Chapter 53: Chitrangada’s First Steps

The halls of Hastinapura had long been filled with the measured footfalls of nobles, the hushed whispers of intrigue, the disciplined march of soldiers. But today, a new sound echoed through the stone corridors—the wild, unrestrained laughter of a child.

Chitrangada, the son of Shantanu and Satyavati, had begun to walk.

Not with the careful, hesitant steps of most children, but with the eager, stumbling boldness of one who believed the world was his to conquer. He did not fear falling. He did not wait for hands to steady him. He surged forward, relentless, every stumble met with a push forward rather than hesitation.

Barefoot and clad in a tunic too fine for his reckless movements, Chitrangada stormed through the courtyard, a wooden sword gripped tightly in his tiny fist. His cheeks were flushed, his dark curls damp with sweat, his sharp eyes glinting with fierce delight.

Bhishma stood in the shadows, watching.

The child swung his little sword at nothing, then at everything—striking at the air, the flowers, even the feet of a startled servant who barely dodged in time.

"I am a warrior!" the boy declared.

Satyavati, standing at a distance, smiled. She had seen this fire in her own father, in the men of the river tribes who never bowed easily. This was the blood of a fisherman's daughter surging through royal veins.

But Bhishma saw something else.

He saw Kshema.

Kshema, the friend who had laughed in the face of danger, who had always run ahead while others hesitated. Who had lived too brightly, burned too fiercely—until the flames consumed him.

"A spark too bright," Bhishma murmured under his breath.

The boy, unaware of the thoughts his antics had stirred, turned and spotted Bhishma standing still as a statue.

"Granduncle!" he called, running toward him. His feet were still unsteady, his body still too small for the weight of the sword he carried, but his will was boundless.

Bhishma crouched as the boy reached him, gripping his tiny shoulders gently.

"You call yourself a warrior," Bhishma said. "Then a warrior must learn balance."

Chitrangada frowned. "I don't need balance," he said, puffing out his chest. "I am strong!"

Bhishma chuckled softly. "Strength without control is like a river without banks. It will flood and destroy."

The child tilted his head, his young mind absorbing the words.

Bhishma picked up a small wooden staff lying nearby and handed it to him. "Strike at me," he said.

The boy's eyes lit up. He swung eagerly.

Bhishma sidestepped effortlessly, letting Chitrangada's momentum throw him off. The child nearly tumbled but caught himself, frustration flashing across his face.

"Again," Bhishma said.

Chitrangada struck. Missed. Stumbled.

Again.

And again.

The wind stirred the dust at their feet, carrying laughter and frustration alike into the open sky.

Satyavati watched, arms crossed, pride gleaming in her eyes.

"Good," Bhishma finally said. "But not yet great."

The boy huffed. "I will be the greatest!"

Bhishma let a smile touch his lips. "Then prove it. Learn patience."

Chitrangada scowled, his youthful fire bristling against the notion. But Bhishma saw something else in his eyes—a promise. The boy would return. He would fight again, stumble again, and rise again.

From the verandah overlooking the courtyard, Shantanu sat wrapped in soft robes, his once-strong body frail against the carved wooden chair. He had grown weaker with each passing season, his illness carving away at his strength like waves eroding stone.

But today, there was light in his face.

"Come here, my little fire," Shantanu called, his voice rasping but warm.

Chitrangada hesitated for a moment, then rushed toward his father, clambering onto his lap with no regard for the dignity of royalty.

Shantanu laughed, though it turned into a cough. He pressed his lips to the boy's dark curls, closing his eyes as though holding onto this moment, this warmth, for as long as he could.

"You are fierce," he murmured. "You will make the gods tremble one day."

Chitrangada grinned. "I will be stronger than Bhishma!"

Shantanu chuckled, glancing at his son—the son he never had to vow away, the child who would carry his legacy forward. He turned his gaze to Bhishma, something unspoken passing between them.

But Bhishma remained silent.

He saw the same fire in Chitrangada that Shantanu did.

But fire, if unchecked, could burn everything to the ground.

And the throne of Hastinapura had already seen enough ruin.

That evening, as the palace settled into the hush of twilight, Bhishma stood by the river, watching the moon ripple across its surface.

A presence stirred beside him.

Satyavati.

"He is fearless," she said, her voice carrying both pride and concern.

Bhishma nodded. "Fearlessness can be a gift. Or a curse."

She exhaled. "You think he is reckless."

Bhishma did not answer immediately.

Finally, he said, "I have seen men like him before. They burn so brightly that they forget they are not immortal."

Satyavati's expression hardened. "Then teach him."

Bhishma turned to look at her.

"You are his family, Bhishma. You are bound to him as much as you are bound to this throne," she said. "Do not let his fire turn to ruin."

Bhishma watched her for a long moment, then turned back to the river. The water murmured its secrets, whispering of things to come.

The boy was young. There was time yet.

But Bhishma knew that time was a fickle thing. And the winds of fate had begun to shift.