The Ganga flowed steady and silver under a sky bruised with dusk, its waters lapping gently at the muddy banks. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of wet earth and the faint tang of fish, and a scattering of birds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the river's hum. Bhishma stood near the water's edge, his boots sinking slightly into the soft ground, his cloak hanging still for once, dark and worn against the fading light. His bow rested against a nearby rock, unstrung but close, and his face was calm, his eyes tracing the river's endless ripple—a moment of quiet after Kashi's stinging scorn.
He'd ridden back that afternoon, dust still clinging to his armor, the echo of Virochana's laughter rattling in his ears. Hastinapura had greeted him with silence, the palace halls dim and hushed, Vichitravirya tucked away in his sickbed, coughing through the walls. Bhishma hadn't gone to him—not yet. He'd come here instead, to the Ganga, where the world felt steady, where his thoughts could settle like stones in the current.
Footsteps crunched behind him, quick and determined, breaking the stillness. He didn't turn, but the wind stirred faintly, brushing his cloak as Satyavati approached. She stopped beside him, her gray sari streaked with dust from the path, her hair loose and wild from the evening breeze. Her face was sharp, her eyes blazing with something fierce, something that made the birds scatter higher. She didn't waste a breath.
"Bring him wives, Bhishma—now," she said, her voice cutting through the river's hum, loud and unyielding.
Bhishma turned his head, slow, his gaze meeting hers. "Wives?" he said, calm, steady, though his brow creased faintly. "I've just returned, Satyavati. Kashi laughed us off—mocked him."
Her hands clenched at her sides, her sari bunching where her fingers dug in. "I know," she snapped, stepping closer, her sandals sinking into the mud. "You think I haven't heard? A sickly whelp, they called him—my son, my king! They spurned us, Bhishma, spat on our name."
Bhishma's jaw tightened, just a flicker, but his voice stayed even. "They did," he said, simple, factual. "Virochana's pride runs deep. He'd sooner wed his daughters to the wind than Vichitravirya."
Satyavati's eyes flashed, and she grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong, her nails biting through his sleeve. "Then take what they deny," she said, her voice low, fierce, her face inches from his. "Kashi spurns us—fine. You're Bhishma, aren't you? Go back and take them—Amba, Ambika, Ambalika. Bring them here."
Bhishma stilled, her words sinking in, the wind picking up around them, tugging at his cloak, rippling the Ganga's surface. "Take them?" he echoed, his tone quiet, measured. "You mean by force."
"Yes," she said, her grip tightening, her eyes blazing like coals in the dusk. "Force, guile, whatever it takes. Vichitravirya needs wives—sons—to hold this dynasty together. Honor's a pretty word, Bhishma, but it won't fill an empty throne."
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back to her face, his expression unreadable. "I offered peace," he said, calm, steady. "An alliance. They laughed. You'd have me storm their gates instead?"
Satyavati released him, stepping back, her hands trembling now, though her voice stayed fierce. "I'd have you save us," she said, sharp, urgent. "Vichitravirya's fading—I see it every day. Those coughs, those fevers—he's slipping, Bhishma, and there's no one behind him. No sons, no heirs. Kashi's girls can change that."
Bhishma's gaze drifted to the river, the water catching the last streaks of light, turning gold for a fleeting moment. "He's frail," he said, soft, almost to himself. "I've promised he'll live—grow stronger."
"Stronger?" Satyavati's laugh was harsh, brittle, and she threw her hands up, pacing a tight circle in the mud. "He's not growing, Bhishma—he's shrinking! Last night, I held a cloth to his mouth—red with blood, not spit. He's ten, and he's dying, and you talk of stronger?"
Bhishma turned fully now, facing her, the wind rising, brushing her sari, stirring the grass at their feet. "He's king," he said, firm, unwavering. "I guard him. The line endures."
She stopped pacing, her breath hitching, her eyes wet but hard. "Endures how?" she demanded, stepping close again, her voice shaking. "Through you? You're steel, Bhishma, but you can't sire his sons. He needs wives—now, not years from now when he's dust!"
Bhishma's hands clasped behind his back, the wind coiling around him, a soft roar against the Ganga's hum. "Kashi won't give them," he said, calm, practical. "Virochana's set. I'd have to take them—break their court, their pride."
"Then break it," Satyavati shot back, her voice fierce, her hands balling into fists. "Break their gates, their laughter—break anything that stands between my son and a future. You've fought for less, Bhishma—fight for this."
He didn't answer right away, his eyes on the river, the wind tugging harder now, sending ripples racing across the water. "It's war," he said at last, low, steady. "You know that. Kashi won't bend—they'll strike back."
Satyavati's lips pressed thin, her face a mask of resolve, though her hands shook at her sides. "Let them," she said, quiet, deadly. "Let them try. You're Bhishma—they won't touch us. But Vichitravirya needs this—I need this. Don't tell me no."
Bhishma met her gaze, his face still, the wind howling now, bending the grass flat, tugging at her sari like it wanted to pull her away. "I don't tell you no," he said, his voice solid, a rock in the storm. "I tell you what it costs. Blood, honor—Kashi's wrath."
She stepped closer, her eyes locked on his, unyielding. "I'll pay it," she said, fierce, final. "Whatever it costs—blood, wrath, anything. Just bring him wives. Save my son—save the Kurus."
Bhishma nodded, slow, deliberate, the wind rising higher, a gust that sent leaves skittering across the bank. "For the Kuru line," he said, his voice steady, a vow carved in it, "it will be done."
Satyavati's breath caught, a flicker of relief breaking through her fierceness, though her eyes stayed sharp. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice softer now, searching his face. "You'll go—take them?"
"I mean it," Bhishma replied, calm, unshakeable. "I'll ride to Kashi. They'll yield—or I'll make them."
She reached out, her hand hovering near his arm again, then dropping, her fingers twisting in her sari instead. "Good," she whispered, her voice trembling just a hair. "Good. He's all I've got left, Bhishma—don't let him fade empty."
Bhishma's gaze softened, just a flicker, like a crack in stone letting light through. "He won't," he said, gentle but firm. "I've sworn it—to you, to Shantanu. The line holds."
Satyavati nodded, quick, her eyes glistening in the dusk, her shoulders slumping as if some weight had shifted—not gone, but shared. "I know you have," she said, quiet, steadying herself. "You always hold. Just… hurry. Please."
Bhishma inclined his head, the wind settling now, brushing her hair gently, a soft promise in its sigh. "I'll ride at dawn," he said, practical, sure. "They'll be here—wives for him. You'll see."
She managed a small smile, faint and tired, her hands smoothing her sari. "I'll see," she echoed, soft, then turned to the river, staring at its silver flow. "I have to. There's nothing else."
Bhishma watched her, the wind calming fully now, the Ganga's hum filling the silence between them. "There's us," he said, low, steady. "You, me, him—we're enough for now."
Satyavati didn't turn, but her voice came back, fierce again, though it cracked at the edges. "A dynasty's price—pay it in full, Bhishma. That's all I ask."
He didn't reply, letting her words hang there, heavy and true. The river flowed on, steady, endless, mirroring the resolve in his chest—unspoken, unyielding. He'd go to Kashi, break their pride, bring back what she demanded. For Vichitravirya, for her, for the Kurus. The wind stirred once more, a soft breath against the dusk, sealing the vow as the light faded over the water