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Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a wish. To fulfill it means to raze the moon in blood and fire, to drown it in a sea of broken dreams. But to chase it is to save a life, so he pushed through.

Once upon a time, his master won the Moon Grail War and wished to cure his regret.

Once upon a time, Arjuna wished that humanity painted his history with peace, not war.

Once upon a time...

‘Once upon a time’ is an exaggeration; everything would not matter by the time he’s finished with his task.

He thought that watching his mother moving stealthily in the shadow, avoiding the eyes of her guards, would evoke something in his heart. However, there was nothing in Arjuna's heart saved for determination to fulfill his wish, more so when his attention was transfixed on the casket she was carrying. Kunti kept advancing quietly, sometimes turning around as if someone was about to jump on her from behind the trees, until she finally reached the edge of the river.

(If she noticed his ever fading presence, his mother did not show it. No divine body could sneak easily in this world without leaving certain marks, and his mother had always been devout of faith; recognizing part of his half-divinity should be a simple matter.)

Arjuna remained still in his hiding, watched how his young mother opened the casket and reached for that bundle of life wrapped in simple white cloth, a puff of red hair jutting out of it. He witnessed how gingerly his young mother held it, hugged it in regret (in shame), until she finally let it go, put it back into the casket and let the Ganges carry the young life to his destiny.

A destiny he wished to change.

Thus Arjuna acted.

Those touched by the divine carried with them a certain strength that made them shine. It mattered not if that strength laid within a small form. Arjuna noticed this because even as he looked at the sleeping baby of his archenemy (of his long-lost brother), Surya's spirit burst out like a warm hearth. Such precious and gentle thing... and to think that he would grow to become the fiercest of adversary among his list of enemies.

Karna twitched in his basket as if noticing his quiet distress. Arjuna quietly sighed and fastened his grip on the basket. He had managed to secure Karna's basket from the river and had been walking down the stream, pondering what to do now that he had interfered.

As if evoked by his thought, the sun god descended before him. Arjuna would know, for there could be no mortal, no divine being, capable of shrouding himself in light but keeping to shine for himself. The forest surrounding him was still as bleak as moments before dawn breaks. He looked humanoid... and yet, Arjuna could not decipher nor identify the face he was confronted with, as if his light covered not even his being, but also the manner of his appearance.

"You are an anomaly to the world," he stated, his voice carried a quietude that silenced the doubts in his heart; only a god would know that his existence here was timed, limited only to do what must be done. "An irrelevance that would cease to exist. Tell me, Son of Indra, what are you planning to do with my son?”

Arjuna looked at the sun god, his focus blurring and fazing as fluidly as Surya’s form. “ I want to save him from his karma,” he declared, “I want him to have a life meant for himself—a life as a Kshatriya, not a Sudra.”

(Because that was the cause that set their story as archenemies, was it not? A lowly charioteer's son enters his school, challenging the best of the best among Kuru's talented minds. Arjuna had turned him down, out of disgust, and Duryodhana reached for this chance to steer his brother away from their side. 

All of that, because of Karna's upbringing.)

There was a gentle, rumbling hum as if Surya was mocking his attempt. But Arjuna remained as respectful as he could be, his determination unwavering. Karna slept on despite the presence of his father, unperturbed by the fate outside of his control, to be decided by two different minds.

"Then go to Panchala, Son of Indra. Go with my blessing and prostrate before its King, for he desires a son worthy of his legacy. But be warned," the light surrounding him seemed to pulse in warning, "No one can alter Karma, be it his or another's. Not even a half-mortal like you, not even a god like me.” 

With that foreboding lingering in the air, the sun god vanished without a trace, leaving them in the dark of the forest. The tranquility that followed his leaving echoed with Arjuna's growing dread. But then he looked at the red-haired baby, the brother who would live a different life as a proper Kshatriya, and his doubt lessened.

If Karma was going to be unmerciful to them both, at least he would ensure that Karna got the best he could have before marching towards the sunset.

He had too little time.

Arjuna's wish was to change few things in Karna's life, in hopes that his deed would change the course of history. Following his input into the Moon Cell Automaton, however, it replied that the wish-granting device could only provide him enough time to disrupt with the flow of time for several moments, at most. The more deviations he made in that era, the more insistent the World would erase his existence. 

For a change of this scale, Arjuna was only given two cruxes of moments that he could influence… and he already used all two of them: his intervention to prevent Karna from meeting Adhiratha and his wife and then his abrupt meeting with the sun god. Now, with every step he took, he could feel the World’s attempt to erase his existence, its machination pressing on his core so hard that he gasped.

Is it not possible then, to carry out his mission?

He tripped over a tough root, stumbling into a hollow spot of a huge tree. The casket, fortunately, was safe in his arms as he broke his fall, the cover falling away to reveal Karna’s waking form. The moment their eyes met, he cried, as if, even as young as he was, Karna could sense the end of his existence.

“Brother, please…” Arjuna sighed, trying his best to calm the baby down even when his mana core was failing him. Karna cried louder, instead, his voice resounding in the darkness of the forest like a plea for help.

Perhaps he was asking for help.

As his mana core continued to deteriorate under the World’s strain, Arjuna stretched his senses, to hear past Karna’s sad wails, to taste past the morning mist, to smell past the green foliages—

—“Here, I heard a cry!”

Arjuna could not help but whimper, for among the voices that he remembered from his life, he would never mistake Shikandi’s firm voice. If her entourage was close, then Karna would have the chance to be raised far away from the Kuru Kingdom… away from himself, his brothers, and his distant cousins of Kaurava. 

All Arjuna needed to do is endure.

Moments dragged on—moments that were still filled with Karna’s cries—until they finally came to steps too light for a full-grown warrior. He spotted Shikandi at the edge of his blurring vision, closing in with a speed graced by divine Shiva himself. She reached for him, testing if he was still conscious. Arjuna spared her no time to babble by reaching her hand with weakened grip, “Please… please take care of the baby…”

Even his words sounded uneven, too weak even to pass on his urgency. But Shikandi, the empathetic person she was, understood his plea. “Stranger, on my word as the daughter of Draupada, I shall deliver him to safety. So please, hang in there.”

It was enough to extricate that one promise, he thought then. His only regret was that he could not see how far would this ripple carry his brother—

—but to know that he would be raised as a proper Kshatriya… that thought alone made him smile. He could no longer spot Shikandi’s face, but he knew for sure that she was there. “Thank you…”

He felt the pull as the World erased his container. He was coming home, in wisps of blue light.

Once upon a time, there was a nameless boy found by a princess. That nameless boy was supposed to be cast away so that he would reach the pinnacle of his legend through strifes and consequences. Instead, the princess chose to fulfill her vow to the stranger who delivered him. She took him in as her attendant, taught him in the arts of war, graced him with wisdom and knowledge. Her father, the Great King of Panchala who was known for his exceptional martial art, grew fond of this boy too.

The princess named him Vasusena—one born in wealth—for he was found possessing the miraculous armor coating his skin along with the gold earring. She treated him like a brother she never had, despite his status as her attendant, and Vasusena was content.

That was so until the King decided to take vengeance to his hand. In coming years, the Kingdom of Panchala was graced with twins given by the gods themselves: Dristadyumna and Draupadi. They were the promised children who would become the death of the King’s archenemy. To Vasusena, however, they would be the most cherished persons in his world.

Then there was that Swayamvara. The man in white. The brahmin who called him Karna.

Once upon a time, the nameless boy was dealt better cards. It did not mean that everything ended well.

Chapter Text

He was known by many names, though the ones that resonated with him the most were Vasusena and Karna.

His adopted sister, Shikandi, was the one to gift him with the former because he was adorned with gifts of a god. When he asked his sister who his benefactor was, however, Shikandi admitted that she never found out. All she knew that she had found him in the arms of a stranger, the air around him a faded scent of thunder and rain. She thought at first that the presence was a Yaksha of the forest, for he faded away in slivers of blue and gold.

"Perhaps he was indeed a Yaksha, and his treasure is you," Shikandi ended her tale, her statement sounding more relevant to his disposition; Yaksha rarely parted with what they held dear, only entrusting it to those worthy of his respect. If he reincarnated, Karna would like to meet this Yaksha once. Shikandi only gave him a forlorn smile and let her silence be his answer.

The name Karna, however, was both a gift and a curse—a name that set his destiny in motion through various circumstances. (Funnily, Shikandi had a hand with that name too.)

It all started with a peaceful moonless evening, a divine garland, and a revelation. His sister prostrated before her father, asking him the right to venture out of Panchala so that she may fulfill her vow. Yajnasena queried, of course, of where she got this radical idea. Panchala might offer equal opportunities to men or women who wished to learn the art of war, but she was the princess, whose responsibility should place her in places of peace, not strife. 

Shikandi instead produced the lotus garland, the same one that Karna saw hanging on the fence yards away from the castle. All of a sudden, rage took over the King’s composure, the man so lost in his wrath that he decreed her exile, to Karna’s shock. Shikandi took that declaration with calmness and turned away, believing what she did was right.

(Years later, when he lived with her during her exile, she would tell him about the garland that the god Kartikeya bequeathed to Amba, the woman who vowed to take vengeance on the guardian of Hastinapura. The god declared that whoever wore that lotus garland shall defeat him. Amba went to many kingdoms, seeking for her champion, and yet no one was brave enough to answer plight—not even the King of Panchala. So she cursed him, placed the garland on the fence out of rage, and sought suicide.

On that moonless night, Shikandi, remembering who she was in her last life, decided to take matters into her own hand. If no one would kill Bhisma, the guardian of Hastinapura, then she would do it by herself.)

He followed her; the court of Panchala was too cold without his sister. They lived together in the forest for twelve years—part of Shikandi’s rites of austerity—until Shiva himself graced her dream, telling her that her brother must seek the tutelage of Parashurama, the vanquisher of evil. 

On the eleventh year of their exile, he set off to fulfill his task, vowing to return to her before she finished her austerity. He had heard stories about the sage from his sister, all of it revolving his might against hundreds of evil Kshatriya who had renounced dharma. Yet he was also the same person who taught Drona, the person whom his King was fixated with, the teacher of the Kuru princes.

His voyage was filled with simple miracles; the sun seemed to shine on his path, leading him to a direction that his gut believed to be true. Dispelling doubts from his heart, he ventured through the east, crossing Gomti River with effort, climbed the western hills of Kosala, until he found the sage, teaching brahmins the ways of the world, of the heavens, and of the earth.

The problem, however, laid on the fact that the sage only taught brahmins. So Karna disguised himself as one and sought the sage’s tutelage. Parashurama accepted his request without suspicion. He learned along with other students, soaking every knowledge that the sage provided him like a sponge absorbing water. Karna excelled in every matter, courtesy of Shikandi’s hands-on teaching too, and wormed even into his teacher’s heart, so throughly that Parashurama even gifted him Vijaya—the bow belonging to Lord Shiva.

One year after, the sage blew up his cover.

Karna witnessed Parashurama’s wrath, his voice shaking with rage as the sage declared, “You have stolen what was not meant for you, pretender! For this deception, I curse you! When you are in desperate need of an Astra, your memory will fail you!”

Oh, how he pleaded for mercy, his whole body prostrated before the teacher who had become dear to him. Perhaps Parashurama was moved by his plight and sorrow, so he added, “While you have learnt from me under false pretense, I could not dismiss your eagerness and perseverance. Very well, pretender, I shall gift you the name Karna, a name that would bring you glory to your house. You shall be known as one of the greatest archer in the world. Now leave, before I change my mind.”

On the sage’s word, Karna left with a heavy heart, yearning to go back to his sister for the failure that he had to bear. When he crossed Gomti River again, once more, he gasped at his own reflection. His red hair had turned white and his skin pallid, as if the curse had left a mark on him to remind what he had done wrong.

But Karna could never hold grudge against his teacher, not when he also gifted him a chance to make a name as a warrior. Karna… He decided then that he would use the name, to honor his mentor. 

In the twelfth year of Karna’s and Shikandi’s exile, Shikandi finally fulfilled his austerity rites.

(His, because Shikandi was now a man—a man with a psyche of a woman, for only a man could slay the guardian of Hastinapura. However, he—she—preferred to be referred as a woman, at least between the two of them. They shared too many days and nights referring themselves as brother and sister that calling it otherwise felt awkward.)

They went back to their homeland, greeted with hushed whispers and wonderment. It was about the same topic among commoners and royal court members: the princess has changed. When they faced his father, they had expected to be greeted in distaste. Instead, King Yajnasena stood from his throne and crossed the hall, hugging his wayward child who had grown into a fine man, through unbearable rites of austerity (Karna would think that the King knew; even he could taste how the divine interfered with Shikandi's fate by his request).

Shikandi, who was already prepared for any rebuttal, was confused too. Perhaps, in his heart of heart, he had foreseen that a man who could hold a grudge for so long must have held one too after one massive rebellion, even if it was against his flesh and blood.

They said absence made heart grow fonder.

For faithfully accompanying his son, the King asked him of what boon would Karna wish on him. Karna flustered, unsure of what he should tell the king. But Shikandi already spoke for him, his voice stern and hopeful, “Dear father, I wish for you to acknowledge Karna as your son… as a Prince of Panchala. Lord Shiva had come to me and told me this, for he would bring great honor to us all.” 

Karna froze and waited, for he knew how atrocious such wish sounded. It was like a King gifting a kingdom to a commoner (scratch that, it was literally just that), for a prince brought with them the wishes of commoners, their trust on him for prosperity and safety. He waited because he was sure that Yajnasena would expel them in any moment now for spilling such delusion.

Unlike his expectation, however, the King laughed, his eyes glinting with kindness, “He always has your attention, doesn’t he? Very well, I shall acknowledge so. I have always thought of him as mine, watched him grow into that quiet but thoughtful lad. It was both unfortunate that he decided to follow you into exile right before I wish to declare it… I suppose this is just a matter of time.”

The King looked at him, bright eyes and joyful; his sister smirked, in a way that signified victory. They dazzled him, evoking the back-end of his brain with chants of ’this could not be possible’ or ’this is just a dream’. But they never looked away, and Karna gasped as his sister called him by his preferred name.

“Karna, do you agree with my request?”

In the face of his King—of his adopted father—how could he refuse?

There were tales about the Panchala Kingdom, which among them was a swayamvara held by her King to find suitors for his daughter. Draupadi—known as Panchaali in some other kingdoms—possessed a beauty given by the divine. Every look that she threw at her suitors made them mad—and she relished in that power. But the swayamvara pertaining her hand itself was made so that no one would be able to achieve it, saved for Arjuna, the middle son of Pandu. It was part of the King’s plan, for her marriage would definitely set Arjuna against his own mentor, Drona.

And yet, the one who finished the challenge was a poor brahmin of unknown lineage.

It was said that the Kings present in that swayamvara were about to descend on that brahmin until Yajnasena’s child stood up and raised his hand as if to ask for their attention. The Outsider Prince declared that, without knowing the man’s proper lineage, he would not acknowledge the brahmin's success. In recompense, he demanded an archery duel between them to ascertain the brahmin’s real value. If he managed to defeat him, then Karna would gladly back off. 

It was the first encounter between the Awarded Hero and the Outsider Prince.

Chapter Text

He might have known the twins for only three years of his life (three years after his and Shikandi’s return from exile, for they were born from fire, all grown-up and prepared to fulfill their destiny), yet it was as if he had known Dhristasyumna and Draupadi for a lifetime. 

