The throne room of Hastinapura smelled of wax and old stone, a grand, echoing place with high ceilings and walls lined with flickering torches. Banners hung from the rafters, their edges frayed but colors bold—reds and golds swaying gently, as if caught in a breath they couldn't quite feel. The court had gathered, a restless crowd of nobles in stiff robes, their faces a mix of curiosity and something sharper, something that pinched at the corners of their mouths. They stood in tight clusters, whispering, waiting, their eyes darting toward the dais where the throne sat, cold and empty, its carved arms gleaming under the torchlight.
Bhishma stood at the center of it all, tall and straight as a spear, his armor polished to a dull shine. His cloak hung behind him, dark and heavy with faded bloodstains, stirring slightly as a breeze slipped through the hall—nobody could quite say where it came from, but it followed him like a shadow. His bow rested at his side, unstrung but ever-present, and his face was set, hard as the marble floor beneath his boots. He didn't fidget or shift; he simply was, a mountain of a man who made the room feel smaller just by standing there.
Beside him, dwarfed by his size, was Vichitravirya—a boy of ten, thin as a reed, with skin so pale it seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. His tunic hung loose on his narrow shoulders, and his dark hair fell into his eyes, which were wide and uncertain. He clutched a small golden crown in his hands, its edges catching the torchlight, and his breath hitched with a cough that echoed off the walls, sharp and wet. The sound made a few nobles flinch, though they tried to hide it.
Bhishma turned his head slightly, his voice low but firm. "Hold it steady, Vichitravirya. It's yours now."
The boy looked up, his fingers trembling around the crown. "It's heavy," he said, his voice small, barely carrying past the front row of courtiers. "What if I drop it?"
"You won't," Bhishma replied, calm as stone. "I'm here."
Vichitravirya swallowed, nodding faintly, and lifted the crown higher, his arms shaking with the effort. Bhishma stepped forward, his hand—large and calloused—closing gently over the boy's shoulder. With a careful nudge, he guided Vichitravirya toward the throne, the wind tugging at his cloak as they moved. The nobles parted, their whispers fading into a hush, though their eyes stayed sharp, watching every step.
The throne loomed ahead, its seat too wide for the boy, its back rising high like a wall. Vichitravirya hesitated, his feet scuffing the floor, and glanced back at Bhishma. "Do I have to sit there?" he asked, his voice quivering. "It looks cold."
"It's yours," Bhishma said simply, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "A king sits where he must."
Vichitravirya bit his lip, then shuffled forward, climbing onto the throne with a little grunt. His feet dangled above the floor, and the crown wobbled as he tried to settle it on his head. It slipped sideways, too big for his small frame, and a soft cough rattled through him again, making his shoulders hunch. The nobles shifted, some exchanging glances, others looking away as if embarrassed for him.
Bhishma raised a hand, and the room snapped to silence. "Vichitravirya, son of Shantanu," he said, his voice ringing out, deep and steady, "takes the throne of Hastinapura. The Kuru line endures." The wind gusted stronger, rippling the banners, as if punctuating his words.
A noble near the front—a wiry man with a pointed beard—cleared his throat, stepping forward. "Endures, my lord?" he said, his tone careful but edged. "He's a child—and not a strong one, by the look of him."
Bhishma's eyes flicked to the man, sharp as an arrow. "He lives," he said, his voice iron. "That is strength enough."
The noble faltered, his hands twitching at his sides. "But a king needs more than breath," he pressed, glancing around for support. "The court needs a ruler, not a shadow."
Bhishma didn't blink. "He has me," he said, and the wind stirred again, brushing past the noble's robe, making him step back. "I am regent. His shadow casts mine—and mine does not waver."
Vichitravirya shifted on the throne, the crown tilting further, and coughed into his sleeve. "I don't want to be a shadow," he mumbled, barely audible, his eyes on Bhishma. "Do I have to?"
Bhishma turned to him, his face softening—just a flicker, like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. "You are no shadow," he said, quiet but firm. "You are Kuru blood. That's what matters."
