Dawn broke gray over the forest trail, a heavy mist clinging to the trees, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke. Pandu's body lay on a pyre of stacked logs, his tunic folded neatly across his chest, his gray eyes closed, his face still and pale under the morning's dim light. Kunti knelt beside him, her crimson sari torn at the hem from a night of kneeling, her hands smearing ash on her cheeks as she chanted a prayer, her voice choked and trembling. The words stumbled out, a plea to the gods for his soul, and tears streaked through the ash, her dark hair tangled and wild around her face.
Yudhishthira stood close, his small hands clasped tight, his tunic dusty from sitting by the pyre all night, his dark eyes red and swollen as he stared at his father. Bhima kicked at the dirt a few steps away, his boots scuffing deep ruts, his grunts soft and shaky, his dark curls hiding the tears he wouldn't let fall. Arjuna clung to Kunti's leg, his tiny hands gripping her sari, his sharp cries softened to whimpers, his face pressed against her knee. Nakula and Sahadeva wailed in a woven cradle nearby, their small voices rising and falling, their fair curls damp with the mist, their cradle rocking as the wind stirred the logs beneath Pandu.
Madri paced behind the pyre, her green sari streaked with mud from collapsing beside Pandu in the night, her eyes red and hollow as she muttered to herself, her voice low and jagged. "It's me. My fault. My beauty drew him, my laugh, my touch—I killed him." She twisted her hands, her nails digging into her palms, and her pacing quickened, her sandals slapping the dirt as her mutters rose to a wail. "He'd be alive if I'd stayed away, if I'd never turned, never smiled. Oh, Pandu, why did I let you near me?"
Kunti's head snapped up, her chant breaking as she turned, her voice sharp with desperation, cutting through the smoke. "Madri, stop it! You didn't kill him—it was the curse, that wretched curse! You're not to blame!" She reached out, her ash-streaked hand trembling, her crimson sari pooling around her as she shifted, Arjuna clinging tighter. "Stay with us, please. The twins need you—Nakula, Sahadeva—they're yours. Don't leave them!"
Madri shook her head, her green sari swaying as she stopped, her eyes wild with grief and resolve. "I can't, Kunti. I can't stay. Every time I look at them, I'll see him—his eyes, his smile, and then this." She gestured at Pandu's body, her voice breaking, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tears. "I pulled him to me, I let him kiss me, and now he's gone. I can't live with that. I won't."
Kunti lurched forward, her sari catching on a log as she grabbed Madri's arm, her voice rising, raw and pleading. "You have to live with it! For them, Madri! You're their mother—Nakula and Sahadeva need you more than I do, more than anyone! Don't do this, don't leave us alone!" Her tears fell faster, her grip tightening, her dark eyes searching Madri's face for a flicker of doubt.
Madri pulled free, her voice steadying, hard with a resolve that chilled the air. "You're stronger, Kunti. You always have been. You'll raise them—all five. I can't. I'm not enough without him." She turned to the cradle, her green sari brushing the dirt as she knelt, her hands gentle as she lifted Nakula, kissing his forehead, then Sahadeva, her lips lingering on their soft curls. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking again, her tears falling onto their faces. "My boys, my beautiful boys. Your mother loves you, always will."
Kunti's sob caught, her hands dropping to her sides as she watched, her voice a broken whisper. "Madri, no. Please, no. Don't take this from them. Don't take yourself." She sank back, her crimson sari heavy with ash and dew, her arms wrapping around Arjuna as he whimpered, her breath hitching as she shook her head.
Madri stood, her green sari bright against the gray dawn, her eyes fixed on Pandu's still form. "I'm not taking anything, Kunti. I'm giving them you. You'll be enough." She stepped toward the pyre, her sandals silent now, her hands steady as she climbed the logs, her movements slow and sure. She lay beside Pandu, her body curling against his, her hands clasping his cold fingers, her green sari fanning out across the wood.