Dhristadyumna—Dhri, for short—was driven to be the best in martial art and governance, in order to be worthy before his father’s eyes. Draupadi wished to serve in the same manner as Dhri, until she learned that her destiny was elsewhere, wielding power over others with manner and speech—something that Dhri was accustomed but never as masterful as his sister. Both were driven by the purpose granted by the gods through Yajnasena’s prayers… and yet, Karna could only see it as shackles that bound their lives.

It was not his place to comment, so he never did. Gods knew that he had his own curse to deal with. (They knew of it, of course; how could he not tell them when they questioned his white hair and his fair skin?)

They bonded over various topics, from effective warfare tactics, logistics, even to something as mundane as gardening. Sometimes they would join in his prayer to the sun (he was sure that the sun god Surya had been giving him pointers and blessings; they were very apparent, every day), or he would join their philosophical debate about gender roles in society (Karna would slip away when the twins grew too heated; they already have Shikandi as the example of gender role revolution, so why must they debate even further?). He cherished every moment that he spent with them, painting it dearly in his memory, for this mundaneness would eventually cease to be, like how Shikandi abruptly decided to leave Kampilya to do his austerities.

It taught Karna that everything could change with one decision.

Thus, when his father declared that he would hold the Swayamvara for his dear Draupadi, Karna knew that the fate had finished sharpening her claws, ready to strike at moment's notice.

He looked too stiff for a prince-host, as Dhri had commented. Karna only replied, in amusement, that Dhri should steady his own trembling hands. His younger brother flushed, muttering something along the line of 'I know that' while falling away into his breathing technique. They were standing next to their King, while Draupadi was situated behind a veil, right to Yajnasena's left. Karna viewed the Kings of kingdoms from all over the world, along with their hundreds of entourage, and wondered that, should they refuse to acknowledge the winner's right, they would descend like a scourge and annihilate everyone in the scene.

Dhri knew that too, understanding the weight of his station as the commander of Panchala army to maintain order (and to protect his family).

The Swayamvara began with a few words of explanation from his younger brother. In order to conquer the challenge, the suitors were required to aim at a revolving fish-effigy right at its eye. The tricks were that they strafed while looking at its reflection on a bucket of water and while using Kindhara as their bow, the heaviest one ever made beneath the heaven.

A challenge specifically designed to lure the Pandavas out.

(Honestly, Karna was skeptical of this plan, as if everyone quietly ignored the unfortunate fire that befell upon Duryodhana's palace of lac. It was said that the Pandavas met their demise there, trapped by the plot made by their evil cousins. But then there was Krishna, whose support had always been and would always be with Draupadi, who was visiting his ally, snorting at Karna's skepticism.

"I believe that they are alive. I would know, in my heart of hearts, when they meet their doom," he said, offering no more than enigmatic words that only stoked Karna's curiosity. But he knew that Krishna would not impart further information, so Karna conceded.)

Suitor after suitor tried, some missing the mark entirely while others going as far as missing by a breadth of hair (Dhri's face was as pallid as Karna's fair skin at Duryodhana's display then, but color returned at the announcement of his failure). By the time every suitor tried, it was the Kaurava faction who called out how impossible the challenge in the first place. They even went as far as brandishing their weapons out.

Then stepped in the brahmins (had they sneaked into the guest list?), one of them striding past the other. The white cloak that he wore covered his head and lower face, but it failed to diminish those intense brown eyes, staring at Karna with complete expectation and determination.

Karna swore that this man could not be a simple brahmin.

He wanted to ask the white-clad brahmin to state his affiliation and lineage like a proper suitor does, but Dhri was already one step ahead of him, declaring the brahmin was of a higher caste than everyone in the vicinity and, for that reason alone, he was entitled to go with the challenge. Karna shot his brother an exasperated look, one that Dhri easily deflected with a nervous glance at their King. Yajnasena looked almost hopeful as if he was waiting for this very moment to happen, and Karna wondered... Could this brahmin really be...?

The white-clad brahmin easily stepped forward, the mocking cheers of kings and their entourage fazing him not, gathered Kindhara and its arrows (some grew silent at this, Karna included), and aimed for the fish statuette. He did five shots, like suitors before him, and all of them piercing the eye of the statuette in perfection.

Silence descended unto the crowd; a silence that stretched so tensely that it snapped in roars of rage at the announcement of the brahmin's success. One of them was already inciting others to descend on the poor brahmin, but Karna had already anticipated this commotion; he easily summoned Vijaya, strafing steel-pointed arrows to miss the inciter's feet. "Order! Your host demands ORDER!"

Quietude befell the crowd once more, but it was quickly replaced by hushes and murmurs: Is he not the adopted prince? How dare he speak with such insolence to us, of highborn? An outsider had no right to speak—

Karna interfered before anyone else could lit the flame of violence. "Oh noble brahmin, you have indeed completed the challenge laid by my father. However, by my father's permission, I shall not let my sister marry another man without knowing his origin, nor without assessing his values."

There was something dangerous glinting behind those ebony eyes. Oh, had Karna hurt his pride, somehow? It mattered not, because Yajnasena heavily accepted Karna's proposal if only to appease the crowd. But he was wrathful towards Karna for his insolence (in the end, the host was still his father), and Karna himself understood that he was out of line.

Karna, however, would like to think that he was saving them all from unnecessary bloodshed, so he just took the silent reprimand with head held high.

The contest required the contestants to aim at what Shikandi threw at them, stopping the object he had thrown midway or else risking a hit. Any attempts to avoid Shikandi's thrown object would result in an automatic loss.

(Surprisingly, Shikandi easily complied with Karna's request. When his older brother was asked why, the man only gave him a knowing smirk, as if a divine secret had been imparted to him and Karna just failed to see it. "You will win, Karna. But it does not mean that the brahmin will lose too.")

Fortunately, the will be using a plain bow with six steel-pointed arrows. The irony of how cheap this challenge compared to his fathers was not lost with him.

Shikandi stepped forward, bringing three pairs of objects with him: a steel ball, a triangular ratan net, and a short javelin—all of them in pairs. The crowd once again fell into a fit of murmurs. Who will be able to stop those? Had the prince gone mad? 

Karna ignored the crowd and readied his bow, just as he ignored the questioning look of his opponent. He deftly reached for the six arrows, nocking on his bow while holding the rest on his fist. There was no starting signal, only Shikandi's roar as he sequentially threw the steel ball first, the ratan net second, and lastly, the javelin.

“O Surya, I implore you, guide my hand,” he prayed, the arrows quietly burning under the sun god’s blessing—hotter, weightier, holier—as he strafed his arrows in rapid succession. One stopped the steel ball, disrupting its trajectory and making it drop on the ground. Three hit the three angles of the ratan net, lighting it with fire. The last one hit the javelin right at its tip, blasting it to smithereens (this earned him the gasps of the viewers, some of them going so far to say 'cheater!'; there was no point of a challenge if the contestant was allowed to ask divine intervention, was it not?)

Karna glanced at his opponent, gauging the brahmin's reaction with wariness. Any brahmin would reprimand his use of god's blessing to win a fair challenge. And yet, his opponent remained stoic, even when those brown eyes burned with a competitive spirit.

This man was no brahmin, he concluded; this was a pretender who wished to win his sister's hand. Suddenly, Karna could understand the rage his teacher had of him when he learned the truth of his favorite student.

The brahmin then took his stance and aimed, his lips whispering prayers that tasted like rain and thunder, and Shikandi threw. Unlike Karna's turn, Shikandi threw at the brahmin in reverse: first the javelin, then the ratan net, and finally the steel ball. Three arrows knocked the javelin off course; one swiftly pierced through the net, lighting it on fire (Karna could smell lightning singing in the arrow's wake); two raced together and stopped the steel ball mid-air until it dropped on the ground with hot vapor rising up from the ball.

The display shocked everyone in the vicinity, saved for Shikandi, who displayed toothy grin, and Yajnasena, who had been holding his breath in fear of the brahmin's loss. Karna was among those rendered agape, but he quickly recovered and then approached his opponent.

Was this what Shikandi meant? That Draupadi's soon-to-be husband was one blessed by Indra himself?

(He recounted the words that Shikandi told him, during their exile, of the princes of Kuru kingdom from the line of Pandu: Yudhistira blessed by Dharma, Bhima by Vayu, Arjuna by Indra, and lastly the twins Nakula and Sahadeva by Ashvins. She told him of how the Kaurava cheated on their inheritance, to the point that they obliterated them in one heinous plot of fire.)

"Tell me the name of my brother-in-law," Karna murmured under his breath, "Tell me this, and I shall keep it a secret if you wish me so. I swear it on my honor, let Surya be my witness."

Something passed behind those brown eyes, unyielding like steel yet brittle like tree bark, and the brahmin bit his lip in thought. Karna would like to think that it was not a facade (years later, he would regret thinking so; there were many facets of this man that Karna would learn... some in tragedy, some in love, and some others in war), the way this man considered Karna’s question with utmost care. Those brown eyes rose, meeting his blue ones, and the brahmin whispered so that only Karna might hear, "Arjuna. I am Arjuna of Pandava."

Funny how his voice, not the truth of his words, knocked the air out of his lung, setting fire somewhere in his stomach/chest/throat. (He spoke no lies; this was the man who supposed to have died in that fire, and Karna could perceive the strife that he had to endure following their escape from death).

Karna steadied his countenance and walked away, turning to the crowd as he did so. "You have witnessed the ability of my brother-in-law. Whoever contends his right to my sister’s hand in marriage shall face me, because I stand with him.“

Minstrels and bards sang of the tale between the Outsider Prince and the Third-born Pandava Prince, how each gained from and expressed respect for each other. It began with the Swayamvara of the Panchala Princess, their friendship extending until the war that brought the Third Age of Man to a close.

They failed to mention how tumultuous that bond was, possessing a tension that might break hearts, spirit, and will. They knew nothing of the turmoils that cajoled the Pandava's hearts, nor the Panchalan's, nor the Kaurava's.

Or maybe they knew and decided not to sing about them; some parts of history were better kept in the dark after all.

Chapter Text

His story, overall, revolved around his strife against his distant cousins. In his legend, he was awarded many blessings, from the myriads of Astras he gained from the gods to the favor of many kings and queens alive. He was also depicted as the hero whose skill in martial art won him the hand of Draupadi, the Princess of Panchaala.

What history failed to mention, however, was that he had to win the favor of her brother first. And it was not even Dristadyumna, her twin, who barred her hand from his reach, but the outsider—the one whom Yajnasena, the King of Panchaala, adopted. 

The Outsider Prince. His name was Karna, and Arjuna loathed him.

(At first.)

People outside of Panchaala called the adopted son of Yajnasena the Outsider Prince. At least this, Arjuna could understand their reasoning. Disguising himself as a poor brahmin among the myriad of kings and lords, he could not help his eyes wandering on upon the stark white hair belonging to Prince Karna, carefully tended with a simple crown of gold (simpler than his younger  or his older brother, a sign that, no matter how much affection his adopted father held for him, he would not inherit as much inheritance as his brothers would). His skin was also too fair, sitting out even among those with fairer skin.

The prince was the one to placate the crowd when they almost rose to vanquish him (Arjuna silently thanked him for his interference, though he was sure that he could get out of such predicament unscathed). Then Karna proceeded to challenge him, on the grounds that a person with no clear lineage nor motivation had no right to ask for his sister’s hand. At this, Arjuna’s blood boiled; how dare he, a mere peasant adopted by a King, asked of my lineage?

He wanted to shoot arrows at that man, to knock him off his pedestal because he was speaking to a son of Pandu, a man destined for great things!

Those were the words that he wanted to exclaim so stubbornly, but he held back as he remembered his role. His mother's firm words once again rang in his mind: 'Whatever happens, you must not reveal your identity.' So Arjuna held his breath and released his anger. He glared at those insolent blue eyes with defiance unfitting of a Brahmin (Karna’s brows scrunched at that) and replied frostily, “I accept your challenge, o Prince.”

The challenge was unique, in a sense. While Yajnasena’s had been intricate, tied by limitations that warranted an (almost) impossibility, Karna’s challenge was fairly simple… until said prince requested the grace of Surya to complete it. Upon such display of arrogance, Arjuna once again wrestled to control his tongue; it would not do him any good to spur the prince and incessantly reveal his identity. If anything, the prince had set the precedent that asking god's grace was not banned in this competition.

Huffing under his breath, he quickly reached for the provided bow and aimed at Shikandi. He mentally evoked the divine song in his heart and silently whispered, “O Lord Indra, please accept my sacrifice.”

There was a tang of lightning, heat, and rain, as he launched all of his arrows in quick succession. The javelin dropped to the ground, the net burned to ashes, and the steel ball fell next to the javelin. He had looked so graceful that every one witnessing it was sent agape (except for Krishna, standing next to his brother Balarama, who frowned in disapproval at Arjuna's gift-abuse, Shikandi who was only grinning as if he expected Arjuna to do that, and Yajnasena who was literally at the edge of his seat).

Karna was the first to recover. The prince approached him, each step dispelling daze from the crowd, and looked him straight in the eye. ”Tell me the name of my brother-in-law,” the Prince implored under his breath, still entranced with what just happened, "Tell me this, and I shall keep it a secret if you wish me so. I swear it on my honor, let Surya be my witness.”

Arjuna just stared incredulously; he was both torn and humbled, for any warrior would have spit in outrage over his success. Karna, however, only yielded to the result, and acknowledged the disguised brahmin as his brother-in-law based on that outcome. A man with noble intention, a man worthy of trust, a man possessing blue eyes that seemed to contain the expansive sky—

—could he trust this man with his secret?

“Arjuna,” he offered, the word flowing out even before he could stop himself. Part of him reprimanded himself for not thinking this through, but the other, the one who cajoled in the light of the world, compelled him to trust this man with this secret. “I am Arjuna of Pandava.”

Suddenly Karna looked winded as if his name betrayed and confirmed his hidden presumptions. The prince quickly regained his composure, blue eyes alight with determination to fight, and turned towards the crowd.

"You have witnessed the ability of my brother-in-law," he addressed sternly, carrying a grace unfitting a man with low pedigree (how could a man of unknown lineage could address a crowd of lords with such conviction?), "Whoever contends his right to my sister’s hand in marriage shall face me, because I stand with him.“

Arjuna stood stunned at his place, despite every part of his body screaming alert. No sooner after Karna declared his intention, all hell broke loose; the crowd stirred and stood, descending on them both like a scourge of god. Among the noise, Arjuna could spot Dhristdyumna’s frantic orders to his guards, Shikandi’s adamant screeching to gather around and make shield—

—then there was Karna’s grip on his shoulder, shaking him out of his reverie. Dhristadyumna successfully intercepted the chaotic crowd, preventing situation to escalate further. “Leave this to Dhri, he needs the field exercise,” Karna simply explained, and then a soft smile, “I need to get you to her, or else she will have my head for not seeing you to safety.”

“I can defend myself just fine, brother,” Arjuna scowled in disgust, the forgotten rage in him was simmering in his heart, “I have been raised to be the best warrior that I can be.”

Karna only eyed him with bemusement (Arjuna hated that), only speaking just as soon as Shikandi arrived to whisk them away, “And thus, I appeal to your knowledge of warfare: is this not the best time to sneak out while Dhri distracts them? Now come, Panchaali awaits.”

