Chapter 95: The Plea Denied

The outer yard of Hastinapura buzzed faintly under a sky streaked with evening clouds, its gray stone walls glowing soft in the fading light. The air carried a whiff of hay and damp earth, cool against the day's heat, drifting from the stables where horses snorted and stamped. Dust swirled gently across the ground, kicked up by servants' sandals as they scurried past, their arms full of baskets, their voices low and quick. Amba rode in through the western gate, her red sari streaked with dirt, her horse lathered and slow, its hooves thudding dull on the packed earth. She slid down, her boots hitting the ground hard, her breath ragged, her hair wild from the ride back from Salva's rejection.

She didn't pause, didn't look at the guards who stepped aside, their spears dipping as they stared. Her sari trailed behind her, torn at the hem, her hands clenched tight at her sides, her eyes fixed on the stables ahead. Bhishma stood there, his dark tunic patched and loose, his cloak folded over a wooden rail, his bow resting against a post, its scarred wood catching the last sun. He was brushing a mare's flank, his movements steady, his hair shifting in a soft wind that rustled the straw. Amba stormed toward him, her boots loud, her voice breaking as she stopped short, fists trembling. "Bhishma!" she cried, sharp and raw, loud enough to turn heads across the yard.

He looked up, slow and calm, his hand stilling on the brush, his eyes steady, gray like the stone behind him. "Amba," he said, his voice low, rough from the day, his stance solid as he set the brush down, wiping his hands on his tunic. "You're back." He stepped away from the mare, his boots scuffing the dirt, his gaze flicking over her—dusty, wild, her sari a mess—but he didn't flinch, didn't shift, just watched her, waiting.

She took a step closer, her chest heaving, her voice shaking but fierce, spilling out fast. "Marry me," she said, her hands unclenching, reaching out, then dropping again. "Fix this ruin, Bhishma! Salva won't have me—he says I'm yours, your trophy. You did this—make it right!" Her eyes glistened, wet and bright, her breath hitching as she stared at him, pleading, desperate for something to hold onto.

Bhishma's jaw tightened, just a flicker, his hands clasping behind him, his voice steady, unyielding as the walls around them. "My oath forbids it," he said, his eyes meeting hers, calm but firm. "I swore no wife, no sons—for my father, for this house. I can't, Amba." The wind stirred again, soft and gentle, brushing his hair, tugging at her sari, a quiet contrast to the storm in her chest.

She blinked, tears spilling fast, her hands balling into fists again, her voice rising, cracking loud in the yard. "Can't?" she said, stepping closer, her boots kicking dust, her sari quivering. "You stole me, Bhishma—tore me from Salva, from everything! And now you stand there, all oaths and stone, while I'm left with nothing?" Her breath shuddered, her eyes blazing, searching his face for a crack, a shift, anything to bend him.

He didn't move, his boots planted, his face hard, his voice low, steady as ever, cutting through her storm. "I took you for Vichitravirya," he said, his gaze unflinching, gray and cold. "Not for me. He's gone, but my word holds—I can't break it, not even for you." He shifted slightly, his cloak fluttering, his hand brushing the bow's wood, a reflex, a reminder of the battles he'd fought for that vow.

Amba's knees buckled, her hands flying to her face, a sob breaking free, loud and jagged, echoing off the stable walls. She sank to the dirt, her sari pooling around her, her shoulders shaking, tears dripping into the dust. "Not even for me?" she said, her voice muffled, small now, barely audible. "I'm ruined, Bhishma—cast off, shamed. You did this, and you won't lift a finger?" She rocked slightly, her hands falling limp, wet streaks cutting through the grime on her cheeks.

Bhishma stepped closer, slow, his shadow falling over her, his voice softening, just a touch, but still firm, unbowed. "I lift what I can," he said, looking down at her, his eyes steady, no trace of bend. "I gave you to a king, not a cage. Salva's choice isn't mine—I'm sorry for your pain, Amba, but my oath stands." The wind picked up, brushing straw across the yard, a faint rustle as servants paused, watching, their whispers swallowed by the air.

She looked up, sudden and sharp, her hands slamming the ground, dust puffing around her as she staggered to her feet, tears gone, eyes blazing red and fierce. "Sorry?" she spat, her voice a whip, loud and cutting, making a stableboy jump. "Your sorry's nothing, Bhishma! You've left me empty—shamed me twice now, you and your precious oath!" She stepped toward him, close enough to see the lines on his face, her breath hot, her hands trembling with rage.

He didn't flinch, didn't step back, his boots firm, his voice low, rough with a weight she couldn't touch. His eyes locked on hers, calm and sure. "Go where you will—find what you need. I can't give it." The mare snorted behind him, pawing the straw, and the wind eased, soft again, brushing her sari, a quiet end to his words.