Yudhishthira's small voice rose, trembling as he stepped forward, his hands unclenching. "Aunt Madri? Where are you going?" He reached out, his tunic dragging in the dirt, his dark eyes wide with confusion, tears spilling as he looked from her to Kunti.
Kunti pulled him back, her arms trembling as she held him close, her voice hoarse through her sobs. "She's going with Father, my love. She's… she's saying goodbye." She turned away, shielding his face against her shoulder, her breath ragged as she gathered Bhima and Arjuna, pulling them tight against her.
Bhima stared, his kicking stopped, his voice a low, shaky growl. "No go," he said, his small fists clenching, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he lunged forward, only to be caught by Kunti's arm, his tears breaking free. Arjuna wailed, his tiny hands pounding her sari, his sharp cries rising again as he twisted to see the pyre.
Madri looked at them one last time, her eyes softening, her voice a whisper lost in the wind. "Forgive me." She closed her eyes, her hands tightening around Pandu's, and Kunti struck a flint, her trembling fingers sparking the flames. The fire caught, a low crackle at first, then a roar as it surged up the logs, swallowing Madri's cries, her green sari vanishing in the blaze. Celestial winds stirred, lifting her spirit skyward, a faint shimmer against the gray dawn, and the pyre burned bright, the smoke thick and choking.
Kunti turned fully away, her sobs quieting as she shielded the boys, her crimson sari torn and heavy around her. She pressed Yudhishthira's face to her chest, her hand covering Arjuna's eyes, her voice a broken murmur. "Don't look, don't look, my loves." Bhima clung to her leg, his grunts silenced, his tears soaking her sari, while Nakula and Sahadeva's wails faded to whimpers in the cradle, their small hands reaching for a mother gone.
The forest stood silent, the mist curling around the pyre, the crackling logs the only sound as the flames blazed higher, consuming Pandu and Madri together. Kunti's shoulders shook, her breath hitching as she rocked her sons, her dark eyes fixed on the ground, her heart a shattered thing beneath her steady hands. The smoke rose, thick and gray, blending with the dawn, and the twins' cries softened, lost in the roar of the fire.
Yudhishthira pulled free, his small voice trembling as he stared at the pyre, his hands shaking. "Mother, they're gone? Both gone?" He wiped at his eyes, his tunic dusty and damp, his small frame trembling as he looked up at her, searching for an answer she couldn't give.
Kunti knelt, pulling him close again, her voice hoarse and steadying, a thread of strength beneath the grief. "Yes, my love. They're gone. But we're here. You, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, Sahadeva—we're here." She brushed his hair back, her tears falling onto his cheek, her crimson sari pooling around her as she gathered them all, her arms trembling but firm.
Bhima's fists unclenched, his voice a whisper, broken and small. "Father… Aunt Madri…" He sank beside her, his dark curls hiding his face, his strength faltering as he pressed against her, his tears silent now. Arjuna whimpered, his tiny hands clutching her sari, his sharp eyes dull with loss, his cries fading to hiccups.
The cradle rocked gently, Nakula and Sahadeva's wails quieting, their small faces streaked with tears as they reached out, their soft coos a faint echo of Madri's love. Kunti's hand hovered over them, then pulled back, her sob catching as she turned to the pyre, the flames roaring still, the smoke curling skyward. "You didn't have to go," she whispered, her voice lost in the crackle, her dark eyes hollow as she stared at the blaze, her heart breaking anew.
The fire burned on, the logs collapsing into ash, the gray dawn deepening into a cold, heavy light. Kunti stood, her crimson sari torn and streaked with ash, her arms full with Yudhishthira, Bhima, and Arjuna, her breath shaky but resolute. She glanced at the cradle, then back to the pyre, her voice a quiet vow beneath the smoke. "I'll raise them. All five. For you, Pandu. For you, Madri." She turned away, her steps slow, the forest silent around her, the crackling logs fading as the twins' wails softened into the morning's hush.