This was what they agreed between them: the brahmin (because Arjuna even refused to bow before Yajnasena’s request to reveal his lineage; his first act as a son-in-law, and already he was troubling his wife's family) would bring his wife to his abode. He would return back to Kampilya in no longer than two weeks, bringing with him his family so that they can be introduced from one to another. Arjuna kept his promise, of course, as he returned right at the promised date, with his brothers, mother, and wife in tow.

When they entered the royal palace, Arjuna spotted the King on his throne, Shikandi sitting to his right while Dhristadyumna to his left. Karna was nowhere in sight, much to his displeasure; he had expected his presence in the court (craved for it, even, but Arjuna would never publicly admit that).

His mother was the one who started, offering her welcome and honor to be invited into the Panchaala's royal court. She offered them meager gifts while apologizing for the lack of finesse. Every word she uttered signed her mastery in polite speak, one that must be gained from someone's royal court. She never got the chance to showcase her skills further, however, as the King swiftly cut through her meandering speech, "If you would please introduce yourselves one more time?"

There was a beat of pause as Kunti considered what she wished to say next, until it finally broke with a proud declaration, “I am Kunti, wife of the late King Pandu, mother of Pandava. These are my sons, as you have heard. Yudhistira, Bima, Arjuna—your son-in-law—Nakula, and Sahadeva.“

Most members of the Panchaalan royal court gasped at her declaration, though the King only chuckled in retrospect. “Please, do forgive my meager greeting. Dhrista, if you would please lead our guests to their quarters? We ought  to show our honored relatives a proper reception.”

The younger brother complied, whisking them away to the guest room. He easily walked by his sister, both siblings warmly embracing each other as if they had not met for a long time. Having taken care of Nakula and Sahadeva in his younger years, Arjuna could understand this behavior and let it be.

“I don’t see brother Karna anywhere, Dhri,” his wife started, and Arjuna couldn’t help but perk at her question. Yudhistira shot him a wondering glance, but Arjuna ignored it with ease; surely he was entitled to know of Karna's situation too?

“Oh, he is in on a short austerity rite. I believe he will return tomorrow,” Dhri replied, sneaking a glance at the mother while offering a respectful smile, “It will gladden our hearts if dear mother and brothers are to leave after his arrival. I am sure that Karna will be ecstatic to meet you, no matter how tired."

His mother replied back with a courteous smile, one too tight even for nicety, and then said, “It will be our pleasure.”

Arjuna certainly understood why. After all, they were going to pull the rug under their in-laws with one heinous request.

The King invited them to a private dinner, allowing only his most trusted advisors and his sons. The dinner went on uneventfully, with Dhristadyumna casually practicing his graciousness, Bima easily wolfing down the food before him, Nakula and Sahadeva sneakily picking up the best berries that were laid before them, and his own mother engaging in philosophical discussion with Shikandi.

It was a warm dinner filled with closeness, but uneventful nonetheless, until his mother gathered every inch of her regality and shook everyone in the room with one request.

“With all due respect,” Kunti lowered her tone, the temperance in her voice being replaced by steel, “I propose to you to allow the marriage not only between your daughter and Arjuna but also with the rest of my sons.”

There was another beat of silence, one that encompassed the Panchaalan royal family that quickly transformed their smiles into frowns. Shikandi was the first to break it with a vexed rebuke. "What will be of Draupadi's honor, then?" He exclaimed, "I don't care much about the thoughts of people in Hastinapura, but here in Panchaala, men would call her a whore! Her life will be ruined, our reputation as the royal family will tarnish! To have proposed such preposterous request, I am against this!"

Arjuna was against this idea too; his wife deserved better than this (and was he too deserving a wife devoted to his cause?). But his mother wouldn't budge on her words no matter how hard he and his brothers persuaded her.

"Then," Yudhistira's voice was solid and cold, "there can be no other option than to return Draupadi back to you."

Even Arjuna froze at his brother's gaudy bluff. A bride who returned to her father would be perceived by the mass as a dishonor towards the family. There could be nothing short of suicide to redeem the honor of the family.

"She'll suffer even further if you do that!" This time, it was Dhristadyumna who screeched on top of his lung, "Only death would spare her such humiliation!"

"Thus it is time for the King to decide her fate: an honorable life as the wife of Pandavas or a death through humiliation," Yudhistira finally concluded, the coldness in his voice stunning Arjuna even more; he had expected such conviction from his mother but from the wise Yudhishthira? Arjuna tried his best not to reveal his internal upheavals, yet when he looked at his wife, so stupefied she was that her hand—since when had she fist it?—trembled, it became harder for him to maintain this facade.

This arrangement was unfair, and yet he knew that they would have to live it from now on, judging by the morose expression of the King. The twins might be born for the sake of his vengeance, but Yajnasena cared for them like his own flesh and blood. Knowing that alone, Arjuna knew that he could never refuse this request, even at the cost of Draupadi's freedom.

He had expected to encounter Karna in the morning, so he was not expecting a servant to pop up before his door, at such late at night, informing that Karna requested his presence. Arjuna himself was not getting any well-meaning sleep, not after hearing Yajnasena's decision to go with their request; if he were not going to get any sleep, he would rather spend it with someone else.

The servant led him to his Karna's chamber, a sparsely decorated room that seemed to light up with the man standing at his center. Arjuna took a moment to observe his form, draped in his sleeping robe, standing too taut and closed off for a man who had 'saved' him from the crowd two weeks ago. He could spot the luster of Karna's light armor beneath his robe, a red that seemed to glow luminously under torchlight, and wonder if his brother-in-law had not spent the time to change... or that he never took off his armor, as some rumors said.

Karna suddenly turned his attention to him, blue eyes widening; perhaps he wondered how long had he remained inattentive to his guest—Arjuna would not know. He quickly dismissed the servant, inviting Arjuna to make himself comfortable while locking the door, making sure that no one would eavesdrop on their discussion. Arjuna opted to sit comfortably on the red rug, every moment that they spent not talking only made him more rigid.

"Thank you for answering my summon," Karna started, the nonchalance in his voice robbing the very warmth that lingered in his room, "Now, I would like to hear what really happened while I was away, because Draupadi was supposed to marry you, and only you, but not every Pandava member."

Arjuna steeled himself under those scrutinizing blue eyes and replied, "It was the wish of our mother that Draupadi marries all of us. As her sons," he paused, pushing down the frustration that threatened to drown his throat, "how could we rebuke her request?"

Karna still held his glare, searching for any ill motives in Arjuna’s words. Arjuna really wanted to lash out at such display of conceitedness; lies were something beneath him, surely Karna would know this?

In the end, Karna's shoulder slumped, perhaps disappointed at finding no lies in the other's words, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe what I dreamed is now real."

Now this, Arjuna was surprised. "You dreamed about her marrying us?"

Karna clucked his tongue and then sighed. ”It was the main reason why I embarked on a short austerity in the first place. Perhaps the gods would impart to me their knowledge, and maybe some answers. Yesterday, I dreamed again." A pause that stretched like forever, eternal in dread.

”I dreamed that all of you will face challenges and humiliation before your cousins. And Panchaali... sweet headstrong Panchaali, she will be humiliated while every one of you watches helplessly, unable to interfere nor intrude.”

There was softness in his words, brittle with fear for his kin. Suddenly Arjuna understood Karna’s reasoning to summon him: he demanded reassurance. "That dream will not come to pass. I swear on my honor that I will always protect her from any harm, that my brothers will care for her like proper husbands should."

Karna looked unconvinced still as if he doubted Arjuna’s determination (later, he would find out that Karna was not unconvinced with his truthfulness, but rather with how fate could not be defied by any means), but eventually, let his worries sieved out of his person. 

“While this marriage is unconventional, I have been told that the Pandavas are good men. Please look after her, and don't ever treat her as if she is lower than you. You will regret it."

They made their good-bye the following morning, merely hours after Karna sent him back to his chamber. Arjuna had not gotten any wink of sleep, not when Karna’s revelation kept on haunting his thoughts (that, and the last warning—Arjuna would like to believe that it is a warning, not a threat—that Karna gave him). Despite so, he managed to prepare for their departure.

He was the last one to enter the royal hall, with all members of his family having arrived already. Restlessness seemed to drop on them like a heavy veil; the Panchaalan royal family was not in the vicinity, as if they refused to see them away—

—the heavy doors that led to the royal chambers opened, with Karna walking into the royal hall. Today, he was clad in a simple white tunic that hardly covered his armor, reflecting the morning sun with ease. His stark white hair was neatly combed, decorated by his simple gold crown. His blue eyes gazed out at them, locking with his own for one moment before Karna bowed at them respectfully.

He had labelled the man as a person with unknown origin—a lost person who was lucky enough to have fortune dropped unto his lap—and yet, seeing his devoutness towards his patron god, the way nothing of worldly beauty compared to his presence (it was in the way he surrounded himself with dearth, for his presence was already too grand even without him trying), Arjuna was ashamed to have done so.

There was no way that Karna was of low-born, even when everyone questioned his lineage.

Karna retracted his bow and smiled. “Dear mother, brothers, sister,” Karna glanced at everyone in order, “I beg your pardons, but my father and brothers have state affairs to attend. I hope my presence is enough for a proper farewell."

"We understand," Yudhistira courteously responded, his tone carrying a sincerity that Karna seemed to approve (Arjuna had thought that Karna would be apprehensive towards the men who became Draupadi's other husbands, despite the latter's ambivalent position). "It is the duty of a King to attend to his subjects and we are not going to impede on that."

"I thank you for your understanding," he graciously replied, glancing at his sister as he did so—his sister, who had tried to contain her longing towards her elder brother. "May I have a word with my sister?"

The Pandava let her and the prince to their personal goodbye. During this private moment, there were many things that Arjuna noticed: Karna treasured his sister so much, his brothers held respect for their brother-in-law, and his mother was the only person in the room standing tauter than a bowstring. She looked out-of-place, her gaze having settled on Karna's back for a while.

There were unshed tears in her dark eyes, accompanied with longing.

"Is something wrong, mother?" Arjuna softly asked, startling her out of reverie. For a moment, she held her gaze on him, committing his features to her memory as if Arjuna would disappear had she not done so.

"No, everything is fine," yet her voice shook, "while they converse, we should start preparing for our departure."

He looked at his mother with concern but then chose to heed her direction instead. A part of him wished to pursue this matter further, if only to find out and, hopefully, alleviate the worries she had then. His pragmatic side won over that small wish, as he gathered his brother and started their preparation for departure.

(Years later, when he raced through the plains of Kurukshetra, he had wished that she had disclosed her worry to him—her knowledge of Karna's lineage through that single longing look.

Maybe—just maybe—it would have deterred himself and Karna from pursuing each other.)

Chapter Text

In the story of Karna and Arjuna’s lives, exile bore an important meaning in their lives.

Karna followed his sister to exile for twelve years. Exiled they might be, Shikandi refused to let his education be neglected and taught him the basics of manners and philosophy. During her austerity rites, sometimes Narada would impart to her knowledge of heaven and earth. She would teach him what she had learned too, and their lives continued so until the end of their exile. It was the twelve years that defined his youth and Karna would never trade those years with a sheltered life within the castle.

Arjuna's story bore no such joy, for his brother had invited misfortune upon their home with his eldest brother's one reckless act. They lost the right to their kingdom, their freedom, their wife (their sweet, headstrong Draupadi, now a woman bent on revenge, cladding herself in trickery and power-play—everything to fulfill her destiny, to bring Drona down to his feet) and were exiled for thirteen years, in which they had to disguise themselves and hide from the Kaurava in the final year, else suffering another twelve years of exile.

Twelve years spent to nurture revenge against Kaurava.

In those years, Karna strived to fill their lives not only with revenge but with harmony (because the war that they would wage shall bring the worst in everyone involved; Karna wanted to remind them, again and again, about the importance of harmony, just like how Shikandi had taught him… like Parashurama had too).

This was what Karna knew of Indraprastha, from the traveling merchants that graced his father’s court:

It grew to be a prosperous city under the ruling of the Pandava brothers and guidance of noble queen Draupadi. The center of it all was a magnificent palace made of gold and rubies, with beautiful gardens of lotus and many waterfalls. It slowly became the epicenter of Kuru’s economy, inviting both respect and envy of the neighboring kingdom.

It was also among the things that Yudhisthira lost to Duryodhana on a gamble, in a game of dice.

(There were many things that the Pandava lost on that day: their reputation, their freedom, their wife—his sister,—their kingdom, their wealth. Had it not for god’s intervention—and Draupadi's vengeful declaration—they would have stayed slaves to their own wicked kins. Twelve long years of exile plus a year of hiding were far better than a life of slavery.)

When he first heard of its fall, Karna abandoned the royal hall in favor of his almost-barren chamber, ignoring Dhri's disapproval glances.The first thing that came up to his thought was how to meet with them. There were rumors that they had been exiled to the borders of Panchaala and Kuru, but some other have spotted that they were somewhere in Matsya. Well, it mattered not; if it would take years to find them, Karna cared not.

On the eve of his departure to search for the exiled Pandava, Shikandi was already waiting at the gate, as if he had expected Karna's reckless decision before long. On his horse, Karna could only glare defiantly at his elder brother, already mulling over the reasons why he must embark on his journey.

But when Shikandi approached him, with vulnerability and rage under that soft glare and worry lines marring his handsome figure, Karna could not help but push down whatever reason he had prepared to justify his action. The news of Panchaali's attempted humiliation and, subsequently, her exile along with his husbands devastated everyone under the Panchaalan royal hall. For Shikandi, perhaps that news had cut off several years off him; he may care for her as a sister, but Panchaali would play an important part in executing his revenge against Bhisma, as he was told by Narada himself. Her well-being determined the success of his mission.

"No, Karna, I'm not here to stop you," Shikandi declared, even before Karna even spoke of his defense. That certainly caught him off-guard, his brother hastily making his way to where he stood. "You need to meet with Krishna first. He would know where Panchaali is, him being her and Arjuna's closest confidant."

He was not sure what to feel about this information. Relieved, perhaps, for he finally had something to go on with; a little bit of jealous, because, among the number of people who Panchaali would reach for, it was not himself; ambivalent, because Krishna was like a family to them, one whose life was tied intermittently with the house of Panchaala.

Karna calmly settled with relieved. "He is visiting Matsya, at this time of the year."

Shikandi nodded, handing over a pouch (curiously) filled with gold, rubies, and diamonds. "Don't forget to buy gifts. The last thing I want to happen to you is when Queen Sudeshna throws into the dungeon for not granting her ample gifts. Oh, I would ride to war to save you, brother, but to save you from that Queen? That's another thing altogether."

He heeded Shikandi's advice, like a good brother he had been for the rest of his life. Better yet, he even disbursed alms to the needy whenever he passed them. All of them kindly replied with good grace, and perhaps, due to their sincere blessings, he managed to face the Queen unscathed (Queen Sudeshna was known for her trickiness; the King might have the final say in many matters, but most of that came from the Queen's whispers) and proceeded to rendezvous with Krishna. They met under a lone citrus tree, several hundred meters from the outside of the castle.

Krishna amiably greeted him, telling him that he got forewords from Shikandi about his arrival. They spent no longer than thirty minutes of respite before finally riding out… surprisingly to the southeast, to the river that bordered Panchaala and Surasena. Krishna allowed several moments of rest in-between their journey, carefully paying attention to the state of his and Karna’s horses every once and then.