The boy frowned, uncertain, but nodded slowly, clutching the crown tighter. Another noble, broader and older, with a graying beard, stepped up beside the wiry one. "Blood's well and good," he said, his voice gruff, "but can he rule? Hastinapura needs a hand on the reins, not a boy who can't hold a crown."
Bhishma's gaze shifted, steady and unyielding. "He will grow into it," he said, calm as ever. "My hand guides until then. Doubt him if you will—doubt me at your peril."
The wind picked up, a low howl threading through the hall, and the nobles shrank back, their murmurs dying. Vichitravirya coughed again, louder this time, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a faint smear of red. The sight made the wiry noble's lips tighten, but he said nothing, bowing stiffly instead.
Satyavati slipped into the room then, her gray sari trailing, her steps quiet but sure. She'd been watching from the doorway, her face a mask of calm, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. She stopped beside Bhishma, looking up at Vichitravirya on the throne, his small form swallowed by its size.
"He's king now," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, meant for Bhishma alone. "You're sure of this?"
Bhishma didn't turn, his eyes on the boy. "He's alive," he replied, low. "That's the start. I'll see to the rest."
Satyavati's hand brushed his arm, fleeting, then fell away. "He's so small," she murmured, her gaze lingering on Vichitravirya. "I thought Chitrangada would…"
She didn't finish, but Bhishma understood. "Chitrangada's gone," he said, his tone steady, final. "This one's here. I'll make it enough."
Vichitravirya looked down at them, his crown slipping again, and coughed into his hand. "Mother?" he called, his voice thin, uncertain. "Do I have to talk now?"
Satyavati forced a smile, stepping closer to the throne. "You do, my sweet," she said, gentle but firm. "Tell them you're their king."
The boy swallowed, his hands fidgeting with the crown, and sat up straighter—or tried to. "I'm… I'm the king," he said, his voice wobbling, barely reaching the back of the hall. "I'll… um… do my best."
A ripple of unease passed through the nobles, a few shifting their feet, others exchanging looks. Bhishma stepped forward, his hand resting on Vichitravirya's shoulder again, steadying him. "He speaks true," Bhishma said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "His best is mine. Hastinapura stands."
The wind gusted once more, sharp and sudden, making the torches flicker. The nobles bowed again, deeper this time, though their faces stayed tight, their eyes shadowed with doubt. Satyavati watched them, her fingers twisting in her sari, then leaned close to Bhishma.
"They don't believe in him," she whispered, her voice tight. "They see a sick boy, not a king."
"They'll believe in me," Bhishma replied, calm, unwavering. "That's enough for now."
Vichitravirya coughed again, a harsh, rattling sound, and rubbed his chest, wincing. "It hurts," he said, quiet, looking up at Bhishma. "Can I go soon?"
Bhishma nodded, just once. "Soon," he said, gentle but firm. "First, the oath."
The boy sighed, a small, tired sound, and turned back to the court, his voice shaking as he tried again. "I swear… to be your king," he said, stumbling over the words, "and… and keep Hastinapura safe. I think."
Bhishma's hand tightened briefly on his shoulder, guiding him through the last bit. "With honor and blood," he prompted, his voice low.
"With honor and blood," Vichitravirya echoed, thin but clear, and sank back against the throne, exhausted. The crown slipped fully now, clattering to the floor with a dull thud, and a few nobles stifled gasps.
Bhishma bent swiftly, picking it up and placing it back in Vichitravirya's lap. "It stays with you," he said, quiet, steady. "Always."
The boy clutched it, nodding, his eyes heavy. Satyavati stepped up beside the throne, her hand resting on its arm, her face a mix of pride and fear. "He's done it," she said, soft, to Bhishma. "That's something, isn't it?"
"It's everything," Bhishma replied, his voice solid as rock. "A king in name only—yet the Kuru blood endures."
The wind settled, the hall falling quiet, the nobles bowing once more, their reluctance plain but their defiance stilled. Vichitravirya sat there, small and frail, a trembling shadow beneath Bhishma's towering presence, the weight of a dynasty resting on his narrow shoulders—and on the man who swore to hold it all together.