Hastinapura's gates loomed, dust kicking up as Bhishma strode in, the Gandharva's spear gripped tight—its golden haft dulled, its tip crusted with blood. His cloak hung heavy, crimson-stained, his bow slung across his back, silent now. The courtyard stretched ahead, torchlight flickering, shadows sharp on the stones. Nobles parted, eyes wide, whispers hushed. Satyavati stood by the palace steps, her sari a muted gray, her face lined, tears dried but grief etched deep.
Bhishma stopped, boots scraping the ground, and dropped the spear at her feet. It clattered, a hollow echo. "He's dead," he said, voice rough, low. "Chitrangada's avenged."
She knelt, fingers brushing the spear, blood flaking under her touch. "You brought me his death," she murmured. "But not his life."
Bhishma's jaw clenched. "I swore blood. I gave you that."
"Did you?" Her voice cracked, sharp. "Blood for blood—where's my son in that, Bhishma? Where's my fire?"
He looked away, her words a knife in his ribs. "I failed him."
Satyavati rose, slow, unsteady. "You think this heals me?" she asked, eyes wet but fierce. "A spear doesn't fill an empty cradle."
Bhishma stayed silent, the air thick, nobles watching, breaths held. She turned, steps faltering, and slipped into the palace, leaving the spear behind—a cold relic in the dust.
The Ganga flowed steady, its waters dark under a gray dawn, the riverbank soft with mud. Bhishma stacked wood—dry branches, rough logs—his hands raw, splinters biting his palms. Chitrangada lay on a stretcher nearby, wrapped in white, bloodstains seeping through, his face calm, too still. The wind stirred, faint, brushing Bhishma's hair as he built the pyre, each log a weight on his chest.
Nobles gathered, robes trailing, heads bowed, their voices low. "Too young," one muttered, bearded, grizzled. "Too bold," another shot back, younger, sharp-edged.
Bhishma ignored them, placing the final log, then lifted Chitrangada. The boy's weight pressed against his arms, cold, lifeless. "You fought," he whispered, voice breaking. "Like a king." He laid him atop the pyre, adjusting the cloth, hands steady despite the ache.
A torch flared in his grip, flames snapping. He paused, staring at the body. "Why'd you go?" he asked, soft, to the wind. "Why'd I let you?"
A noble stepped closer, voice gruff. "He chose his path, Bhishma. You couldn't stop him."
"Couldn't I?" Bhishma snapped, eyes flashing. "I raised him. I saw his pride. I should've stopped him."
The noble frowned, arms crossed. "Stop a prince? He'd have fought you for it."
"Maybe," Bhishma said, quieter. "Maybe fighting me's better than this." He thrust the torch into the pyre, flames catching fast, wood crackling as fire surged.
Smoke billowed, thick and gray, the wind lifting it upward. Chitrangada's form blurred, consumed, ashes swirling into the Ganga. The nobles knelt, foreheads to the dirt, murmurs rippling—respect, sorrow, unease. Bhishma stood stiff, heat stinging his face, fists clenched.
"Burn bright," he muttered, staring into the blaze. "You earned that."
The grizzled noble rose, voice thick. "A king's pyre. He deserved it."
"Did he?" Bhishma asked, sharp. "Or did I deserve this—for failing him?"
The younger noble scowled. "You avenged him, Bhishma. That's more than most get."
"Vengeance doesn't bring him back," Bhishma shot back, raw. "It's just ash on ash."
The fire roared, Chitrangada's ashes drifting, the Ganga swallowing them in silence. The nobles watched, heads low, the river's pulse Bhishma's thin thread of peace.
The throne room loomed, vast and cold, its marble floor glinting under torchlight. The throne sat empty, a slab of carved stone, its edges worn but stark. Courtiers milled, robes rustling, voices a low hum—fear, doubt, ambition. Bhishma stood by the dais, the Gandharva's spear propped against it, a mute witness. Satyavati lingered near the back, her shadow small, her silence cutting deeper than cries.
"One son gone," a courtier whispered, thin and wiry, eyes darting. "Who next?"
Another hissed back, broad-shouldered, stern. "Watch your tongue. The dynasty's not dead."
Bhishma turned, voice slicing through. "Enough. The throne's empty, not broken."
The wiry courtier flinched, bowing low. "No offense, Lord Bhishma. But a kingless hall—what's it mean?"
"It means we mourn," Bhishma said, hard. "Not plot."
Satyavati stepped forward, her voice faint but piercing. "Mourn?" she asked, eyes locked on Bhishma. "Or bury our failures?"
He met her stare, steady. "Both. Chitrangada's gone. I can't undo that."
"You could've," she said, sharp, quiet. "You should've."
Bhishma's fists tightened. "I tried, Satyavati. I rode. I killed. What more?"
"His life," she snapped, tears brimming. "Not his killer's death."
The room stilled, courtiers frozen, the air heavy with her grief. Bhishma's shoulders dipped, just a breath. "I'd trade mine for his," he said, low. "You know that."
Satyavati's lip quivered, her voice a whisper. "Would you? Or is that just guilt?"
He didn't answer, turning back to the throne, its void a mirror to his soul. The wiry courtier shifted, muttering to the stern one, "One son gone—who fills this gap?"
The stern one glared. "Not your place to ask."
"It's everyone's," the wiry one shot back, hushed. "A dynasty falters when its heirs burn."
Bhishma ignored them, staring at the throne, Chitrangada's absence a weight he couldn't shake. "One gone," he muttered, to himself. "One I couldn't save."
Night cloaked the Ganga's banks, the pyre's embers dark, the riverbank silent. Bhishma stood vigil, alone, the water's murmur his only companion. The spear rested beside him, its blood faded, its purpose done. His bow hung loose in his hand, a burden he couldn't drop.
"Why'd you burn so fast?" he asked the river, voice hoarse. "Chitrangada—why'd I let you go?"
The wind stirred, faint, carrying ash across the water. He closed his eyes, the Ganga's pulse steady in his veins, a comfort too weak to mend. "I avenged you," he said, soft. "But it's empty. You're still gone."
Footsteps crunched behind—a noble, voice gruff. "You're too hard on yourself, Bhishma. You gave him justice."
"Justice?" Bhishma turned, eyes dark. "Justice doesn't breathe. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't rule."
The noble sighed, heavy. "You can't carry every death."
"Can't I?" Bhishma asked, sharp. "I raised him. His pride—I fed it. Watched it burn."
The noble shook his head. "He chose, Bhishma. Not you."
"Did he?" he countered, voice cracking. "Or did I choose for him—pushing him to fight, to die?"
The noble fell silent, stepping back, leaving Bhishma to the river. The water flowed, endless, carrying ashes away—Chitrangada's, a dynasty's hope. He stood there, vigil unbroken, the throne's emptiness echoing in his chest.
A courtier lingered nearby, voice a murmur on the wind. "One son gone—another waits."
Bhishma's eyes narrowed, but he didn't turn, the words a shadow he couldn't yet face.