Chapter 68: Satyavati’s Grief

The sanctum of Hastinapura lay cloaked in shadow, its stone walls cold and unyielding, the air thick with the scent of blood and stillness. Torchlight flickered, frail and fleeting, casting ghosts across the slab where Chitrangada rested, his body a silent ruin. The spear jutted from his chest, a cruel monument to a battle lost, blood pooling beneath him in a dark, glassy sheen. The palace held its breath, its corridors hushed, as if the stones themselves mourned.

Satyavati stumbled into the chamber, her sari trailing like a tattered banner, her steps faltering under the weight of dread. The mist from the river clung to her, dampening her hair, her skin, her soul—a shroud she couldn't shed. Her eyes, sharp with a queen's resolve, widened as they fell upon her son, and a sound tore from her throat—a wail that shattered the silence, raw and jagged, echoing through the sanctum like a storm breaking stone.

"My fire!" she cried, collapsing at Chitrangada's side, her knees striking the floor with a dull thud. Her hands reached for him, trembling, clawing at the slab as if she could pull him back from the dark. Blood stained her fingers, warm and accusing, seeping into the creases of her palms. She tore at her sari, the fabric ripping with a shriek, crimson threads mingling with the prince's life spilled across the stone.

"My fault," she gasped, voice fracturing, a plea to gods who wouldn't answer. Her nails raked her arms, leaving red welts, as if pain could unmake the truth. "I bore you for this? For a spear to claim you?" Her wails rose, a tempest of anguish, bouncing off the walls, filling the chamber with the weight of a mother's ruin.

Bhishma stood at the threshold, a statue carved from guilt, the wind beyond the sanctum stilled as if it dared not intrude. His cloak hung heavy, stained with Chitrangada's blood, his hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white as bone. The Ganga's pulse thrummed in his veins, faint and mournful, a dirge he couldn't silence. His eyes fixed on the boy—his charge, his failure—each wound a mark of his delay, each drop of blood a question: Could I have stopped him?

Satyavati's head snapped up, her gaze finding Bhishma through the haze of tears. Her face was a mask of grief, lined and hollow, her beauty drowned in sorrow. "You let him go," she hissed, voice low and venomous, rising like a tide. "You let my son ride to his death." Her hands gripped Chitrangada's tunic, blood smearing her wrists, her fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor him to her.

Bhishma's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence a heavier burden than words could bear. The weight of her accusation sank into him, gnawing at his core—each moment replayed, each chance missed. He'd felt the boy's fire, his defiance, rippling through the river, a storm he'd failed to tame. His bow rested against the wall, its string slack, a useless relic of his tardiness.

Satyavati staggered to her feet, her sari trailing in tatters, blood dripping from her hands like tears of a wounded earth. She stepped toward him, her breath ragged, her eyes blazing with a fury born of loss. "He was my fire," she said, voice breaking, each word a shard of glass. "My son, my blood—and you let him burn out." She struck his chest, her fists weak but relentless, a mother's rage against a wall of steel.

Bhishma stood unmoved, his frame a fortress against her blows, but within, guilt seared like a brand. "I rode as fast as the wind," he murmured, voice rough, a confession to the shadows. "The Gandharva was swifter."

Her hands fell, trembling, her gaze piercing him like a spear. "Swifter?" she spat, stepping back, her voice rising to a scream. "You swore to guard us! You swore to me, Bhishma—your vow, your strength—and where was it when he needed you?" Tears streamed down her face, cutting paths through the blood and dust, her anguish a river no dam could hold.

The sanctum trembled with her wails, the torchlight wavering as if it too wept. Satyavati sank to her knees again, clutching Chitrangada's hand, cold and still, pressing it to her lips. "I pushed him," she whispered, voice a threadbare echo. "I told him to claim his name, to rise above whispers—and now he lies here, my fire snuffed by my own hand."

"I failed them both," Bhishma thought, the words a silent wound. Kshema's memory flared in his mind—his laughter, his reckless courage—a ghost that haunted this moment, a second son lost to time and now mirrored in Chitrangada's blood.

Satyavati's head lifted, her gaze locking on Bhishma once more, fierce and unyielding despite the tears. "Avenge him," she said, voice a broken plea, rising from the depths of her grief. "Give me that, Bhishma—give me his blood answered, his name honored." Her hands clenched Chitrangada's, her knuckles whitening, as if she could pour her will into his stillness.

Bhishma met her eyes, the storm within him stirring, a tide shifting beneath the weight of her words. He stepped forward, the sanctum's shadows stretching behind him, and retrieved his bow. His fingers curled around its grip, the wood warm and familiar, a lifeline to his resolve. "This ends in blood," he said, voice steel, each syllable a vow forged anew.

Satyavati's breath caught, a flicker of hope piercing her anguish. "Swear it," she demanded, rising to her feet, her sari a tattered shroud, her eyes burning with a mother's fire. "Swear you'll hunt that creature, that his laughter will choke on his own ruin."

Bhishma nodded, his bow gripped tighter, its string humming with the promise of vengeance. "I swear it," he said, the words a blade drawn from his soul. "The Gandharva will fall—his blood for Chitrangada's, his name for ours." Kshema's memory flared again, a silent witness, his fire fueling Bhishma's own.

The sanctum grew still, the torchlight steadying, the air heavy with the weight of their pact. Satyavati sank beside Chitrangada once more, her hands smoothing his blood-streaked hair, her wails softening to sobs. "My son," she murmured, voice a whisper lost in the stone. "My fire, my fault—rest now, but not unanswered."

Bhishma turned, his cloak sweeping the floor, blood drying on its hem like a map of his failures. The Ganga's pulse surged in his veins, fierce and unyielding, a river reborn in wrath. He stepped beyond the sanctum, the night unfurling before him, the wind rising like a call to war.

Hastinapura slept, its spires piercing the dark, a kingdom blind to the grief within its walls. The courtyard lay empty, torchlight flickering like dying embers, casting shadows that danced with the blood on his hands. He paused, gazing into the void, the river's song a fierce thread in his soul.

Satyavati's sobs echoed behind him, a mother's anguish cutting through the silence. "A mother's tears demand justice," she cried, voice breaking, the words a chain binding him to his vow.