Hours later, the gray dawn had softened into a muted afternoon, and Kunti sat under an ancient banyan tree, its sprawling roots curling into the earth like knotted hands. Her crimson sari, singed at the edges from the pyre's heat, hung heavy around her, the ash still clinging to its folds. She cradled Nakula and Sahadeva in her lap, their tiny fists clutching her fingers, their fair curls damp with the forest's lingering mist. Their soft gurgles broke the quiet, a fragile sound against the weight of her grief, and she brushed a thumb across Sahadeva's cheek, wiping away a streak of ash, her face set with a calm that belied the storm within.
Yudhishthira knelt nearby, gathering twigs from the dirt, his small brow furrowed as he hummed a tune Pandu had taught him—a hunting song, simple and steady, its rhythm faltering now and then as his voice trembled. His tunic was dusty, streaked with mud from the trail, and his dark eyes flicked to Kunti, then back to his task, his small hands steady despite the redness around them. Bhima wrestled a fallen branch a few steps away, his grunts echoing through the clearing, his dark curls bouncing as he heaved against the wood, his strength a fierce distraction from the morning's loss. Arjuna sat cross-legged by a stump, aiming pebbles with fierce focus, his sharp eyes narrowing as each one flew, his small tongue poking out between his lips. The forest hummed around them—birds trilled from the canopy, leaves rustled in a gentle breeze—and a faint golden haze lingered, a whisper of the twins' divine births, as if the air still carried the Ashvins' blessings.
Kunti shifted Nakula in her arms, his tiny fist tightening around her finger, and spoke low, her voice steel beneath the quiet. "I'll raise you all," she said, her words a vow, steady and unyielding as she looked at the twins, then out at the others. "Five of you, alone if I must. Your father's gone, your mother too, Madri, but I'm here. I'll be enough." She wiped another streak of ash from Sahadeva's cheek, her hand trembling for a moment before steadying, her grief hardening into purpose, a fire kindled deep in her chest.
Yudhishthira looked up, his twigs pausing mid-stack, his small voice soft but clear. "Mother, all five? Even Nakula and Sahadeva?" He set a twig down, his hands brushing dirt from his tunic, his dark eyes searching hers, a flicker of worry creasing his brow.
Kunti nodded, her crimson sari rustling as she shifted, her tone firm but warm, a thread of comfort beneath the steel. "All five, my love. You're their brother, and they're yours. We're a family, no matter what's happened." She reached out, brushing his hair back, her fingers lingering as she smiled, small and tired, her dark eyes steady on his.
Bhima grunted louder, the branch snapping under his hands with a sharp crack, and he grinned, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he turned to Kunti. "Big stick! Broke it!" he said, his voice rough but bright, his small fists pounding his chest once before he lumbered over, dragging the splintered wood behind him. "Strong for you, Mother. Strong for all!"
Kunti's smile widened, just a touch, her voice softening as she looked at him. "You are strong, Bhima. Stronger than that branch, stronger than most. You'll help me, won't you? Keep us safe?" She tilted her head, her hand resting on Nakula's curls, her dark eyes glinting with a quiet pride as he nodded, his grin fierce and wide.
Arjuna's pebble hit the stump with a sharp thunk, and he clapped his small hands, his voice high and eager. "Got it! See, Mother? Right there!" He scrambled to his feet, his tunic dusty as he ran to her, holding up another pebble, his sharp eyes bright with triumph. "I'll hit anything for you!"
Kunti shifted Sahadeva to one arm, reaching out to ruffle Arjuna's hair, her voice warm despite the ache in her chest. "I know you will, little warrior. You've got your father's aim already. Stay close, all right? We need you here." She pulled him against her knee, her crimson sari singeing faintly as the wind stirred the banyan's leaves, her gaze softening as he nodded, his grin mirroring Bhima's.
The twins gurgled in her lap, Nakula's small hand batting at her sari, Sahadeva's piercing gaze fixed on her face, and she looked down, her breath catching as their divine roots shone through—grace in Nakula's soft coos, wisdom in Sahadeva's quiet stare. "You're all special," she said, her voice low again, a vow renewed as she traced their cheeks. "Justice, strength, valor, grace, wisdom. Pandu saw it, Madri too. I'll make sure you grow into it, every one of you."
