Note: A MASSIVE thank you for all your ridiculously kind comments! (≧∇≦)ﾉ They truly inspired me to post this chapter today (I thought it would take longer).
That said, I have to warn you: this one isn't entirely as lighthearted or unserious as the last. It just... happened. The sudden shift in mood might feel a little odd since these two parts were originally meant to be one, but I felt it was too long for a single chapter. I don't know why long chapters make me so nervous- I guess I just don't want anyone to get bored! 😅😅
Also, I really enjoy diving into the Pandavas' past and reflecting on how their experiences influenced who they ultimately became. It's so intriguing to explore. In this version of the story, things take a different turn from the actual Mahabharata, like in this chapter where Pandu dies much earlier than in the original text (where Arjun is 14 when his father passes). Just a heads-up, this is a creative departure from the sacred text, shaped by my own imagination and interpretations.
Anyway, once again, thank you for your lovely comments. You have my heart. 💕 Please enjoy this chapter!
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The night had grown quieter, the earlier ruckus settling into something softer. The laughter, the teasing, the harmless chaos: all of it had simmered down into a peaceful warmth, a lingering comfort among the Yadavas as they sat together, some still smiling, some watching Arjuna with quiet amusement.
Krishna had done many things tonight.
He tricked Arjuna into drinking. He, the supreme lord of the universe, had successfully gotten his dearest Parth hammered, much to the delight of the others. He had laughed at his cousin's dazed expression, thoroughly enjoying his attempts at holding himself together.
But as Arjuna spoke, leaning against Vasudeva's shoulder- drowsy yet still annoyingly earnest, the air shifted.
"You remind me of my father," he murmured.
The words were softer, almost lost in the stillness of the room, but everyone heard them. The teasing stopped. The smirks faded. The easy mirth in Krishna's eyes dimmed just a little.
Vasudeva, who had been gently supporting Arjuna all this time, stilled.
He knew whom Arjuna was speaking of.
Pandu.
His old friend. His comrade. A man taken too soon.
Arjuna's amber eyes were heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep and intoxication, but behind them- there was clarity. A deep, distant emotion settled in them, something that had been there for years but had never truly been spoken aloud.
"I don't remember him much," Arjuna admitted, his voice dipping into something low, something fragile. "I was too young when he left us. But I remember his voice. I remember how gentle he was. How... how he always looked at us like we were his whole world."
Satyaki, who had been leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, uncrossed them. Pradyumna's amused expression faded into something softer. Even Kritavarma, usually composed, lowered his gaze, it felt like intruding in a private conversation.
Arjuna's hand curled slightly against his knee. He exhaled slowly, carefully, as if trying to gather himself, but the words kept coming.
"Jestha bhrata remembers him more," he murmured, his lips quirking in a way that was neither a smile nor a frown. Just... something aching. "He was the one who held us together after. He was the one who carried all of us when we had no one."
Krishna-ever perceptive, ever knowing-closed his eyes.
"He never got to be a child."
That did it.
The words, spoken so simply, so honestly, sliced through the room like an arrow.
"Jesth..." Arjuna exhaled shakily. "He never had that. Not like we did. He had to grow up the moment our father died. He had to be strong for us, always. He had to be our protector, our parent, when he was only a boy himself."
The silence in the chamber was deafening.
Vasudeva's fingers tightened slightly on Arjuna's shoulder. Arjuna's sorrows felt raw, bleeding into the night, unguarded in a way he had never thought to be given the chance to witness.
Rukmini, watching from where she sat beside Subhadra, inhaled softly.
Krishna let out a quiet breath. Arjuna laughed.
But it wasn't real laughter. It was a tired, worn-out, broken thing.
"He tries so hard," Arjuna whispered. "Every single day, he tries so hard. And I wonder... has anyone ever told him that he doesn't have to? That he doesn't always have to carry the weight of all of us? That he deserves to rest too?"
No one spoke.
Subhadra, eyes shining with quiet grief, reached for Arjuna's hand.
She squeezed it. He squeezed back.
Krishna, finally, turned his face away: jaw tight, his throat thick.
Satyabhama, usually one to lighten the mood, simply placed a hand over her chest, as if the weight of Arjuna's words had struck something deep within her.
Vasudeva swallowed once, his own heart so, so heavy. And then-Arjuna smiled: a small, tired, aching thing.
"Pitashree," he murmured, his voice softer than the wind outside. "I think... I think my father had a similar smile like yours."
Vasudeva inhaled sharply. Krishna's fingers, which had been fidgeting with the hem of his shawl, stilled.
Few Yadavas, who were listening to Arjun's confession, watched in silence, caught between the grief of the past and the warmth of the present.
"You remind me of him. You remind me of the way he would have held us, the way he would have protected us, if he had been here longer. And I-"
His breath hitched. A painful wobble in his lips as they trembled to take in a breath. For a moment, a fleeting, painful moment, he just sat there, lost in the weight of everything.
Vasudeva, usually steady, usually composed, closed his eyes.
Pandu. His friend. His brother-in-arms. A man with a bright laugh, a kind heart, and a heavy fate.
And now, his son, Pandu's son was looking at him with those earnest, exhausted eyes, finding echoes of his father in him.
