The mist hung like a pall over the clearing, thick and unyielding, muffling the world's breath as if it mourned in silence. The forest loomed, its twisted trees rooted in shadow, their branches clawing upward like hands reaching for a lost sky. The air quivered, dense with the tang of blood and damp earth, the tension a blade poised to fall.
Chitrangada sprawled in the dirt, chest heaving, his hands clawing at the ground as the Gandharva's spear gleamed above him. Blood seeped from his wounds—shoulder, thigh, palms—a crimson shroud staining the earth. His eyes burned, fierce and fading, the fire in his soul a ember battling the dark.
The Gandharva towered over him, golden armor aglow in the gloom, silver hair spilling down his back like a river untouched by ruin. His spear shimmered, its tip wet with the prince's life, poised for the killing stroke. His smirk was a shard of ice, his voice a murmur that sliced the stillness. "A name cannot shield you, boy."
Chitrangada's breath rattled, a jagged gasp as he forced himself up, one trembling arm braced against the earth. "Hastinapura… endures," he choked, voice raw, each word a splinter in his throat. His gaze locked on the Gandharva, unbowed even as his body broke, a king's will in a shattered shell.
The Gandharva's eyes glinted, cold and eternal. "Then let it endure without you."
The spear struck.
It sank with a wet crunch, piercing Chitrangada's chest, tearing through flesh and bone. Blood bloomed, a scarlet tide surging across his tunic, spilling over his ribs in a relentless flood. His gasp was faint, a whisper swallowed by the mist, his body crumpling like a banner ripped from its standard. His hands twitched, grasping at the spear, then fell still, fingers curling into the dirt.
The Gandharva stepped back, spear dripping, his laugh a sharp ripple through the haze. "A flame extinguished," he said, voice light as if he'd brushed aside a moth. He turned, golden armor flashing, poised to melt into the forest's depths.
But the mist tore apart.
Bhishma stormed into the clearing, stallion rearing as he leaped from its back. Wind screamed around him, lashing his cloak, his hair, his soul. His bow was drawn, an arrow nocked, its tip blazing with a fury that mirrored the tempest in his eyes. The sight crashed into him—Chitrangada broken, blood pooling, the Gandharva's spear a cruel monument to his failure.
"Chitrangada!" Bhishma's cry rent the silence, a howl of anguish and rage that shook the trees.
The prince's head turned, eyes dimming as they met Bhishma's. A spark flared, faint and fleeting, his lips parting in a whisper. "Bhishma…" The word was a breath, a plea, a goodbye, carried off by the wind as his gaze dulled, the light draining from his spirit.
Bhishma's arrow flew, a streak of wrath slicing the air, aimed for the Gandharva's heart. But the creature vanished, a blur of gold and silver dissolving into the mist. His laughter lingered, cold and piercing, a taunt that burrowed into Bhishma's marrow.
The arrow thudded into a tree, splintering wood, its force wasted. Bhishma stumbled forward, bow slipping from his grasp, hands shaking as he dropped to his knees beside Chitrangada. Blood soaked the ground, warm and slick, seeping into his fingers as he reached for the boy.
"No," he rasped, voice fracturing, a sound torn from his core. He pulled Chitrangada into his arms, cradling him against his chest, the spear's shaft jutting like a mocking jest. Blood stained his hands, his tunic, his soul—a mark he couldn't erase. The boy's head lolled against him, heavy and still, his once-blazing eyes shut, his fire snuffed out.
Bhishma's breath shuddered, each inhale a blade in his chest. "I was too late," he murmured, words lost to the mist. His fingers brushed Chitrangada's brow, tracing the lines of a face he'd shaped, a spirit he'd tempered. The Ganga's pulse thrummed in his veins, jagged and mournful, a lament for a son he couldn't save.
The forest stood sentinel, silent and unyielding, the mist curling tighter as if to claim the ruin. Bhishma's grip tightened on Chitrangada, grief raw and searing, a wound deeper than steel could carve. He'd forged this boy, stoked his fury, honed his steel—and now he held his end.
The Gandharva's laughter faded, swallowed by the shadows, leaving only the weight of loss. Bhishma rose, lifting Chitrangada's body with a strength born of despair. Blood dripped from the prince's wounds, a crimson trail marking their path as he turned from the clearing.
The wind died.
The road back to Hastinapura stretched ahead, a path cloaked in gloom and regret. His stallion trailed him, head bowed, hooves muffled by the damp earth. The mist followed, a ghostly veil clinging to Bhishma's cloak, thick with the scent of death.
The river's song waned, its pulse a whisper in his blood, as if the Ganga itself grieved. Chitrangada's weight bore down on him, a burden he'd carry beyond the palace walls. His arms ached, his heart bled, but he pressed on, each step a vow—to bear this loss, to face its price, to let it remake him.
Hastinapura emerged from the haze, its spires stabbing the sky, a kingdom blind to the son it had lost. The gates groaned open as Bhishma neared, guards parting with hushed gasps, their voices drowned by the stillness. He strode through, Chitrangada's body a silent witness in his arms, blood staining the stones beneath his feet.
The courtyard lay empty, torchlight flickering like dying stars, casting shadows that danced with the prince's blood. Bhishma paused, the weight of Chitrangada pressing against his chest, and a memory flared—Kshema's face, fierce and bold, his laughter ringing through Hastinapura's halls.
Kshema, Chitrangada's shadow, his friend, his fire—gone before this day, taken by a blade or a battle Bhishma couldn't recall. The boy had spoken of him often, his voice alight with pride, his eyes gleaming with a bond forged in blood and steel. "Kshema would've fought beside me," Chitrangada had said once, grinning, sword in hand. "He'd have burned the world for me."
Now Kshema's fire was ash, dimmed by a loss long past, and Chitrangada's joined it, a twin ember snuffed by the Gandharva's spear. Bhishma's throat tightened, the memory a blade twisting in his gut. Two sons lost—one to time, one to this moment—and he'd failed them both.
He pressed on, carrying Chitrangada into the palace's heart, the corridors stretching before him like a labyrinth of sorrow. Torchlight wavered, casting ghosts on the walls, the air thick with the weight of a bond broken. He reached the inner sanctum, a chamber of stone and silence, and laid Chitrangada upon a slab, the spear still piercing his chest.
Blood pooled beneath him, a dark mirror reflecting Bhishma's face—worn, hollow, shattered. He knelt, hands resting on the boy's chest, feeling the void where a heart once roared. "You fought like him," he whispered, voice a threadbare echo. "Kshema's fire lived in you—and I let it die."
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms, drawing blood to mingle with the stain on his hands. The Ganga's pulse slowed, a mournful hum, as if it wept with him. The chamber grew colder, the torches dimming, the air heavy with the cost of his failure.
Bhishma rose, standing over Chitrangada's body, his shadow stretching across the stone. The boy's face was still now, the fury gone, a prince at rest—but not at peace. The palace walls whispered, their echoes weaving a dirge—of a king unmade, a name unclaimed, a fire lost to the wind.
He turned, stepping into the night beyond the sanctum, the wind stirring once more. It carried the scent of blood, the faint echo of laughter, the weight of a vow unkept.
He paused, gazing into the darkness, the river's song a faint thread in his soul.
"Blood on the wind," he whispered, the words a promise, a curse, a blade yet to strike.