The sun was already slanted, but not down enough to set, by the time they reach the hut where his sister and her husbands should be. Their housing situation was so poor that the foremost of his thought was devoted to whisking away his sister to Panchaala, away from this life of a pauper.

Speak of the devil and she shall appear; Panchaali walked out from the back of the hut (there was smoke rising at the back of the hut, and Karna felt another pang in his heart; back in their home, she would not have to do menial chores like this), her eyes clouded with distaste. Then Krishna called her, startling her from the reverie, and Panchaali's eyes lit up with joy. She hurriedly made her way to them, pulled Karna into a startling embrace first (it took him one moment to fasten his embrace, as he was too caught up with how frail she had become) before greeting Krishna the same way.

She invited them inside, but Karna noticed that no one's home—except for his own sister. There could be many reasons why men left their wife alone, in the hut of their own choosing. But Karna's patience was already wearing thin, and he could not help but think that she had been abandoned by her own husbands.

"Dear sister, where are your husbands?" Karna asked, carefully restraining his ire if only avoid miscommunication (he was still wrathful towards the men who promised him his sister's safety). It saddened him still when that fire under her eyes turned cold at the mention of the Pandava.

He supposed that one week would not be enough to smother that burning rage, born from her attempted rape.

"They're still out hunting," she said briskly, fixing her hair as she did so. It was almost irregularly tangled, so unlike her, but Karna wisely held his tongue; Panchaali was not done. "They should be back in a moment. Come, I have prepared dinner."

Krishna respectfully declined her invitation, though, claiming that he needed to check on Dwarka. His sister fumed, though she expressed it with a pair of folded hands and a bit lips. "I have really hoped that you'd stay."

To that, Krishna only shot her a playful smile, "Remember what I said in my letter, Krish-naa. To weigh the past the same as the future. And it's not like I would not be returning now and then."

When Karna thought that Krishna was done with his usual cryptic words, the man turned to him. For a moment, he thought that the latter had seen through him, searching for something that would crush his soul. But Krishna just smiled, both understanding and mournful, and said, "A word of advice, Karna. When you feel that you have been vexed by a poor soul, wisely hold your tongue. Remember what you have learned from Parashurama."

The only thing that dominated his thought was the overwhelming shock. It was true that some people had been privy of his curse, but no one, saved for Shikandi, knew the person who cursed him. It had been his honor and his shame, and here this man, revealing his secret with ease as if it was a secret joke.

He never got the chance to halt the man; Krishna was already riding back in the direction of his kingdom, his words ringing within Karna's thoughts.

Dinner was awkward.

Not all of the members of Pandava had returned. Arjuna had not returned from his hunting, despite the moonless night. None was too worried about him, out of consideration that he was both an agile warrior and a skilled hunter. If anything, most had worried over Panchaali's temper, which seemed to boil and simmer in an unpredictable way.

Karna thought that they deserved it.

Then he looked at Panchaali's vengeful glare and worried, not for the husbands who deserved not her care, but for his sister who burned with resentment and rage, losing herself in the process.

By the time Yudhistira commented about how it is a blessing for them to have Karna here as if they were still kings, Panchaali rebuked with vehemence, exclaiming that nothing could compare to the glory of their palace—the one that they lost due to Yudhistira's folly in gambling. Her husbands turned quiet, to the point that Bima even stopped eating for a moment... Though Karna wondered if it was out of his need to bury his simmering rage or of his shame. Nakula and Sahadeva gave her pleading looks as if silently asking their wife to stop picking on the healing scab that was their shame. 

Looking at Yudhistira's guilty silence and his crestfallen face, Karna would agree with them.

It was during this moment that Arjuna chose to invite himself in, his stride heavy with unfulfilled heart. Those brown eyes looked so distracted as if his mind had been left behind, somewhere in the forest. The same could not be said to the ones already in the room, whose attention had been focused on the middle brother.

"You're awfully late, Arjuna," Panchaali commented, the frost in her voice still apparent even as she tried her hardest to bury her vehemence, "do you bring anything?"

It was both disheartening how the briefest of his wife's voice elicited only a spark of attention. Arjuna only stood where he was, regarding Panchaali with an almost disinterest, until he noticed Karna's presence. Brown met blue, and only then that Arjuna grasped the situation, his indifference turning into fluster and shame. Karna picked up on that subtle changes, wisely not reacting to it even when he felt the urge to voice his own opinions.

Panchaali picked on those changes too (she was his wife not for trying) and (unwisely) pursued on that weakness relentlessly, "If you're not bringing anything at all to the table, at least go home before sunset!"

All hell broke loose then, much too Karna's chagrin.

Arjuna's poise had always been dignified without him trying, though he only showed this to those whom he treated as lower than him. How did Karna know? Because it was how the man had regarded him then, the first time they met. And now, he was looking at her as if she was lower than dirt (his sister was Arjuna's wife, gods above) and rebuked calmly that the gods deemed today as a poor time for hunting.

(A lie. The forest was swarming with many beasts. Karna had seen them before in his journey here, circling to avoid them as he and Krishna passed by.)

Then Panchaali replied heatedly: how Arjuna was not abiding by this arrangement, how he was not getting home later and later, how he had not been the doting husband he should have been (at this, Karna was surprised, more towards Panchaali—willful and independent sister of his—than to Arjuna). However, Arjuna took those with muteness, even when his brown eyes burned with anger until his wife realized the folly of letting her emotions get the better of her. She flushed at her own lack of control, further at Bima’s gentle prodding to calm her down (when had he closed into her?).

She caved in, briskly sitting back to her seat, her tantrum quietly withdrawn once more. Nakula took this chance to whisk Arjuna to his seat. Karna felt the need to counsel his sister on her rage, but there was something in Arjuna’s gaze that did not sit right with his conscience—a gaze burning with boredom and rage, buried down without a channel to flow away.

Karna did not like it.

He woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of huffing horses.

They were not making that much noises, Karna had to admit, but the chaos that happened during dinner left him with no desire to sleep. Curious, Karna slowly made his way to the open stable and noticed Arjuna and Sahadeva quietly standing by the fence. The younger man seemed to plead something to his older brother, though Karna could not make the conversation between them. Arjuna looked adamant in his opinion, however, and proceeded to climb on one of the seven horses they had, ready to set off to gods know where without even saying a word.

Karna would not have any of this nonsense.

“And just where do you think you are going?” Karna grouched, though he still kept his steps light and his voice quiet. The last thing he needed was to be caught in their family drama by waking his beloved sister. He quietly reveled in their surprised faces, though he noticed that Arjuna’s expressions under the light of Sahadeva’s small torch varied from surprise to fear to… was that rage or exasperation?

“Honored brother,” Sahadeva respectfully bowed, befitting of his gentle soul, “Forgive us if our debate rouses you.”

“No, unfortunately, I cannot sleep after…” Karna halted his tongue there, knowing that speaking of what had passed would only drag out their shame. Panchaali had that ability to stab people with words, where it hurt most, and they left echoes that resurfaced to recall their sufferings. “My question still stands, however,” Karna glared at Arjuna now, who flinched under his gaze (funny how he displayed more emotion towards him than towards his own wife), “where are you trying to go Arjuna?”

“I… It’s…” Arjuna bit his lips, only turning his attention to the North, where Panchaala was. Yet Karna could not help but feel that Arjuna meant something else, somewhere past his homeland: the mountains where the gods resided and watched how mortals weaved their destiny. 

“He wishes to do penance to Lord Shiva, then asks the boon to wield his Pasupathastra,” Sahadeva quietly revealed Arjuna’s plan, earning another glare from his older brother. But he remained stoic, his concern overriding his fear for his older brother, “It is dangerous to do this alone, brother. At the very least, wait until sunrise and ask for everyone’s blessings.”

Karna knew what Sahadeva left out between the lines; Arjuna would wait until everyone was roused, so that they may stop him from doing what needed to be done. Panchaali had promised the Kaurava that they would fight tooth and nail to claim their stolen rights. She had promised war, the deaths of Kaurava’s princes at Pandava’s hands. They would need to gather army, provisions, weapons—everything to give them an edge versus their cousins.

He could see Arjuna’s need to do this, burning him, driving him to recklessness. He was the storm on a leash, requiring an outlet that none of his brothers could provide.

Honestly, he would be worried too to let this man go on his own; his gut told him that things would not go so well without supervision.

“He won’t be alone, Sahadeva,” Karna declared firmly, with conviction in his words, “I shall accompany him on his journey.”

(On the first night of their journey, Karna dreamt. He dreamt of Arjuna, endeavoring his penance alone. The third-born Pandava meditated, his inner-self reaching for the secret of the universe in the name of his Lord Shiva. When the god graced him with challenges, Arjuna overcame them with ease, earning him his rightful boon. In his dream, Arjuna wished to wield his Pasupathastra. Lord Shiva granted his request, his only note was for Arjuna to wield it in righteous warfare.

When the god left, Arjuna looked at him as if he was visible. The scene surrounding him changed into plains; later, Karna would recognize it as the plains of Kurukshetra, where they would hold lines after lines of Kaurava’s army. But Arjuna was still standing before him, the Pasupathastra nocked on his Gandiva, and aimed at him. His brown eyes twisted with hatred as if he had killed his loved one(s)—

‘Die, Karna!'

Arjuna’s wrathful words spurned him from his sleep, his hands reaching for his neck in reflex. The midnight air felt so heavy in his lung, but the soft dirt underneath his skin provided some sense of realism. A dream, he told himself if only to calm his beating heart. He stole a glance to his left, Arjuna’s sleeping form lying safe and unguarded, and wondered if those brown eyes would twist into hatred.

His neck still itched.)

Chapter Text

In his legend, Arjuna was known to be a devout follower of Shiva the Destroyer.

He did not gain this reputation from his lineage. This, he gained from the time of his exile when he sought out the means to crush his enemies. He wished for the weapon built by the gods, so he paid his penance to Lord Shiva. The Pasupatha Astra had always been known capable to destroy cities and countries, after all. 

And yet, no one chronicled the efforts he put in his penance… nor the condition that he accepted in order to keep it. Arjuna took that secret to his grave.

They reached the foot of Mount Indra Keeladri one month later.

His previous plan, concocted on the same night in which Panchaali lost her temper, was to quickly race through Panchala, carefully steering away from Kampilya to avoid any berating from his in-laws, to get provisions, then to go straight east. Instead, Karna brought them first to meet with both of his brothers at the outskirts of the city. Both Dhristadyumna and Shikandi answered their brother’s plea, and was that not just awkward for Arjuna? The third-born Pandava fully avoided meeting both, opting to walk his horse in practice during their meeting, ignoring his brother-in-law’s somber glare.

Honestly, he needed not more berating from his wife’s family members.

(Sometimes he looked at his wife and wondered how things would turn up, had his mother not decided to marry every one of them to her. Perhaps he would not take another wife; Subadhra’s marriage was one to deepen the familial bond between himself and Krishna; Ulupi’s was one made to respect her wish; Chitranggada’s was to fulfill her father’s wish for a healthy boy to inherit Manipur. All of them was the result of his wandering, during the four years of Draupadi's absence of intimacy.

Maybe, had she been under his sole protection, she would not have been gambled away by his eldest brother.

Then, maybe, just maybe, he would not be breaking his word to Karna.)

The brothers finally parted, with Karna bringing in enough provisions for hunting to last them for weeks. They distributed them equally between each other, before finally resuming their travel. It took almost three weeks to reach the foot of that mountain—three weeks that surprisingly passed with philosophical discussions and friendly spars.

Among those quality times, Arjuna cherished the one they had on their seventh day of travel, in which they were locked in an intense spar. They had been at it for ten minutes, both still looking prim without a shade of exhaustion.

"To be honest, I am still angry with you," his brother-in-law confessed, his hand twirling the wooden pole that they used to practice close combat. They had been circling around the makeshift arena, searching for an opening in each other's form, until Karna stooped to open one with talks. "You have vowed to keep Panchaali safe, but her humiliation came to pass. I have told you to never belittle her place, and yet on the day she berated you for not being a good husband, you looked at her as if she was filth, not your wife."

Only Karna could drag up his shame and self-pity and then twisted them into a frustrated rage. To his folly, however, his words unbalanced him so much that Arjuna was prompted to make the first strike, aiming for Karna's neck with the blunt edge of his pole. It could have been seen as a cowardly act, as they had both agreed beforehand that there would be no maiming, only incapacitation.

Karna managed to dodge his attack in time, pushing Arjuna's pole to the side to create an opening (it was in this moment that Arjuna realized his mistake) and rushed in with every weight he had. Arjuna was about to strengthen his foothold, but Karna had already flung his whole weight on him, sending them crashing to the ground. The white-haired man was on top of him, any hint of coldness in those blue eyes replaced by concern. "Do you yield?"

Arjuna had no right to glare at this man in particular, because did he not fall due to his own folly? But Arjuna kept his defiance and muttered under his breath, in exasperation, "I yield."

Just as soon as the words were spoken, Karna swiftly moved away, the edge of his wooden pole touching the ground. Arjuna shuffled to his feet, his anger still simmering, and he wondered just how must he handle this anger—

—Karna flicked a finger on his forehead.

Arjuna stepped back, out of reflex, and shot the man a hateful glare. Was it not enough for the other man to humiliate him even further? But Karna bore no such ill-will, he thought, because his brother-in-law’s gaze was as serene as a slowly flowing river—a depth of acceptance that Arjuna had yet mastered.

“What I have told you is true. But I also believe that what happens now and forward is a culmination of our karma. For that reason alone, I know that one day, when my resentment of every one of you fades away—and it shall—I will forgive you.”

It should have felt like pity, yet Arjuna could only feel the sincerity in his brother’s words (an assurance that might have preserved him some peace of mind).

They managed to climb their way to the top of the mountain.

Unlike what Arjuna had expected, the top of the mountain was both cold and arid. He had expected the coldness and the thin air, but the lack of greeneries made he and Karna the few sentient beings around—and Arjuna was not comfortable with that prospect.

At the very least, they would be able to do their Tapasya with more dedication.

Karna, ever the benevolent person he was, offered to take the far side of the area so that Arjuna could claim the center and do penance in peace. He asked that since Karna had accompanied him to his destination if Karna would descend the mountain and part ways (Tapasya could take months or even years to complete, depending on the god’s whims). His brother-in-law regarded him with consideration and then replied, “No, I will stay around. There are several things that I need to ruminate… and this is the perfect place to do so.”

So they parted, Arjuna engrossed in his Tapasya and Karna in his reflection. Days came and went; in-between his prayers, his earnest song to the Lord who vanquished evil, Arjuna sometimes felt Karna’s presence once in a while, leaving food—sometimes fruits, sometimes jerky—for his consumption (his brother-in-law would know that Arjuna had no need for this during his intense meditation, but he would acknowledge his brother’s kindness at the very least). 

Sometimes, he would feel so connected to the worlds that he could see intersections of lives—the silvery thread that entangled him, along with other people, in a web of fate. Had he possessed a mind with great clarity (because his emotions, be they anger or exasperation, stalked him still, unbalancing his poise when he least expected them to), perhaps those threads would mean something tangible to him.

Days easily turned to months.

He thought that in his moments of trance, Karna’s presence lingered at the edge of his consciousness, a stoic thing that refused to buckle under the depth of his Tapasya (the song of his soul burned, for he was without boundary as he let the very cosmos of the world guide him, and, in return, it filled him with light and heat). Whenever the burden of wisdom pushed on his psyche too much, to the point that he screamed in agony, Karna would be there to bring his sense back to the world.

