Amba stepped forward, her heart thudding, her voice fierce, a whisper to the wind. "Parshurama," she said, soft and sure, her eyes burning, vengeance taking root as she stopped, facing him, the stream's hum a quiet song behind her. The night hung cool and dark, stars glinting sharp overhead, the stream's waters catching their light, rippling silver against the grassy bank. Her red sari quivered, torn and muddy, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, her breath puffing white as she stared at the figure ahead, his shadow broad and still, his axe gleaming wicked by the rock.
Parshurama turned, slow and steady, his robes dark and patched, his hair wild and streaked with gray, his eyes sharp under heavy brows, glinting like steel in the starlight. His axe rested close, its blade scarred but keen, a silent threat against the stone, his hands rough and steady as he crossed his arms, watching her approach. "Who calls me?" he said, his voice deep, rough as the river's rush, cutting through the night. "A girl, ragged and bold—speak quick, before I turn away." He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over her sari, her wild hair, curiosity hardening into a frown.
Amba's hands clenched, her voice breaking free, fierce and raw, spilling out fast as she stepped closer, her boots squelching in the grass. "I'm Amba," she said, her eyes locked on his, blazing with pain she couldn't hold back. "I've come for Bhishma—your student, your pride. He stole my life, Parshurama, and I need you to end him!" Her breath hitched, her sari quivering, her chest heaving as she stood there, daring him to listen, to see the ruin she carried, a fire burning bright in her words.
He didn't flinch, his stance solid, his hands uncrossing slow, his voice low, steady, a rock against her storm. "Bhishma?" he said, his eyes narrowing, his brow creasing as he stepped forward, his boots crunching the grass. "My student's no easy mark, girl. He's steel and wind—why's he your foe? Speak plain, or I've no ear for you." The axe glinted beside him, its blade catching the stars, a silent weight as he waited, his gaze sharp, unyielding, testing her fire.
She laughed, a short, jagged sound, her hands trembling, her voice rising, loud and fierce, a whip in the night. "Plain?" she said, stepping closer, her breath hot, her eyes wet and burning. "I'll give you plain—I was a princess, Parshurama, promised to Salva, my heart his since I was a girl! We'd planned it—drums, flowers, a life. Then Bhishma came, all oaths and might, stormed my swayamvara, stole me like a prize!" Her hands slashed the air, her sari quivering, her voice breaking as tears pricked, hot and fast, spilling down her cheeks.
Parshurama's jaw tightened, just a flicker, his hands resting on his hips, his voice low, rough with a weight she couldn't touch. "Stole you?" he said, his eyes steady, glinting in the starlight, holding hers firm. "He's bound by vows—Shantanu's son doesn't snatch for himself. Why you? Tell me all, girl—I'll hear it." The stream gurgled soft behind him, the wind brushing reeds, a quiet hum as he stood there, waiting, his axe a shadow at his side.
Amba's knees shook, her hands flying to her face, a sob breaking free, loud and raw, echoing over the water. "For Vichitravirya," she said, her voice cracking, dropping to a whisper as she sank to the grass, her sari pooling around her. "His brother—weak, frail, a king who'd never fight. Bhishma took me, dragged me to Hastinapura, threw me at his feet like a gift. I fought, Parshurama—kicked, screamed, begged to go back, but he wouldn't hear me!" She rocked slightly, her hands falling limp, tears cutting through the mud on her cheeks, her breath shuddering out.
He stepped closer, slow, his shadow falling over her, his voice softening, just a touch, but still firm, unbowed. "Fought?" he said, looking down at her, his eyes sharp, searching her face. "Bhishma's not cruel—he's duty, hard as stone. What broke you, then? Keep talking—I'm listening." The wind picked up, brushing his robes, the stream's song rising faint, his axe glinting as he crouched, close now, his gaze steady, weighing her pain.
She looked up, sudden and sharp, her hands slamming the grass, her voice rising again, fierce and desperate, spilling out fast. "Broke me?" she said, her eyes blazing, her breath hot and ragged. "Vichitravirya died—no sons, no strength, just ash! Bhishma left me there, a widow before a wife, shamed in that court, their pity worse than scorn. I ran to Salva, Parshurama—days on that road, dust in my throat, hope in my chest—begged him to take me back!" She staggered to her feet, her sari quivering, her hands trembling, her voice breaking as she stared at him, pleading, raw.
