Chapter 123: The Return

The city gates of Hastinapura stood wide under a golden noon sun, their stone arches draped in fresh banners of red and gold, fluttering in a warm breeze.

Crowds lined the dusty road, their cheers a rolling thunder—nobles in silks waving, commoners perched on rooftops, children darting underfoot, shouting wild.

Dust settled thick in the air, kicked up by hooves and boots, the scent of dry earth and sweat mingling with the faint tang of the Ganga shimmering beyond.

The sun blazed high, its light gilding the city's walls, casting long shadows as Pandu rode in, his crimson tunic faded but proud, his sword sheathed at his hip.

Twenty-two summers strong, his dark hair hung loose, streaked with dust, his face weathered but bright, a weary triumph glinting in his sharp eyes.

Behind him marched his warriors—thirty left of fifty, their tunics torn, bows and spears slung, leading a line of captives roped at the wrists, heads bowed.

Carts creaked in their wake, laden with gold—chests of coins, ingots stacked high—spoils from Magadha and Anga, glinting like captured sunlight under the noon glare.

Kunti stood at the gate's threshold, her red sari shimmering, silver threads catching the light, her dark hair unbound, swaying as she stepped forward.

Her piercing brown eyes softened, her bangles chiming faintly, and she moved through the crowd, her poise steady, a quiet strength in her stride.

Bhishma waited beside her, his dark tunic crisp, his silver-streaked hair tied back, his gray eyes warm with pride, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Satyavati lingered near the gate's shadow, her gray sari rustling, her hands clasped, her dark gaze flickering over the procession, sharp and thoughtful.

Dhritarashtra stood apart, his staff planted in the dust, its scarred tip steady, his sightless eyes blank, his silence a heavy veil over the crowd's roar.

Vidura hovered nearby, a scroll tucked under his arm, his dark curls shifting as he smiled, his calm a gentle thread in the noon's swelling chaos.

Pandu reined in his horse, its flanks lathered, and dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud, dust swirling around him as he straightened.

The crowd surged, their cheers peaking—"Pandu! Kuru's arm!"—hands clapping, banners waving, the air thick with their fervor under the golden sun.

Kunti reached him first, her hands outstretched, and embraced him, her arms tight, her sari brushing his tunic, her breath warm against his ear.

"You're whole—that's enough," she said, her voice soft, a whisper lost to the din, her fingers tracing his arm, feeling the cuts beneath the dust.

Pandu's grin broke wide, tired but bright, and he pulled her close, his voice low, "Whole and victorious—east kneels, Kunti. For us."

She stepped back, her eyes glinting, and nodded, her strength an anchor in his storm, her smile faint but fierce, a queen's pride in her king.

Bhishma approached, his boots crunching, and clapped Pandu's shoulder, his grip firm, his voice proud, "Kuru's reach widens—well done, boy."

Pandu bowed, dust falling from his hair, and replied, his tone steady, "Magadha and Anga bend—tribute flows now, Kuru grows stronger."

Bhishma's smile deepened, a rare warmth in his stern face, and he mused, his voice low, "His fire burns bright—Hastinapura thrives under it."

The crowd roared again, a noble in green shouting, "To Pandu—the east's bane!"—and laughter rolled, goblets raised among the silk-clad lords.

Satyavati stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the captives—Vikrama and Vrishaketu among them, heads low—and murmured, "Boldly won—cleanly kept."

Pandu nodded, his hand resting on Kunti's, and said, "Mercy binds them—gold and grain seal it. Kuru's name echoes east now."

Dhritarashtra's staff shifted, scraping the dust, and he turned away, his voice low, a bitter hiss, "All for him… more glory, more cheers."

The crowd's roar faltered faintly, heads turning, and Vidura moved swiftly, his sandals scuffing, his voice calm, "Victory lifts the line, Dhrita—drink to it."

Dhritarashtra's lips twitched, his grip tightening on the staff, the wood creaking, and he muttered, "Lifts him—always him," his envy a festering thorn.

Kunti's gaze flicked to him, sharp and brief, and she leaned to Pandu, her voice soft, "Shadows cling—he'll darken this if he can."

Pandu's grin softened, his hand squeezing hers, and he murmured, "Let him brood—sun's too high for shadows today. We've won."

She nodded, her poise unshaken, and turned to the captives, her voice clear, "Kuru spares you—carry that tale east, let it spread."

Vikrama lifted his head, his beard matted, and rasped, "It'll spread—Kuru's arm's long," his voice weary, submission etched in his sagging frame.

Vrishaketu, mud-streaked, nodded beside him, his braid dripping, "River bowed to him—Anga won't forget," his tone resigned but firm.

The crowd cheered anew, "Kuru's might! Kuru's mercy!"—their voices a wave, dust swirling as carts rumbled past, gold glinting under the noon sun.

Bhishma raised a hand, silencing the din, and called, his voice booming, "Pandu returns—east falls, Kuru rises! Feast tonight, Hastinapura!"

The gates pulsed, the crowd surging forward, and warriors stepped in—Arjun among them, his bow slung, grinning as he clapped Pandu's back.

"River and walls, prince," Arjun said, his voice bright, "you carved them both—east's yours now, and they'll sing it!"

Pandu laughed, a sharp, warm sound, and nodded, "Sing it loud—Kuru's road stretches far, and we're not done yet."

Satyavati's smile flickered, her eyes on Kunti, and she murmured to Vidura, "She steadies him—good. His fire needs her steel."

Vidura nodded, his scroll shifting, and replied, his tone soft, "They're a pair—east proves it. Kuru's luck holds in them."

Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud, and he shuffled back, his muttering swallowed by the crowd, his envy a shadow under the golden light.

Pandu turned to Kunti, his triumph shining, and lifted her hand, his voice clear, "For Hastinapura—and you. This is ours."

Kunti's eyes met his, fierce and warm, and she smiled, her strength a quiet flame, "Ours—and stronger for it. Welcome home."

The noon sun blazed, dust settling, and the gates glowed—crowds cheering, gold gleaming, Pandu's conquests a crown on Kuru's rising name.