(Perhaps this was the first time when Arjuna acknowledged his brother-in-law as someone more than just the brother of his wife, but also a brother whom he could depend on, just like the rest of Pandava. How could he not, when it was Karna who stubbornly stayed to care for him when everything around him had turned to cinders due to his Tapasya?)

On the first day of the seventh month of their journey, Arjuna woke to Karna’s gentle nudging. The divine song that had accompanied him for months left his body raw, and the tiredness that he had endured for so long descent on his body like hot pressing stones. 

“You can’t sleep now, Arjuna,” Karna’s words were drenched with worry, but for what reason? “We have company.”

But Karna’s voice was already too far away, while his consciousness was a fragile thing before the form that encompassed the world—a brittle concept that lulled him to sleep.

Arjuna instinctively knew that he was in a dream.

He was in an impossible room, where the walls were made of steel much like the one in steel-pointed arrows. The room was glaringly white, with a red carpet on the center and multiple cushions lining its edge. Sitting among them was—

—Karna, wearing something impossible (where was his armor? What was that black and red attire? Why had he arranged his hair be swept neatly to his left?) that certainly did not come from his wardrobe. But the most jarring weirdness of all was how those blue eyes were now soaked in blood-red… and how that face, usually adorned with an ambivalent smile, had twisted into something… condescending. He would have felt belittled, and yet… coming from that face, Arjuna felt something else—something that he could not quite discern.

This was not Karna whom he knew of.

“Correct,” the person said, in a voice that was like Karna’s but not quite, “This is the form that I assume to appear before you. Usually, it represents the person you cherish the most, but to think that you value the child of the sun so closely… I must say, I am quite surprised. It shows the depth of your own thoughts and priorities—and how obscured you are from it all.”

Before Arjuna could even form the words to speak, not-Karna already made a gesture for Arjuna to come closer. On the consideration that this person had just read his mind, Arjuna should not have yielded to his non-verbal request. And yet, his body moved on his own, picking the cushion across the man. The not-Karna gave a nod of approval, gazing at him with that unsettling red eyes.

“Have you any idea of who I am yet, child?” He asked enigmatically, “I, who must interfere into the world because your Tapasya has caused many to grieve? Have you no idea that your penance led to the death of many living things, the sheer power that you draw from cosmos scorched lands?”

Had he done what the man said? Arjuna certainly was not aware of the intensity of his Tapasya. What he did know, however, was that he had done it with all of his heart, surrendering himself to a greater in hopes to ask the boon from his Lord—

Arjuna recoiled at his own thought, which was quickly replaced by a string of 'could it be's, and stared at the man who was not his brother-in-law, "Are you... Lord Shiva?"

Slowly, that crooked smile changed into something more mischievous (Arjuna decided that he did not like it), as if the man was thinking of personal joke in mind. Or maybe, he was secretly laughing at Arjuna's slow uptake over the situation in general. "Yes, I am the one whom you do penance for."

He could have thought that declaration to be false, that the presence of him was someone else who borrowed his brother's appearance, but there was a part of his heart—a part that just knew, no explanation needed—that compelled him to trust those words at face value, sending him to prostrate before him in reverence. Shiva's hand was on his head, gently stroking locks of his dark hair as if he was a dear child.

"Rejoice, Son of Storm, for I have acknowledged your penance and found it worthy. I shall grant you my most prized Astra, Pasupatha. Its form will follow to whatever your heart’s desire, but it will always be a weapon to annihilate evil. The condition that I ask of you is to use it in a righteous warfare. I shall revoke your right of it when you launch it for an unrighteous purpose," Shiva declared, the palm of his hand was already caressing Arjuna's cheek, urging him to raise his head. Arjuna complied with that silent request, timidly raising his face as if he feared the repercussion of his impudence so far, and found himself drowned in that sea of red.

(For a moment, he thought he saw a glimpse of himself nocking Pasupatha unto his Gandiva. All he could ever feel then was hatred and anger as he directed his aim at his brother-in-law: the best warrior that Kaurava could hope to offer, the person who instigated Dusasan to dishonor his queen, the man who had hands in killing his beloved child—

—that rage ate away at him, burning away at the heroic cover meant to hide his darkness.

When he blinked, a part of his heart ached in shame, even when he realized that the person wearing his face was not himself—not in the way Arjuna understood.)

Shiva's red eyes glinted with understanding—with patience, "will you accept my condition, Son of Storm?"

It was as close a benediction from his patron, one so humbling that Arjuna pushed down the lump in his throat that showed itself at his patron's generosity. "I accept your offer, my Lord."

There was warmth that passed from Shiva's hands, filling the gaps in his being—a song of soul sang only by the gods—and purifying himself with lightness. He was complete, he was buoyant, he was boundless, he was—

"Then, always remember your vow, Arjuna," Shiva stated, "and awaken."

—he was a mortal once more.

He awoke to the feel of the cool ground on his skin, within a cave not far from where he was supposed to be (the last thing he remembered was passing out on Karna's lap due to exhaustion). He was alone in the damp cave (he could still taste the aftertaste of rain outside), the only light in the dark of the night coming from a makeshift torch snug on the cavern wall, until someone walked inside. Karna, he discerned, walked as if his whole body hurt, but he closed into Arjuna in a matter of moments.

"You're awake," he said, solemnity tainting his tone. Arjuna only managed a nod, his brain trying to recall the bits and pieces if his dream. He recalled his Lord Shiva, wearing the look of his brother-in-law, possessing a pair of red eyes that seemed to drown the world in complete chaos, so that the creator might begin anew—

—Karna’s right eye glowed red in the low light.

“Karna,” Arjuna gulped because he knew that something must have happened when he was out of commission, “Your eye—“

“Think nothing of it, for now. I’ll tell you about it later,” Karna cut in with too much vehemence. Something upsetting then, he concluded. The idea of someone laying another curse passed in his thoughts, but Arjuna chose not to think of it and be optimistic for once. The mantra to evoke Pasupatha was still warm in his heart; he would like to bask in the idea that everything had gone according to plan, ignoring that small part of him that something had gone wrong—and he was not the one to pay for it.

“If you say so, brother,” Arjuna replied, noticing Karna’s widened eyes. He… was taken aback by his honorific? “Is something wrong?”

For once, Karna looked unsure of what to say, gaping as if he was out of words. Moments passed between them as Arjuna waited, too tired to ask again as the strain that he put his body during his Tapasya caught up with him. He really needed more sleep to recuperate, and Karna seemed to sense that well.

“No, everything is fine,” Karna managed, a blatant lie spawned before Arjuna’s very presence (how could he lie when those clear eyes revealed the truth? That something very wrong had happened?). Had he not felt the fatigue, Arjuna would have pursued that lie relentlessly. But Karna had already put his hand on top of his head like his Lord Shiva did to assuage him from his fears.

“Rest. You’ve done well.”

Arjuna wanted to believe what Karna said. But the image of his brother-in-law, in pain and red-eyed, only stoke his dread, sending him to an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Text

Karna was known to be a devout follower of Surya, the sun god.

He did not gain this reputation from his lineage. Even long before he was told of his ancestry by his birth mother, Karna had always felt how his father extended his help through many simple miracles: when he was lost in the woods, the sun would shine dimmer in several places, as if to show the right path; when he challenged Arjuna for the honor of Panchaali’s hand in marriage, his patron answered his request with a speck of divine flame, deep within him.

For his devotion, Surya allowed him another gift, even though Karna wondered if it ever was; it was more of a curse that would stalk him until the end of his life.

Karna quietly admitted that he had an ulterior motive in accompanying his brother-in-law to do Tapasya.

Out of Panchaali’s husbands, it was Arjuna who had distanced himself from him, maintaining a respectful but awkward distance as if Karna had wronged him. But if that were true, then would Arjuna be on guard with his countenance? Karna was puzzled, however, that Arjuna seemed to fluster at any attempt of communication, openly revealing his discomfort instead of steeling his expression. Was the man keeping some sort of secrets then?

Aside from his worry over the well-being of his brother-in-law, Karna wished to observe closely and, hopefully, learned about this man. He needed not much time to learn of Arjuna's behavior: the way Arjuna avoided both Shikandi and Dhristadyumna; how Arjuna murmured his apologies in his sleep, sending Karna back to the land of the waking, with pleas for forgiveness trailing behind despair. His brother-in-law was drowned in guilt, perhaps from breaking his vow made in Karna’s presence.

And here was Karna, silently berating him for dragging his sister into this predicament… never considering that what had happened could not be solely blamed on this man.

So they sparred, days after days, until Karna nonchalantly declared that he would eventually forgive their folly. It set hope alight in those brown eyes, and Karna could not help but be drawn by how wishful those eyes glinted, a lighter shade under the sun. 

When they reached the top of Indra Keeladri, he offered to let Arjuna have the primary spot. Arid the area may be, Karna could sense the well of power under his feet; this way, Arjuna would be able to achieve spiritual liberation efficiently by drawing support from there. So they parted, Arjuna doing his penance on top while Karna ruminated by himself, in a cave down a small path.

(While the method that they used was the same, the purpose of his and Arjuna's meditation differed, as much as their intensity did. Karna would know this, for Shikandi's austerity rites required a focus so deep that she had no time to care for her mortal needs. He was there to take care of her and going by the boon Arjuna would ask his patron, Karna knew that someone must take care of him too.)

He passed his days separately from Arjuna, doing his own rites to honor Surya when the sun rose and set. In between, he would descend down the mountain to gather fruits and spices. Some days, he would also hunt games, from small ones like hares or birds to bigger ones like deer or ponies. Every sunset, particularly after he was done with his prayers, Karna would climb up while carrying food—sometimes fruits, sometimes jerky—and placed it next to Arjuna for consumption. Sometimes, they would be gone the next day. Other times, they would remain untouched, and Karna would wordlessly glare at the Arjuna's meditative form before switching the rotten foods with new ones.

Eventually, Karna grew into this habit—a repetition that easily brought the joy of his early life to the forefront if his memory.

Then came the fifth month and everything changed once more.

On the fourteenth day of the fifth month, Karna woke, in the middle of the night, to the sound of Arjuna's agonized scream.

Shikandi sometimes had sa imilar situation in the past, when she would scream in pain during the night as if someone had stabbed her and twisted that figurative knife inside. So Karna quickly switched gears, bringing food and water because he had guessed that Arjuna would be short on nutrients by now. However, when he reached for the top, Karna was faced with a writhing Arjuna, whose eyes had become unfocused, with a divine glow trying to overcome his mortal casing.

Karna ran to his side, easily setting aside his carried supplies then sitting down, and reached for his brother-in-law's writhing form. Arjuna moaned in pain even at the gentlest prodding, weakly fighting over Karna's hold as if the latter was trying to hurt him. But Karna kept his grip, pulling Arjuna's weight so that his torso would lay on his lap. 

He flinched at how Arjuna's body burned, fighting to keep his soul in its cage even when the wisdom of the world forced itself into him. He recalled one night during his exile that Shikandi asked his cooperation to shake her off her Tapasya when things became too much for her to bear. But she had never once put herself into that position, and Karna was never forced into this kind of situation.

"O Surya," he whispered, trying to push down the panic that threatened to choke him (because Arjuna was still moaning in pain, his eyes rolling upwards, and Karna was not sure whether a sudden physical jolt would solve the problem), "Please, help me."

And his Lord answered, Karna thought, because there was something in him that glowed with warmth, whispering at him to caress his face once, from the top of his face down to his chin. So he did, and Arjuna coughed, his body jerking upward as if he had just drowned underwater and relentlessly fought for breath. Arjuna was already turning his attention at Karna, something dark overshadowing his glare.

"Why did you pull me back," he asked, hoarsely, and Karna felt the warmth within him dissipated. It was quickly replaced by aggravation. (Later, he would understand that Arjuna was not being ungrateful. It was a question born formed in a daze of a moment.)

"Because I refuse to face my sister while bringing your corpse," Karna answered, the coldness and spite—where they came from, he wasn't sure—overshadowing his words. But they were enough to make Arjuna's eyes widened, unbalancing his already strained mind. Karna took this chance to stand up, blue eyes glinting with vehemence and disappointment, "I will not let you meet Yama until you keep the end of your vow, Arjuna. You owe me that much."

It was cruel to say that, for he just retracted the benefit of the doubt that he had for his brother-in-law. But Karna was already shocked as he heard such ungratefulness, opting to shackle Arjuna back with his words rather than to withhold his tongue.

Before Arjuna could rebuke, however, Karna turned and walked away, never noticing the darkness that fell upon Arjuna's facade... Nor remembering of Krishna's well-placed advice: to withhold one's tongue rather than to blurt out his thought, at the person who slighted him.

The repercussion of his callous action came on the first day of the sixth month from their stay, in a form of a god who sought his protection. In retrospect, said god assumed the form of a poor brahmin and Karna had never received one to warrant better courtesy.

(Shikandi taught him to treat people with the respect they deserved, without looking at their caste. It was an unconventional outlook among the Panchalan royalties.

Then again, no one in the court was taught by the great Narada himself.)

He provided what meager food he had for the day and received a frown in recompense. He offered his own place to sleep—a stack of hay covered with a piece of cloth, coming from a generous farmer—to the brahmin and received a silent glare at his offer. Finally, Karna offered the brahmin a modest long white cloth when the brahmin bristled against the cold night—providing first even before he was asked.

It was on the third day of his visit when Narada revealed his presence before Karna, a trace of disappointment clouding his face. Karna remembered the dread that quietly settled at the bottom of his gut at the god's revelation, bracing himself for any wrathful curses which he might have to endure for the rest of his life. Narada seemed to notice his discomfort and then, unexpectedly, smiled approvingly, "Yes, you have done well to appease me. Though I must say that a certain King of Heaven will not be too happy to know that he loses a bet."

Karna could not help but perked at this bit of information, rubbish as it might sound to him, though he dared not say anything yet. But he respectfully glanced at the god of wisdom and arts, knowing that they would understand what he asked (luminous beings that transcended their understanding—that was what they were, after all; knowing the hearts of many must be a simple matter to them).

Narada grinned, almost heartily, and said, "You need not be so timid, Karna. Where is that warmth which you spared for that poor brahmin, even when you are faced with hardship?"

"No, I..." Karna flushed, clearing his throat to avoid further embarrassment. "The King of Heaven... Do you mean Lord Indra?"

That grin grew wider; honestly, Karna could not help but sense trouble and mischief from that smile. "Well yes, him. Arjuna's father. He was quite vexed that you have slighted his favourite son, particularly during such a taxing Tapasya. Had it not for your patron's intervention, Lord Indra would have you turned into something... a fish, maybe."

Karna could not help but make a face right then, and Narada burst out another laugh, "Honestly, between being turned into a fish and forgetting the mantra to summon your astra, I'd reckon that you would prefer the former than the latter. But enough of that. I am here to bequeath you both Indra's curse and Surya's blessing."

Karna flashed him a quizzical glance, "A curse... And a blessing?"

"With a side of wisdom from me," Narada winked, "Now, would you please close your eyes?"

Karna did as he was told (he was not eager to transform into a fish, if Narada decided to change his mind). There was a gentle caress, a touch of thumb at his forehead that felt too ordinary for a divine blessing, and Narada's calm voice, "You can open your eyes now."