Yudhishthira set his twigs down, scooting closer, his small voice steady but curious. "Father's song… should I keep singing it, Mother? He liked it." He hummed a bar, the tune faltering as his hands twisted together, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looked at her, waiting.
Kunti's throat tightened, her hand pausing on Sahadeva's curls, and she nodded, her voice thick but firm. "Keep singing it, my love. He'd want that. It'll keep him with us, in a way." She brushed a tear from his cheek, her fingers gentle, her crimson sari heavy with the morning's ash as she held his gaze, her heart aching with the memory of Pandu's voice joining his.
Bhima dropped his branch, lumbering over to sit beside Yudhishthira, his voice a low rumble. "I'll sing too. Loud, for Father." He puffed out his chest, his dark curls bouncing as he belted out a rough note, off-key but fierce, and Yudhishthira giggled, clapping his small hands, the sound bright against the forest's hum.
Arjuna plopped down next to them, his pebble forgotten as he joined in, his high voice sharp and wild. "Me too! Loud and fast!" He waved his arms, his tune clashing with Bhima's, and the three of them laughed, their voices tangling into a messy, joyful noise that echoed through the clearing, the banyan's roots trembling faintly beneath them.
Kunti's lips curved, a faint smile breaking through her grief, and she rocked Nakula and Sahadeva, their gurgles joining the chorus. "That's it," she said, her voice steady now, steel and warmth entwined. "Sing for him. Sing for Madri. We'll carry them with us, all of us together." She looked out at the pyre's embers in the distance, cooling now, a faint wisp of smoke curling into the sky, and her resolve hardened, her tears drying as she held her sons close.
A deer paused at the clearing's edge, its ears twitching as it watched, its brown eyes glinting in the afternoon light. The forest hummed louder—birds trilled from the canopy, leaves rustled in a gentle gust—and sages' voices whispered from hidden groves, faint blessings carried on the breeze, a golden haze shimmering briefly around the twins. Kunti rose, her shadow long against the banyan's trunk, her crimson sari singed and heavy as she shifted Nakula and Sahadeva to her hips, her hands steady despite the weight.
"Come on, my boys," she said, her voice clear, cutting through the forest's song. "We've got a fire to build, a meal to make. We're a family, and we'll keep going. For them, for us." She stepped forward, her boots firm on the dirt, her dark eyes tracing the clearing, her grief a quiet ache beneath her purpose.
Yudhishthira stood, brushing dirt from his tunic, his small voice steady as he picked up his twigs. "I'll help, Mother. Fire needs sticks." He followed her, his steps careful, his hum resuming softly, Pandu's tune a thread of memory in the air.
Bhima heaved his broken branch up, grinning as he dragged it behind him, his voice loud and rough. "I'll carry big stuff! Strong for you!" He lumbered after, his dark curls bouncing, his grunts echoing as he tossed the wood ahead, his strength a fierce promise.
Arjuna scrambled up, grabbing his pebbles as he ran to her side, his voice bright and eager. "I'll guard us! Hit anything bad!" He aimed a pebble at a bush, his sharp eyes glinting, his small frame buzzing with energy as he stayed close, his grin wide and wild.
Kunti glanced down at Nakula and Sahadeva, their tiny fists still clutching her fingers, their divine glow faint but steady in the afternoon light. "And you two," she whispered, her voice soft, a vow just for them. "You'll grow strong too, wise and graceful. I'll see to it." She kissed their foreheads, her lips lingering, her heart steadying as their gurgles answered her.
The sky cleared, the gray haze lifting to reveal a pale blue, and the deer bounded away, its hooves silent on the grass. Kunti led her sons from the banyan, her shadow stretching long behind her, the Pandavas bound by her will, their voices and steps a small, fierce circle under the tree's sprawling arms. The forest hummed on, the pyre's embers fading in the distance, and she walked forward, her crimson sari singed but bold, her grief forged into a purpose that would carry them all.