The riverbank stretched wide and quiet under a sky gone gray with dawn, its edges soft with mud and whispering reeds, the Ganga's waters lapping gentle against the shore. The air hung cool and damp, thick with the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, a faint tang of sandalwood threading through as the pyre took shape. A low mound of logs rose near the water, stacked neat and high, their bark peeled back, glistening faintly with dew. White cloth draped the top, its edges fluttering, and atop it lay Vichitravirya, still and small, his shroud pulled tight, his face pale as the mist curling off the river, his hands folded across his chest, fingers thin and stiff.
Bhishma stood at the pyre's base, his dark tunic patched and worn, his cloak folded over one arm, his bow resting against a crooked tree nearby, its scarred wood catching the first light. His arrows bristled in a quiver at his hip, a steady weight he hadn't shed since the Kashi raid, and his boots sank slightly into the mud, the earth cool underfoot. He held a torch in his right hand, its flame crackling soft, spitting sparks that danced upward, swallowed quick by the gray. The breeze stirred around him, gentle at first, tugging his hair, brushing the reeds, a quiet companion as he stared at the shrouded figure—his brother, his king, gone too soon, leaving no sons to carry the name.
Satyavati waited a few paces off, her gray sari pooling around her feet, her hair pinned loose, strands slipping free to frame her face, lined deep with loss. Her hands clasped tight in front of her, knuckles white, her eyes sharp and unblinking, fixed on the pyre, on the boy she'd raised, now a shadow of the hope she'd clung to. Behind her stood Ambika and Ambalika, their white saris ghostly in the mist, their heads bowed, hands twisting cloth, their grief a silent ache that hung heavy in the air. The court lingered further back, a cluster of nobles in muted robes, their whispers low, their faces pale—Hastinapura's heart laid bare, a dynasty teetering on the edge of nothing.
A priest in white shuffled forward, his feet bare, his voice a low chant as he sprinkled water from a clay pot, droplets splashing the logs, glinting like tears. He circled slow, his hands trembling slightly, his words rising soft over the Ganga's hum—prayers for a soul's journey, for a king's peace. Bhishma watched him, his torch steady, his jaw tight, a flicker of something—sorrow, maybe—crossing his eyes, gone quick as he stepped closer, mud squelching under his boots, the flame's heat warm against his hand.
He raised the torch, slow and deliberate, his voice rough, steady, meant for the air alone. "You fought," he said, his gaze on Vichitravirya, the shroud rippling faintly. "Not with steel, but you fought. Rest now." He thrust the flame down, pressing it hard against the logs, and the fire caught fast, a hungry crackle spreading, tendrils of orange licking upward, curling around the wood, smoke rising thick and gray, stinging the air.
The pyre blazed, flames leaping high, their roar drowning the priest's chants, the heat pushing back the mist, painting Bhishma's face gold and red. The breeze surged, stronger now, a gust lifting ashes from the edges, swirling them up in spirals, black flecks dancing wild before the Ganga swallowed them whole, pulling them down into its silver depths. Satyavati's sari fluttered, her hands unclenching, falling limp at her sides, her breath catching as the fire climbed, the shroud charring black, Vichitravirya's form blurring into the blaze, a quiet end to a fragile reign.
She stepped forward, her boots sinking into the mud, her voice low, sharp with a will that hadn't broken. "Two sons lost," she said, her eyes on the flames, glinting wet but fierce. "The line teeters, Bhishma. All I built, slipping away."
Bhishma turned, slow, his torch still in hand, its flame guttering now, his shadow stretching long across the bank, mingling with the smoke. "Slipping," he said, his voice gruff, steady, his gaze meeting hers, unyielding. "Not fallen, Satyavati. Not while I stand."
She nodded once, her lips pressing thin, her hands smoothing her sari, steadying herself as the fire snapped behind them, logs collapsing inward, sparks bursting high. "Standing's not enough," she said, her tone soft, edged with something new—resolve, sharp as a blade. "You buried Chitrangada, now him. No heirs, Bhishma. What's left to forge?"
He set the torch down, its flame hissing out in the mud, his hands clasping behind him, his voice calm, a rock against her storm. "What's left," he said, his eyes flicking to the pyre, then back to her, iron in his tone. "I'll forge what's left, Satyavati. My duty doesn't end here."
Ambika stirred, her white sari shifting as she lifted her head, her voice soft, trembling slightly, meant for the air more than them. "He wanted sons," she said, her eyes on the flames, glistening wet. "Talked of them, every night. Names, laughter—gone now."
Ambalika nodded, small and quick, her veil slipping, her voice thinner, lost in the smoke. "He smiled," she said, her hands twisting harder, her gaze distant. "Said we'd see them run these halls. Quiet, all quiet now."
Satyavati's jaw tightened, her breath hitching, her voice dropping lower, fierce with a mother's pain turned to purpose. "Quiet," she said, turning to Bhishma, her eyes blazing. "Too quiet, Bhishma. The court's a mess, Kashi's sniffing blood. We need more than ashes."
Bhishma stepped closer, his boots squelching, his cloak catching the breeze, his voice steady, a vow woven into the words. "More," he said, his gaze locked on hers, unbowed. "I'll give you more. The line's not dust—not yet."
She stared at him, her chest rising slow, her hands stilling, her voice softening, sharp with a hope she couldn't hide. "Not yet," she said, her eyes narrowing, searching his face. "You've held us through raids, through chaos. Forge it, Bhishma—something real."
He bowed to the flames, slow and deep, his tunic brushing the mud, his voice low, resonant, a promise carved in the smoke. "I'll forge what's left," he said, his eyes on the pyre, steady and sure, his duty eternal, a weight he'd carry beyond the fire. "For Shantanu, for you."