He did as the god instructed, caught by his own reflection on the mirror that the god had put before him. The blue in his right eye had completely transformed into red, giving a sense of adharma vibe. He should have recoiled with that thought, should have wallowed in the drastic change of his appearance, but Karna only felt dread—a silent sign of something to go wrong at any moment of time. So he gave the god a look, a silent plea for for an explanation.

Narada only offered him a pitying smile, along with a dose of sympathy, "Your Patron wishes for your safety, considering the terrible fate that your sister and her husbands had set upon you. So he asked me to bestow you the Sight."

The Sight... of what? Karna had the urge to ask for more information, but his right eye twitched as it looked into something past Narada's divinity... past the barriers that built this world, into the webs of stories that entangled people and their souls.

His red eyes looked at himself, who sat next to the crown prince of Hastinapura and was idly processing what his liege's subjects were discussing. The image shifted, and now he was looking at another person—himself—who was accompanied by his attendants, looking for clues in a distant forest^[1]. Soon after, he was issuing an order to hunt west and capture Arjuna (but why?). The scenery changed again, this time portraying himself facing numerous enemies, with his back against Arjuna's^[2]—

—a harsh slap on his shoulder, and Karna gasped. The cave returned to his view, along with Narada's pitying smile... As if he had expected this to happen.

"Discernment of Fates. You can gaze at the tales that could have happened to a person and glean on the wisdom within, so you may learn about the motivation behind a person's decision," the god explained, the pity in his eyes turning into moroseness, "However, you cannot see past the present, and it will keep you yearning for an unrevealed future. This is the curse that Indra decreed on you, this yearning that shall dictate your downfall."

For a moment, Parashurama's rage flashed like a serrated knife gnawing at his thoughts, and Karna wondered, bitterly, if it will come to pass at the end of his life. Narada seemed to notice the shift in his thought, however, as he gently cupped the white-haired man's face, offering the promise of boundless wisdom... one without strings attached.

"But why worry about which that will come to pass, when you can change history in-between? Heed my advice, Karna: we may not be able to change our ending, but the events in-between? Those, you can influence. Karma is not as set-in-the-stone as everyone believes it be."

The visions came and went as they liked, most of the times taking forms in his dreams. Some of them were empty, a series of meaningless scenes of his (lonesome) self. Other times, it would show him engaging with someone else: Panchaali and her thinly-veiled vengeful glare at him, Dursasana's curbed distaste at his obscure lineage, Arjuna's hateful glare as Karna demonstrated his prowess, etc. The one idea that served as its red string was this: Karna was never the Outsider Prince of Panchala, but rather the person whom many referred as Hero of Benefaction from Hastinapura.

(Out of the many what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, there was not a tale of Vasusena growing up as a royalty of Panchaala, as if his story had been an outlier from the very start.)

He would have ruminated over these visions, if he had more time, but another matter took his priority. Karna had expected that Arjuna would take his Tapasya to extremism, seeing how driven he was to conquer Kaurava who had tricked him and his family. The problem, however, lied on the fact that his drastic measure compelled the very earth to sing with him, the energy that they both amassed disturbing the balance of life above. It was a Tapasya so great that the animals fell, the greeneries shriveled, the air heated, and the minds died—a Tapasya that drove living beings to their destruction. But Karna remained alive among the dead, wondering if this was Narada’s intervention too. 

So was his routine, at least until the first day of the seventh month came, along with Narada's return.

“I need to meet with Arjuna,” he said, right on the evening when Karna was about to check on Arjuna as if required Karna’s approval to do so. Weren't gods entitled to do as they wish? "And you need to come with me."

There was no room for debate, as Narada displayed his prowess as a higher being and warped them to the top of the mountain. The experience was so ordinary, so unnoticeable, that his perception barely noticed where the scenery of his cave ended and the mountain-top began. At the center, Arjuna was still cross-legged, looking so unnaturally still that Karna could not help but leap to his side in worry. He reached for Arjuna's shoulders, neverminding the scorching heat that should have scathed them both, and shook his body gently.

Arjuna sluggishly opened his eyes, as if he was waking from a dream, but closed them as soon as those brown eyes registered Karna's face, seemingly not recognizing Karna's soft reprimand to stay awake.

"No need to panic, dear child," Narada placated, moving closer towards where they stood and knelt. Like he did to Karna, the god softly brushed Arjuna's forehead in benediction. He thought that he saw a streak of electricity, connecting the god's finger and Arjuna's forehead, but opted to ignore the matter altogether; Arjuna's slowly cooling body concerned him more than Narada's business.

"Always worrying others, don't you, even in your silence?" Narada asked, his question leaning more to rhetoric than real inquiry, “Arjuna will be alright. Lord Shiva should be communing with him at this very moment.”

There was no reason for a god to lie, and yet Karna could not help the stifling tightness in his chest as Arjuna’s body grew colder under his grasp, amidst the leftover heat—a worry that slowly expanded into a dread so powerful that he could not help but hold his brother-in-law closer.

(How could he not, when his red eye made him see the moment of Arjuna’s downfall—his breaking—as he sat powerlessly, his freedom gambled away before the court of Kaurava, his wife humiliated, his pride grounded so finely that the ghost of it twisted into a thirst of vengeance? It was one thing to hear this tragedy from the traveling merchants, but to witness its replay altogether? Even Karna felt the urge to burn Hastinapura's royal court to the ground, just like how Duryodhana ordered the Pandava's deaths in the palace of lac.

‘Endure,’ Karna recalled Bima counseling Arjuna—Bima, whose passion burned like shining light, whose emotions were always open for anyone to read and anticipate—and witnessed how Arjuna's expression from rage to steely. But one look at those brown eyes, and Karna knew that vengeance already had its grip on Arjuna's heart—a quiet vow to eradicate his humiliators and those who stood before his way… by whatever means necessary.

Karna mourned, for that man who was worthy of his sister’s hand might have already died, leaving a bitter man hell-bent on vengeance under a mask of amost-nonchalance.)

“But I saw differently,” Karna managed a weak protest, glaring at the god as if this was his fault, “I saw the reason why he was so obsessed to obtain Lord Shiva’s favor. He will vanquish the Kaurava, even if his means are adharma. For that reason, he will fail in his endeavor as a Kshatriya.”

Narada’s presence seemed to glow in acknowledgment, perhaps sympathizing with Karna’s predicament as one given Sight. “Knowing this, Karna, what will you do?”

What must he do, indeed?

In-between Arjuna’s recovery time, his Discernment of Fates decided to torture him with one specific vision—one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Unlike his previous visions which were fragments of different stories that started in the middle and ended whenever, this one started out with an open field in the middle of the forest and the sound of a fight. Soon after, Karna saw himself and Arjuna in two opposite places, their positions locked. In the middle stood the god who had bestowed (cursed) him with this ability, preaching animatedly about the reasons why they must not fight each other: that he, Radeaputra, and Surtikanti, the princess of Mandaraka, were meant to be; that Arjuna—Permadi, as he was known then—must cease hostility against the Prince of Petralaya (Karna was, surprisingly, a prince in this vision); that both he and Arjuna were brothers from the same mother^[3].

Karna awakened to the hollow feeling in his throat, a heart throbbing in confusion, and a mind drowned deep in chaos.

Narada had added again during his second visit that any vision he had from his red eye was a culmination of fates that did not work—that there was wisdom in those what-could-have-beens, a truth that remained as a defining point in the grand design. Karna had not understood that explanation then, but now he wondered if this fact was relevant at all. 

Now, every time he checked on his brother-in-law, his wonderment grew. Karna could not help but examine the defining features that the Pandava had: the traces of long-forgotten blisters on his hands, the roundness of his face, the waviness of his hair, his ebony eyes—Karna could list those down forever and would still find no similarity between them and his own. To say that they shared familial bond at all would be preposterous—

—and yet, the moment Arjuna called him ‘brother’, Karna's resolve crumbled.

He persuaded the exhausted Pandava to get more sleep, his hand idly sifting through Arjuna’s dark locks. The latter fell asleep in a drop of a hat, but Karna kept on brushing Arjuna’s locks with care, looking for solace at the source of his misery. Narada’s words returned to his thoughts once more, taunting him to make a move—any move—

—Arjuna’s mother. The other Queen of Hastinapura. She could verify what he had seen—what he could be. Suddenly, Karna breathing became easy, the aggravation in his mind quickly receding to whence it came.

He had legworks to do.

Chapter Text

On the matter of Pandava’s exile, the term which they were required to follow was something along this: the children of Pandu will not set foot in the lands of Hastinapura for thirteen years, in which their last year must be spent incognito. If they were found out by the Kaurava, they had to repeat another thirteen years of exile once more. Duryodhana only required his cousins to suffer this consequence, though should members of their family like to accompany, he would not bar them from trying.

Draupadi, after declaring her own vow of vengeance, decided to come with her husbands, if not for companionship, then to remind their powerlessness against those who took everything away from them. The rest of their other wives, along with their children, were sent back to their fathers’ kingdom for safety. Kunti was offered a place in Hastinapura, which she decisively refused, opting to remain under Draupad’s protection.

On the first year of their exile, Arjuna went on a quest to gain the Lord Shiva’s favor. He succeeded, his Tapasya generating such amount of energy that many living beings died from the sheer heat of it, and it prompted Lord Shiva himself to answer his prayer. There were accounts that Arjuna completed this spiritual liberation process with the help of an unknown brahmin. Some declared that Lord Krishna was there to give him counsel when the process became too grievous.

There was also the outrageous claim that it was the Outsider Prince who accompanied Arjuna in his quest.

On the third year of their exile, Arjuna was given a quest to vanquish demons that were terrorizing his father’s Svargaloka. When he finished them, he was extended an invitation to reside in the Svargaloka and was granted various divine arsenals to fulfill his vengeful vow (Indra was not aware of this—or maybe he was but decided to leave this to the workings of Karma). He was also granted the name Kiriti—the one who was endowed with the celestial diadem belonging to the Lord of Sky—becoming the only mortal who was bequeathed the right to rule a celestial realm, even when it lasted for only for a year.

He was also cursed by the most beautiful nymph of Indra’s celestial court—a curse that would change his fate.

Such was the fate of one who witnessed the twilight of Dwaparayuga.

Karna one-sidedly decided to part ways with Arjuna, ten days after they finished their Tapasya. He claimed that he had already neglected his duty as a prince to his country for long enough (lies, both Dhri and Shikandi were more than capable to carry on his task, on top of theirs) and needed to return to Panchaala at moment’s notice. Arjuna looked unconvinced with his reasoning but restrained himself from pursuing the truth. Instead, the Pandava disclosed that he needed to ride east, following his father's will.

If he was surprised at this turn of event at all, Karna carefully schooled it under impassiveness. He was expecting the latter to return to his family, but the thought of Arjuna having to endure further besmirching from his own sister made his insides shrivel (his mind could not help but mix the Panchaali whom he had known for as long as he lived... And the one who held deep resentment towards his other self). And so, they parted, Arjuna continuing his journey while Karna returning home.

(Had Karna been in his right mind, not bothered by a truth to be confirmed, he would have noticed the worry and concern, silently hiding behind those brown eyes.)

He remembered the day when Karna knelt before the mother of his brother-in-law—the smoldering heat of summer that reminded him too much of his and Arjuna's rumination in Indra Keeladri—as he courteously asked for her confirmation. 'Honored mother', he once called her, the words now hiding a different question altogether: why have you forsaken me?

(Of course, Karna restrained his tongue from blurting that.)

"Honored mother," he spoke, something in his words pulled the woman before him to sit straight. She was rarely like this, attentive and towards her visitors; there was a list whom she would act like this too, but Karna was sure that he was never in it. "I had a strange dream."

In a way, it was, because his red eye has shown him a peculiar vision the night before his visit: a young woman with a basket in her carry, drifting it unto the Ganges; a baby with red hair, sleeping peacefully within the basket; a man clads in white attire who rescued that baby from drowning. So, he told her all of it, carefully maintaining his curious mask while observing any changes on the queen's expression. Maybe he was finding a reason to justify his conclusion—that the woman was her, the baby was himself, and his savior was his brother.

But nothing changed, her queenly mask still poised and firm. As such, when he finished his tale, Kunti looked at him as if waiting for his punchline—the real question behind this story.

"Have you," Karna sighed, slowly reeling his confidence in, wearing it as if it was a blanket that would protect his heart, "Have you wisdom to offer me? For I cannot help but think of you whenever I remember it."

For a moment, Karna thought that the brown eyes of that woman flickered, her expression shifting between the indifference of a queen and a sorrowful woman. Eventually, they settled with a kind light, a smile cutting through the web of sorrow. "Dear child, a wise man once told me that dreams are the reflection of the soul—a reflection that must never be interpreted without care. Thus, I suggest you find a seer, one who's able to sift through the truth beneath your dream."

Karna was expecting such practical explanation—such mundane answer—because he was not there for it. He was here to watch if there be any hesitation in the queen's eyes when she offered her wisdom—a change of tone that might betray the lies that she had spoken out loud. But Karna saw nothing except for impassiveness as if to confirm that she could never be the woman depicted in that vision—that Karna was never Kunti's, not in this story. So, he bowed, in relief and disappointment for obtaining his conclusion, and finally responded, "Thank you, honored mother, for your wise advice."

He turned around afterward, his movement rigid—a sign of his reluctance. If she looked at him, her heart burrowed in her mouth—a heart that carried pride and shame, thus cloaking the truth altogether—Karna wouldn't know.

Days turned to months, then to years. So quickly time passed, Karna thought to himself, leaving many changes that never failed to surprise him. The news about Arjuna and his fancy towards Subhadra, Krishna's sister, and his subsequent request for her hand in marriage, however, easily took the cake. Karna frowned at his decision at first (and at Krishna too, for offering his sister's hand in the first place), and then he remembered the rules of engagement that Narada put forward on the day of his sister and the Pandava's marriage: Panchaali could be with each Pandava once a year... As such, her role as Arjuna's wife applied once every five years.

He supposed that Arjuna ought to wed another woman to be his consort, sooner or later, and who would deserve such honor if not for his best friend's sister?

(Curiously, on the day of Subhadra’s marriage—for Karna was invited too—Karna's red eye showed him how Arjuna was happy with this arrangement. It was a splinter of history in which Arjuna held on his hatred towards him, for Karna had deprecated Panchaali's honor before the mass.

But now, Karna looked at him and saw nothing of joy, the flower garland around his neck representing a shackle more than a holy union. This commitment was as good as an arranged marriage, and Karna wondered just what kind of arrangement would satisfy the man, who was bestowed the goodwill of Lord Shiva himself.

And he wondered to himself why this farce of a marriage tore at him, at all.)

As for himself, Karna took a vow of celibacy, two years after his and Arjuna's Tapasya. There were rumors, one of them of Karna trying to steal Arjuna's glory as the fiercest warrior on earth by offering this abstinence to Surya so that he might ask for a boon. He never tried to kill those rumors, knowing how lies spun by the mass concealed better than any trick did, for the real reason of his abstinence stemmed from another vision altogether: his supposed wife, Vrushali, both devoted and kind, suffering under the bluntness of his words... and the bondage of his commitment to Duryodhana. Karna wished not such a life to any woman, even if his situation differed to his alternate self.

That was until he met her.

It was also one smoldering summer day when Karna made a personal visit to the Kingdom of Matsya, on the thirteenth year of the Pandava's exile.

