodate him. Thus, they constructed a magnificent sarcophagus of teakwood, studded with golden nails and carved ivory inlay, sealing its joints with pitch and musk.
They drew the body of his valiant brother Zavareh from the neighboring pit, as well as the corpse of the faithful steed Rakhsh, washing and shrouding them with equal care. A solemn procession bore the coffins upon war elephants back toward Zabulistan. For ten days and ten nights, the road was packed with weeping men and women; the biers were passed continuously from hand to hand without touching the bare earth, as the entire landscape echoed with agonizing wails.
In Zabulistan, a soaring mausoleum was erected inside a tranquil garden, its summit touching the clouds. Two golden thrones were placed within, upon which the noble brothers were laid to rest. Devoted servants and kin showered musk, rosewater, and flowers at the feet of the fallen champion before sealing the heavy stone doors of the tomb forever. The chronicle concludes with a solemn reflection on the transience of mortal existence: this temporary realm begins in hardship and ends in dust; whether one lives as a righteous devotee or a villain, the earth claims all in the end—therefore, while life remains, turn toward goodness so that your soul may find eternal peace.