Parshurama's mouth twitched, his hands steady, his voice low, rough, cutting through her storm. "Salva," he said, his eyes narrowing, his stance solid as he rose, facing her. "Your love—he turned you away? Tell me that part—I'll hear the end." The stars glinted overhead, the stream rushing soft, the night cool and still as he waited, his axe a silent weight, his gaze sharp, unyielding, pulling her story out.
Amba's chest heaved, her hands clenching, her voice dropping, cold and bitter, a wound laid bare. "He did," she said, stepping closer, her eyes wet, her breath hitching as she spoke. "I rode to his hall, dusty and torn, knelt at his throne—'Take me,' I said, 'I'm still yours.' He stood there, cold, his eyes hard, said 'You're his trophy, not my bride.' Shamed me, Parshurama—called me Bhishma's leavings, cast me out, his courtiers whispering, their pity like knives!" She wiped her face, quick and rough, her sari sleeve smearing mud and tears, her voice breaking, loud again.
He didn't move, his boots firm, his hands loose, his voice steady, deep with a weight she felt. "His leavings," he said, his eyes flicking to the axe, then back to her, calm but sharp. "Salva's a fool—Bhishma's no thief for himself. What next? You went back?" The wind brushed the reeds, the stream's hum steady, his stance solid, a rock in her flood, waiting for the rest, her pain a thread he followed.
She nodded, slow and fierce, her hands trembling, her voice rising, raw and jagged, spilling out fast. "I did," she said, her eyes blazing, her sari quivering as she stepped closer. "Back to Hastinapura—stormed his yard, begged him, 'Marry me—fix this ruin!' He stood there, all stone and wind, said 'My oath forbids it—I can't.' Can't, Parshurama! Left me nothing—Salva gone, my name dust, my life ash! I cursed him then—swore I'd see him fall!" Her breath shuddered, her chest heaving, her eyes wet and burning, daring him to see, to feel her ruin.
Parshurama's jaw tightened, his hands clenching slow, his voice low, rough with a spark she hadn't heard. "Cursed him?" he said, stepping forward, his eyes glinting, his axe catching the starlight, a shadow shifting. "Bhishma's my student—strong, stubborn, bound tight. You've got fire, girl—what do you want from me?" He tilted his head, his gaze sharp, searching her face, his tone steady, testing her will, her pain a weight he measured now.
Amba's hands unclenched, her voice dropping, fierce and sure, a vow carved in the night. "End him," she said, her eyes locked on his, blazing with hate, with hope, with heartbreak. "He stole my life—Salva's love, my honor, my everything! Villages laughed, traders scorned—no one dares face him but you. You trained him, Parshurama—you know his steel, his wind. Slay him—or make him take me, give me back what's mine!" She stepped closer, her breath hot, her sari quivering, her chest heaving, pleading, fierce, a fire he couldn't miss.
He stood silent, slow and still, his hands resting on his hips, his eyes narrowing, then softening, a flicker of something—pity, maybe—crossing his face. "Slay him," he said, his voice low, steady now, his hand lifting slow to the axe, brushing its haft. "Or tame him—Bhishma's no coward, no fool. Your pain's real, girl—sharp as this blade." He gripped the axe, lifting it slight, its blade glinting wicked, his tone hardening, resolute, a vow of his own forming.
Amba's breath caught, her hands trembling, her voice soft, fierce with hope, a whisper to the night. "You'll do it?" she said, stepping closer, her eyes wet, glinting bright, searching his face. "You'll face him—for me?" She held his gaze, her sari quivering, her heart thudding, a spark flaring bright, vengeance taking root as she waited, daring him to nod, to lift that axe for her.
Parshurama nodded, slow and sure, his hands gripping the axe tight, his voice deep, rough with a weight she felt. "I'll go," he said, his eyes steady, glinting in the starlight, holding hers firm. "Bhishma's mine—my student, my match. He'll marry you, or he'll fall by this blade. You've convinced me, Amba—your ruin's his reckoning." He slung the axe over his shoulder, his robes shifting, his boots firm, the stream's hum rising soft, his resolve a fire lit by her tears, her rage, her call.