His visit that day was different from the one he had, almost twelve years ago. Now, he was here at the King's invitation, serving on behalf of Draupad's presence. Usually, it was Shikandi who would play the ambassador, but his brother was out on a short austerity rite, leaving him to play the role. He was ambivalent towards this task because Virata—the King—was wise (and sensible) to deal with when things did not concern the Queen (when they did, virtues seemed to forgo the King altogether). As such, when the King invited him with the purpose to showcase his daughters—for Karna to pick from—to strengthen the relationship between their countries, Karna abode to his task with little joy.

That was until his eyes found the one woman who stayed at the sideline, wearing an attire like the tens of Virata's daughters on the stage. She had been watching the daughters like a hawk as if anticipating any of them to falter on their steps. Those who crossed glance with her did, ironically, and Karna watched how that woman shot a disappointed glare, the edge of her lips lowered in a frown.

What drew Karna, however, was not the harsh gestures that she made as a dance-master—or so he deduced, though with how close she stood by the King's side, second only to Sudeshna herself, Karna wondered if she was also his wife—but rather the ebony of her eyes. They widened when their eyes met, as if in recognition of his identity. She averted her eyes afterward, focusing on the performance of her pupils, and Karna should have done the same. Yet he could not help himself but steal glances at her, wondering why the shade of her brown eyes, the almost heart-shaped face, and that dark shade of skin looked so familiar—so haunting.

When the show ended, the King's daughters lavishing upon the adoration of their spectators, Karna asked one of his pages, a hint of wonder possessing his words, "Who is she? I am not aware that King Virata had picked another wife."

He could sense the reluctance in his page's gesture, even from the edge of his vision. The woman noticed his stare once again, and for once since the show ended, Karna played the proper royal and broke eye-contact.

"My prince, she is Brihannala, Princess Uttaraa's personal dance-master. As far as I hear, she appeared one year ago, claiming to be a refugee of Indraprastha when the Kaurava annexed the Pandava's land. Aside from that information, I'm afraid her past is an enigma, even in the court of Matsya."

Enigma, his page deemed her, and yet Karna only felt familiarity as he laid his gaze on that pair of ebony eyes.

Finding the woman was not hard, though Karna believed that she was avoiding him on purpose.

He could easily spot the woman entering the zenana at the start of her teaching session. She would appear again when the sun almost set, coinciding with Karna's evening prayer. They would secretly throw glances to one another, breaking eye-contact as soon as it was made, before getting back to their tasks. It was harrowing for Karna, for each conscious, curious, glance exchanged between them, the embers of curiosity burrowed in his mind threatening to set him ablaze with desire (where had his self-restraint fled to, he mused a little).

On the third day since arrival, Karna decided to ditch his considerate princely front and pursue the answer that he sought (even when he was unsure what the question was, but it existed, in a form that he could not quite grasp yet). Upon finishing his evening prayer rite, he quickly made his way to the front of the harem, effectively ambushing the woman right as she walked out the building, alone, unguarded even by the eunuchs under King Virata's employment.

(And was this not another aspect of hers that defied normality? The absence of her guards alone looked as if she challenged those who wish harm upon her—that she would escape unscathed and exact retribution on those who even went to try at all. She wordlessly promoted defiance, unlike that which he saw in his dear sister, and no one, not even the King, was tempted to answer her challenge as if they knew that there would be blood to spill.)

"Lady Brihannala," a courteous bow, a soft-spoken inane greeting, "It is nice to meet you here."

She looked almost innocent in that white sari of hers.; almost, if not for her taut stance, as she glared at him with suspicion clouding those brown eyes (or was that suspicion, but rather, panic? Karna was not able to discern). "Well met, Prince Karna. What business do you have with me, if I may ask? You have been stalking my routine, after all."

Straight at the point and vicious with her words; now these were facets which Karna had yet witnessed. If his face lit up from embarrassment, Karna could not help it.

"It's... ah," Karna floundered, the words he wanted to utter escaping his mind so gracelessly that he wished for Shiva to strike him down then. Only when the woman's gaze softened could Karna recover his composure, mismatching eyes looking back at them. "I suppose before that, I apologize for being prudent. Ever since the dance performance, I have wished to discuss with you, particularly about teaching. King Draupad wishes to have his own group of performers too, so..."

Perhaps it was the intensity of her gaze, or his failure at speech, or the small smile that slowly broke out of her lips; Karna realized that he had stopped talking altogether, letting the woman take the reign of their conversation with a single smirk, followed by an answer, "I am both humbled and honored that you think of me in such high regard, Prince Karna. Though I believe it is best to discuss this tomorrow, perhaps before the Princess' dance training?"

Karna mutely agreed, for once wondering why he had not felt slighted at how she behaved. Any other royalty would have been appalled by such forwardness, and yet Karna could only feel... amused? Whatever it was, the Outsider Prince eventually decided that this was alright. 

Karna had expected that his visitation time will not exceed one week. But there he was, waiting under the tree in an obscured garden within the palace walls, on the fourteenth day of his visit. It was to be the sixth meeting with the woman who snared him with her forwardness and her boldness to speak her mind. She was also adept in court politics and some measures of governance; she might be the princess' dance teacher, but both Virata and Sudeshna held her opinion in high regard.

(He also noticed how Brihannala tried her best to bury down her distaste whenever she did not get her way, a polite mask quietly slipping into place as she retreated from the discussion. Those ebony eyes burned with a rage that felt so familiar.)

Surprisingly, not many people were aware of these secret rendezvous (Karna made his business to know the going-ons within Matsya; as Shikandi had told him once: information is important, even of the happenings within the walls of an ally), making him wonder if someone had wished for their privacy. He suspected Brihannala to have a hand in this, considering the soft power she wielded in court, and Karna should be worried about this fact.

But then, she arrived, her red sari framed her fair body perfectly, and his worry was soon forgotten.

Like any other day, she would start the discussion with an opinion in mind, building her argument as he threw more information around the matters at hand. Sometimes he would challenge her solution, offering bits and pieces of what-works and what-fails, and she would retaliate more with her rebukes. Having a discussion with her was like matching his wits, one he was engrossed with when he should not be, but for this day... he could not help but be distracted by how she moved, her face was too close for an appropriate discussion, her body was so near that he could feel her warmth—

"Tell me, my Prince," she breathed, and Karna froze, captivated by those brown eyes so near to his mismatched ones, "What if I say, 'I want you'? Will you take me? Will you forsake your vow?"

Karna knew the better answer to her question. Had he been the person two weeks ago, he would have refused her invitation, without a shred of doubt. But Karna was already a different man since then, his thoughtful engagements with this mystery woman chipping his resolve little by little, day by day, until she successfully held him within her grasp.

The Prince made no move, his eyes defiantly stared back at hers. "Do you want me, though? A prince who will never hold the throne, whose origin is questioned wherever he goes?"

(Because had he not disclosed his worry over illegitimacy to her, during one of these secret rendezvous? That, in their discussion on reigning monarch system, Karna worried that he had to take the throne if both Shikandi and Dhri failed to survive the impending war? It was not that he wished the death of his brothers and father, but anything can happen in war, even more so in this one that Panchaali ushered into existence.

His legitimacy would be questioned; the throne would be given to an extended family—one he disliked for complete incompetence in governance—or Panchaala would be annexed by another kingdom. He disclosed this to Brihannala, bared the weight of his fears for his family and countrymen, and waited; any other person would have shown him sympathy and held their tongue, but Brihannala ignored whatever social rules that existed between them and reached for his hands. I will help you by whatever means necessary to ensure your rightful ruling, should things come to such conclusion.

The aspect that settled behind her eyes was steely fierceness, not sympathy.)

And there it was, the barest hint of lust and impatience behind those hardened brown eyes. "Yes."

It was Karna who moved in first, his lips brushing tentatively with hers with a gentleness of a butterfly kiss—a gentleness that Brihannala loathed, as she pulled him, wishing to taste more—to take and never give back as if those within her reach were hers and no others'. It was a greed belonging to one who was bestowed everything.

As they fell to the ground, their bodies intimately entangling, the familiarity that graced his thoughts returned in full force—a familiarity that somehow evoked one word: Arjuna. Those brown eyes, her pride, her boldness, her wit—all of them reminded Karna of the qualities that Arjuna possessed.

The very fact that his thoughts returned to another while he was in her company... it scared him.

Kaurava invaded the Kingdom of Matsya on the last day of Karna's visitation.

The day started with an open visit from Brihannala, storming into his chamber as though he was not of royal lineage (a reminder that he was clearly not of royal bloodline). His pages floundered behind her, flustered and ashamed for not being able to fulfill their jobs properly. When he saw her furious face, however, Karna sympathized with his attendants; her righteous fury (he had only witnessed it once in one of their meetings) might as well turn her into a storm sheathed in human skin.

"Karna, you have to get out of Matsya. The Kaurava had invaded from the north, and you are in danger."

The urgency in her words was potent, enough to put vigilance into his countenance. He would have inquired for further information, had his vision not turned red. Thunder rang in his ears, the light that shone on his room receded as if being swallowed by the bleakness of the rain. There was no one in his room, saved for a woman clad in a red sari, standing by the window. She was gazing at the pouring rain, her countenance taut as if she was expecting something bad to happen. Suddenly, the door to his room opened, revealing another woman standing at the front door, clad in yellow sari made of cotton—a servant's clothing. He held back his curse when he looked at the visitor's face: no matter how simple her wardrobe was, how bland her accessories were, Karna would always recognize Panchaali anywhere.

The years had not been kind to her; Karna could discern the tiredness that etched her face and the hardness that tainted her brilliance. Her stark beauty remained, sharpened by the determined gaze behind those eyes. "Husband, I have pleaded the prince to have you as his charioteer. So please, I implore you to do your part."

The implication of her words rendered his tongue still, as Karna slowly focused on the one whose back had been facing him all along. When that person turned, feminine subtleties weaved into her (his?) movements, Karna could make the features that made Arjuna, softened only by Brihannala's features—

"Will he be there?"

Panchaali let out a small sigh, exasperation weaved in each syllable, "Yes, Karna will be."

—and the world around him tilted sideways. Karna found himself staring at the ceiling of his room, surrounded by his concerned pages and worried Brihannala (something akin to fear still froze his blood over when he caught her glimpse). His heart still beat erratically, the glimpse of that vision stoking it to beat even faster. Reality returned to him with a gentle grasp on his palm—Brihannala's coaxing to calm him down. That single gesture was enough to shrug off his confusion so that he could focus on himself. Slowly, Karna rose up, ignoring the dull ache in his head caused by his fall and breathed in.

He did so because Brihannala had to know—had to understand that he could not just leave her here. So, he reached out to touch her face, her form turning as taut as a bowstring; this was not an appropriate display before his pages, who had now been glancing around as if communicating in some sort of codes, but Karna could not bring himself to care. He was already too invested in this woman, enough to protect her at all cost (even when his thoughts drifted to someone else, even when he was still full of doubts).

"I will not run, not when I know that you will stay here, uncontested and unsatisfied. So please, relay this message to Prince Uttara: I shall drive his chariot so that the Kuru knew that our alliance is strong. We will drive those Kaurava back to whence they came."

The sun was over his head, shining in full force, as though it was favoring Karna's undertaking. He was merely driving his chariot to the northern frontline, to the path where Kaurava would wage blood. Uttara had been trembling behind him, fearing for his life rather than his countrymen, and asked Karna to turn around. The Outsider Prince refused to do so, of course, imploring the Prince not to upset the dharma of things. After all, as a part of the Matsyan Royal Family, it was his duty to fight for the fates of his people.

Uttara did snap. After Karna's refusal, he jumped out of the chariot in his attempt to run away. He was stopped, however, when he spotted a smaller chariot racing towards his place. Driving it by oneself was... Brihannala, her sari traded for a hunter's attire, who quickly blocked Uttara's escape route.

He would have scolded her for her recklessness, had they not been on the frontline.

"There is nothing to fear, my Prince. While I stand here, no Kaurava shall harm you, nor any of your subjects," she declared, her every word shifting just as much as the form that made her did, "I, Arjuna, swear it on my honor as a Pandava."

It was as if the heavens sang at her (his?) declaration, the guise that hid her nature fading in celebration. Brihannala's feature gradually changed—feminine grace turning into masculine poise—until there was nothing left of the woman whom he had known briefly, but deeply.

The conversation between his brother-in-law and the Matsyan prince flew over his mind; the very fact that Brihannala had always been Arjuna, just like how his vision went... Karna could not quite grasp what this meant. It was only when Arjuna finished retelling his epithets to confirm his real identity that Karna managed to gather some semblance of control—a flimsy thing glued by confusion and fury.

Arjuna turned at him, those ebony eyes looking guarded—so misplaced if compared to Brihannala's daringness—as he tried to speak. But Karna already raised his hand to stop the other, perhaps out of fear for he was unsure himself, and cut in, "We will talk about this later."

That was as good as the death knoll of Arjuna's hope.

(Or perhaps not.)

When the dust settled, the Kaurava forces retreating to the Kuru Kingdom, Karna was rendered in awe once more, at the brilliance that made this man. Arjuna stood at the center of the blood-drenched battlefield, surrounded by the many celestial weapons—invisible to the naked eye, yet present—loaned by his father. He looked almost inhuman in that state, a being that transcended the boundaries of the living to become something else altogether.

If the Matsyan prince was standing stock still looking more fearful than awed, Karna could not fault him. They had no idea just how much had Arjuna sacrificed to gain this much power, this blessing, from his patrons. The only thing that propelled Karna towards the Endowed Hero was his curiosity, still as freshly groomed as that when he laid eyes on Brihannala, despite his instinct to get away.

As the celestial weapons parted, making way for Karna to approach the man in the center, Arjuna gazed at him, weariness and guardedness sewed deep in those brown eyes. He feared, Karna thought, for the repercussions of his actions; for the rules that he had broken—and would break in the future; for whatever future held for him; for failing to meet the expectations that were laid on his shoulders.

Arjuna feared so many things; Brihannala did not (or maybe she did, but her station provided her with some measures of liberty that a prince of Pandava could not taste).

Thus, when Karna stood right before him, mismatched eyes gazing back at those brown, he had already made his decision, the doubts in his mind dissolving like a breaking dawn. His hand reached for Arjuna's cheek, and Karna's lips met Arjuna's halfway through. The angle was wrong; there was no softness in those lips, and the gasp (sob) that escaped the other was nothing familiar to Brihannala's truthful sigh. When he broke their kiss, the Outsider Prince only held warmth in his gaze and an answer at the tip of his tongue:

"It does not matter, Arjuna. I am still here for you."

It did not matter, because it was never Arjuna's physique that enchanted him, but rather his character, buried under layers of stillness and perfection. Had Arjuna shown this side of him long ago, during Panchaali's Swayamvara, or maybe during their shared journey, Karna knew in his heart that he would fall for him too.

Chapter Text

In the perspective of the gods, the Kurukshetra War was supposed to bring glory to those who participated in it. It was supposed to be the stage of honor, where righteousness prevailed over the wicked, and balance triumphed over excess.

However, like any wars, the grandest one demanded the blood of every party—blood that should drench the winners, to remind them the weight of lives that they had rightfully taken... and those they had failed to defend. It mattered not whether the war proceeded according to the rules or disregarded them completely; there would be casualties, whose death would taint the winners until the end of their lives. 

Victory paid with lives was the most expensive one. Karna refused to pay, and so the world forcefully ripped the price off his hand.