Slowly, wordlessly, Vasudeva pulled Arjuna close. And held him. He held him like a father who knew. Like a father who had seen the weight of the world settle on shoulders too young, who had watched children forced to grow up too soon.
Arjuna: who had known war before he had known true rest, who had held a bow before he had ever learned how to simply be a child-leaned into the warmth.
And Krishna, watching, felt something deep, something ancient and eternal settle in his chest. A reminder- that even the mightiest warriors, even the greatest archers, even the brightest flames of dharma- still needed a place to rest.
And so, in the quiet of that night, surrounded by family, held by a father who was not his own but who cared just the same-
Arjuna, finally, let himself rest.
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There were still chatters of the other Yadavas enjoying their night, unaware of the emotional bomb that the mighty Gandivdhari had unleashed upon handful of his in-laws. The silence that had settled, amongst the small group, after Arjuna's words was not the kind that was heavy or unbearable-it was the kind that lingered, wrapping itself around the room like a warm embrace. The kind that spoke of unspoken grief, of love that stretched beyond time, of an understanding too deep for mere words.
Arjuna, still drowsy, still nestled against Vasudeva's side, let out a small, tired sigh. His fingers were loosely curled around Subhadra's hand, and his other hand had somehow made its way to rest against Krishna's knee, as if seeking the familiar comfort of his cousin's presence.
The Yadavas, now settled into something softer, something almost reverent, exchanged glances. There was still amusement in their eyes, but there was also something else-something gentler, something fonder.
And then, because someone had to break the chokingly heavy atmosphere, Satyaki broke the silence.
"So, Parth," he drawled, leaning forward, his grin lazy. "Who's your favorite brother?"
That did it.
The spell was broken.
Krishna burst into laughter, at the absurd ice-breaker. Subhadra gasped-half in shock, half in delight. Even Vasudeva, who had been lost in his own thoughts, let out a low chuckle.
Arjuna, blinking sluggishly, took a moment to process the question. His sleep-addled mind ran through the words slowly before he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Really, Yuyudhana?" he muttered.
"Oh, come on," Pradyumna smirked, nudging him. "Answer honestly."
Arjuna, despite his exhaustion, smirked back. "You just want to watch me die, don't you?"
There was a collective laugh at that because, truly-if the Pandavas ever heard this question being answered, it would be war. But Satyaki was relentless. "We won't tell them," He promised, raising his hand. "It's just between us. Who is it? Yudhishthir, the wise and dutiful elder brother? Bhima, the one who probably bullied you into eating your meals? Nakula, the one who gives you a headache with his vanity? Or Sahadeva, the one you pretend not to fear?"
Arjuna gave him a look.
"First of all," he said, voice slow, "I do not fear Sahadeva."
A silence. A pause.
Then a snort from Krishna that made the entire room burst into laughter.
"Oh, sure," Kritavarma grinned. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Arjuna."
"Even now, when he's drunk, he refuses to admit it," Satyaki said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.
Arjuna huffed, crossing his arms. "Sahadeva is my younger brother. Why should I fear him?"
"Because he knows everything," Satyabhama muttered under her breath, eyes twinkling.
"He judges," Pradyumna added. "And he plots," Satyabhama smirked and added.
Arjuna just groaned. "You're all impossible."
Krishna, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed glee, leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Well, Parth? You still haven't answered the question."
Arjuna sighed.
His head lolled back slightly; his amber eyes unfocused, but thoughtful. "I could never choose," he said honestly. "Yudhishthir is the one who raised us, the one who has always been my guide. Bhima-" Arjuna smiled, soft and nostalgic, "-he is my shield, the one who has always stood beside me no matter what. Nakula is my mirror, my equal, my balance. And Sahadeva... he understands me in ways I don't even understand myself."
The room fell quiet again. This time not because it was heavy, but because it was warm.
Arjuna let out a slow breath. "How could I possibly choose?"
The Yadavas exchanged glances-some amused, some fond, some simply understanding. Krishna, after a long moment, smiled.
"That," he said softly, "is the right answer."
Arjuna hummed, his head tipping slightly against Vasudeva's shoulder.
"And you?" Subhadra suddenly asked, tilting her head, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Who is your favorite Yadava?"
Arjuna blinked and then, without hesitation, without thinking turned his gaze to Vasudeva.
"You," he murmured, voice hazy but full of sincerity.
Vasudeva froze.
The entire room froze.
Krishna-who had been prepared for Arjuna to say his name, who had been waiting with smug anticipation-nearly choked.
Arjuna, still leaning against Vasudeva, smiled sleepily.
"You remind me of my father," he murmured again, barely aware of the sheer shock and delight that rippled through the chamber. "And... I think... I think I needed that more than I realized."
Vasudeva's throat worked. His fingers twitched against Arjuna's shoulder.
Subhadra's eyes shone.
Krishna, after a long pause, shook his head and laughed, but it was softer this time, fond, full of understanding.
"You do know how to ruin all my fun, don't you, Parth?"
Arjuna, already half-asleep against his father-in-law, mumbled something incoherent.
The Yadavas, still recovering from the sheer unexpected tenderness of it all, sighed.
And just like that-the night continued.