Arjuna had previously been a bundled of perfection, one that would not falter for the sake of his family, never hesitating to put himself between them and danger. This was the first facet that Karna admitted from Arjuna, one that he witnessed in Panchaali’s Swayamvara and in their Tapasya days. Now, after the gruesome exile period, that bundle of perfection glowed in glory, as if an invisible great burden was lifted from his shoulder. It made his victorious smile lighter... stronger.

He pondered this in the Matsyan royal assembly, as Uttara led the celebration of their success against the Kaurava army. The Matsyan Prince indulged in parading Arjuna's success, contrary to what Karna expected (he had thought that Uttara would pull some delusion of grandeur about himself) and proceeded to do the same for Karna (who offered a placating smile and raised his goblet—a polite refusal). His favorite brother-in-law turned at him for his antics, bright-eyed and light-hearted, and Karna saw a glint of pleasantness passing beneath those ebony eyes.

They did not light because of their recent victory, but because of acceptance and the understanding that someone else knew who he really was, underneath the posing, the perfect facade, the witty personage (because Brihannala was still Arjuna, even if it was a form derived from a curse).

(Karna quickly smothered the swelling pride in his chest; Arjuna was not an object of conquest.)

When the celebration ended—the dukes and royalties retreating to their quarters, the newly reintroduced Pandavas, except for Arjuna, returning to their sleeping rooms, the servants cascading into the court like torrential waters—Arjuna hesitantly made his way, and Karna wondered briefly he had missed the subtlety of things. He carefully maintained a placid expression, bracing himself for an unpalatable news, though the feeling when Arjuna spoke, the usual confidence in his voice untainted with embarrassment, "I... I want to apologize for deceiving you, honored brother. I should have disclosed my real identity, so you would not..."

A beat of silence as Arjuna failed to articulate the fault in their decisions. It was enough to make Karna stand from his seating and reached for the other's hand. He thought of Brihannala's sigh as she melted under his embrace, so true and clear, and how he yearned to unravel this person to his/her depth, even when he knew (now) that he was his sister's.

Karna should not be giving the man a pass (even when he desired to).

"Arjuna," he started, his name a simple command that would never fail to lure those ebony eyes meeting his red-blue ones (it was already like this ever since their meeting; how could Karna just notice this now?), "Had you told me your real identity, then, Duryodhana would have discovered you and the rest of the Pandava. You would have been forced to endure another twelve-years of exile, along with Panchaali and the rest of your brothers. You have done well."

Arjuna seemed to light up, becoming more vibrant in his pleasantry, until a shadow passed behind those dark eyes. Then, his smile faded like a fading ember, horror, and fear to strike his face as if he had recalled the consequences of this (consequences that had been mulling in Karna's thoughts too).

At that striking change, Karna could not help but tighten his grasp unto Arjuna's hand, "What is it, Kiriti?"

A hitch of breath, then an almost whimper, before a change of stance. "It was—they were mistakes," Arjuna declared under his breath, spitting the words out with barely-mustered firmness, and yet Karna could only see how those brown eyes broke under those words (how his own mind tried to comprehend what was happening, because had Arjuna really denied what they had gone through?), "Our meetings, they should not have happened. Nor will they happen again in the future."

If he was not holding Arjuna's hand then, Karna would have steeled himself and took that declaration with grace—with a certain belief that Arjuna meant every word. But Arjuna's hand was cold and trembling in his grasp, and it propelled him cross the distance between them. False, he wanted to say, but Karna had better courtesy than that. Instead, he looked at Arjuna's conflicted eyes and spoke, "Why do you deny what you want, Arjuna?"

Like moths to a flame, Arjuna's dark, broken eyes gazed back at him at the mention of his name, followed by a quick, almost-rehearsed answer: "Because it will deny me the path of Kshatriya."

Had Arjuna heard how his voice almost broke at such flimsy lie? In the end, Karna resigned to that answer with a mournful sigh.

"If that is your wish," he released the other's hand, so quickly as if it would burn him if he held much longer, "Then I shall abide," Karna acknowledged. If there was coldness in his words that spurred Arjuna to recoil internally, Karna opted to let it be. "But I stand by my words still: I am here for you."

Karna might have turned away too quickly, despite the reminder of his vow, but Arjuna's denial (and refusal) pulled at his heartstring, a frosty knife that stabbed into him, spreading cold into his very system. As he dragged himself back to his own quarter, disregarding the worried callings of his pages, his mind could not help but wander to the numerous visions he had of Arjuna: Arjuna who eyed him with hate, Arjuna who loathed him, Arjuna who looked with cold resignation, Arjuna who steeled himself when they crossed path in the northern plains of Matsya—

—in his better days, Karna would have ignored this, always telling himself that what he had seen were not his reality. Now, he cared not if they played with his mind (he would regret this decision later); Arjuna could loathe him for all he cared.

In the end, as he laid haphazardly on top of his bed, the bitter taste of regret and unrequited longing seared into his being, Karna pondered gouging out his red eye. It was proving more to be a curse than a blessing.

Expectedly, Duryodhana refused to return Indraprastha to the Pandavas. 

Bima was livid when the news broke out. Yudhistira was at loss of words, as he genuinely believed that the Kaurava would live up to their words. Nakula and Sahadeva seethed quietly but opted to redirect their fury to more horse-breeding works if only to placate their anger, despite King Virata's utmost disapproval. His sister was silent, steel embedded deep beneath her beautiful eyes, as she welcomed her true purpose and rallied her husbands to take back the throne which they deserved.

(Even now, Karna wondered how her hatred had twisted the sweet sharp girl whom he met years ago into this woman, hell-bent on her personal vengeance. It mattered not when they had to endure the thirteen years of suffering; a part of him wished that he had been with her at that turning point. Maybe she would not lose herself. Maybe he could have protected her better than her husbands.)

Arjuna only gazed past the window, where the northern mountains laid—where Karna and he finished their Tapasya together—with longing. And Karna could not help but wonder what went through that mind. Had Shiva whispered to him about this, long before it was to happen?

He refrained himself from asking, breaking his staring before Arjuna noticed firsthand, and proposed to return to Panchaala on the first crack of dawn. No one dared to stop him, knowing that time was of the essence; the sooner they could sway the other kings to their sides, the better their chance to win would be. They were going to war, after all, even when the eldest of the Pandava had not breathed that intention yet.

His Discernment of Fates had shown him the prelude after all.

He left his pages to attend Panchaali, claiming that an entourage would slow down his ride. Thus, on the eve of dawn, he quietly set out from the palace, expecting no one to obstruct his travel... that was until he noticed someone standing near the gate of the palace. Karna felt his heart constrict; even when that man concealed himself under a white hood, he could never mistake Arjuna's countenance.

Karna halted his steed, restraining every part of his being from lashing out. The memory of refusal still tasted bitter in his mouth, despite his unconditional vow to be ‘here for him’. "What do you want, Arjuna?"

Arjuna gently perked up from his hood, ebony eyes, yearning and hopeful. "I want," a pause that spoke more of confidence than the brokenness of yesterday—a fragile decisiveness unclouded by worry, "I want to apologize for how I behaved previously. You deserve better than that."

There was truth in Arjuna's words, but it was also sprinkled with insecurity—something left unsaid that might involve lives if it weren't brought to light. Karna frowned, and then admonished, "Do not tarry Arjuna. I can't spare more time for you." Blue eye softened as Karna continued again, "Speak your piece."

Arjuna maintained his impassiveness at first, until his mask fell, giving way to displeasure and... Was that hurt? "...What I feel for you is wrong."

And was that not the crux of the problem? Karna let out a sigh of lamentation and finally decided to get off his steed. Before Arjuna could even anticipate the other's movement, he was already reaching his cheek and pulled closer, so that their foreheads touched. Arjuna almost recoiled at the first touch, but Karna's grip held him at his place.

"No, it is not. If you act on it without consideration, however, it is wrong. I..." Karna gulped, trying to work out the urgency in his bosom (the desire that he never got to speak out when he was already Arjuna). Yet the words that flowed out afterward were something else altogether—but important, nonetheless. "Tell me, Arjuna, what do you want from this?"

Arjuna did not answer, his gaze downcast as if he had just been caught stealing. It gave Karna the opportunity to lean closer, to put a soft kiss on his forehead—a silent benediction. "Ponder on that, Arjuna, and tell me your answer when we meet again."

So Karna pulled himself away, leaving the muted Hero of the Endowed still on his place, and rode away.

They met again on the eve of the war.

There was little time for them to meet in private, though. Perhaps due to such harrowing circumstances, Arjuna grew itchy, desiring to descend upon the Kaurava like the scourge of gods (with Gandiva in his hand, as well as series of Astras bequeathed to him by his father, wouldn't he be one?), and Krishna would always be there to calm him—to endure, for even this waiting too should pass.

Unlike Arjuna, however, Karna dreaded the war's coming, even when he knew that this moment would finish many grudges. He would look at Shikandi, the softness in her eyes hardening with each passing day as she prepared herself to fulfill her lifetime vengeance. He would steal a glimpse at Panchaali and Dhri, sitting together during a dinner between the Pandava and Pancahaalan royal family, who spoke in hushes, the name Drona occasionally could be heard within their conversation. Draupad hid his excitement under wraps, but at the hushed mention of his long-denied friend, he would falter in his activity, and that signified how abnormal the whole situation is.

Everyone was antsy about the war.

Thus, when he laid on his bed, sometimes worrying over the next vision, Karna took solace in the fact that his red eye had not graced him with further clues of alternate realities. The last thing he needed was to witness deaths (theirs) that he could not prevent.

The war started with the deaths of Virata's sons.

Karna shuddered when he witnessed Virata agonized over the deaths of his three sons, the lamentations that wracked the King's body as he tended to their bodies, right after the first day of the battle ended. He recalled Uttara's boastful but naive nature, qualities belonging to a man who tried to run away at the hardest odds. In this war, the cowardly prince chose to bravely move forward against the mighty guardian of Kuru himself. Prince Uttara had died honorably (and Karna wondered how his sister—Arjuna's daughter-in-law—was coping when the news of him arrived).

The following battles reaped loss on both camps, but the scales only tipped when Arjuna lost his sons.

Iravan was one among Arjuna's children, one born from his union with a Ulupi, a naga princess from Nagaloka. The man had little time to know more about his father, yet he jumped at Arjuna's invitation to war against the Kaurava. Perhaps it was this devotion that stole a bit of Arjuna's favor.

When the news of his death surfaced, his headless corpse tended to, Karna witnessed how Arjuna stood still, looking out at it with cold hatred. Karna would have reached out then, for he feared the damage that Arjuna would unleash at the death of his son, but Krishna already took the steps and consoled the third-born. A single hand on a shoulder, a word of wisdom—it took little effort for Krishna to calm him.

It was not so when Abhimanyu died.

He was the only one among Arjuna's children likened to his father. He was bright, charming, a warrior with both passion and serenity, a young boy who was said to be loved by the moon. His martial prowess garnered so much attention that people outrageously claimed him as Arjuna's successor. Even Yudhistira expressed his wish to bequeath the throne to him when they won. And yet no number of blessings would save him from his tragic fate: on the 13th day of the great war, Abhimanyu fell, dishonorably maimed to death by four Kaurava officers, within the ranks that he should have broken up.

It was different with that boy, for he was supposed to escape the death trap with the help of the Pandavas. His uncles and father were occupied by Jayadratha, who prevented them to reach Abhimanyu in time. By the time the Pandavas repelled him however, it was already too late: the Kaurava made a show of Abhimanyu's deformed body, hammered and battered. All of this, because they had not arrived in time.

In a way, Arjuna had a hand in killing his son. (He was not, was what Karna wanted to say, because it was Jayadratha's fault for getting in their way—not those who tried to save their beloved kin.)

Karna was quicker in consoling the man than Krishna then, gently catching Arjuna's dispirited form that almost fell to the ground at the reminder of his son's death. For a moment, those in the camp—Dhri, the other Pandavas, and some of their allies—were ready to descend on him in worry, but Krishna was already a step forward, shielding Karna from unwanted attention while silently gesturing him to get away. So, Karna did as he was told, dragging Arjuna's limping form out of the war council into his personal tent.

When they entered, Karna urged the other to lie down, to which Arjuna refused quietly. He yielded to the other's request, like he always did, and guided him to sit on the bed. Arjuna trembled under his palm, his hands burying his face under the weight of grief.

"It is my blunder," he whispered, "Had I read the situation correctly, I could have—I should have—"

But Arjuna's words deteriorated into a series of sobs, and a part of Karna's heart died too (because Abhimanyu had been a delightful person, a bright light that never failed to shine with sincerity and genuineness. Karna would still love him all the same even if he was not Arjuna's son). So, Karna leaned in and embraced the other, knowing that he had been trembling too, if only to comfort and be comforted at the same time.

Karna was unsure when exactly did they change positions: his brother-in-law laid on the makeshift bed, facing him, his head snugged under his chin, still whimpering, still heartbroken. Karna still had his hands wrapped around the grieving father, ignoring the burn on his arm that had become Arjuna's makeshift pillow. They remained like that for a while, until Arjuna finally wrapped his hands around Karna too, as if enlightenment had graced his mind—

"Jayadratha will die before the battle ends tomorrow," he whispered, the conviction behind those words unbending like steel, "If he does not, I will end myself."

—an understanding that Karna refused to acknowledge, as he gently pushed Arjuna a bit to reach for his chin, to gaze at those puffed eyes and search for any sign of weakness (of forgiveness). But he saw only the earnest desire for revenge, and Karna could only think of his lost sister, a vengeful shell of her former self.

But who was Karna to interfere in the affairs of his love ones?

He hummed lightly, before responding, "I will assist you, Arjuna. But should we fail, I will follow you."

Arjuna was caught surprised, perhaps more to Karna's last vow than the first. "You can't just kill yourself for me—"

Karna let out a small chuckle, his lips closing the distance to meet with Arjuna's—to silence his refusal before it was made. Arjuna's gasp quickly deteriorated into a pliant sigh, underlined with the need for something more (despite his denial, his principal). Karna could have easily stoked this man's wanting, but he pulled away, their foreheads touching as their gaze met.

"Oh Arjuna," he chuckled, his fingers tracing the edge of the archer's face as he ruminated, "How can I be here for you when you insistently ask to pass on? Wherever you go, I follow."

"I think... I know what I want, brother."

Even in the middle of the chaos of their army as they strove to break Jayadratha's rank, Arjuna's voice cut like an arrow aimed true. Both of their chariots were located next to each other (at Arjuna's request, despite Dhri's disapproval; Karna was needed somewhere else to chip off Kaurava's rear army), ready to descend unto the battlefield should the right opportunity arrive. A calm before the storm—before they met their destiny.

Karna turned to his right, where Arjuna was, and was surprised by the gentleness behind the latter's gaze. Those brown eyes that had been clouded by grief and fury were now clear with purpose. For a moment, the brightest of Pandava seemed to gleam in the sunlight and Karna felt a part of him stutter.

"I want to be with you, in whatever capacity you offer me, for as long as time permits."

Karna should have replied such declaration with a vow of his own, instead of gaping like a lovestruck fool. But someone had already blew the horn, sounding their army to advance. Krishna was the one to disillusion them from their stupor, prompting Arjuna to ready his army too. He followed suit, tending to his Vijaya with utmost care and checking with his charioteer, before glancing back at Arjuna's chariot once again. Krishna's silent gaze at him, however, froze him on the spot.

For a single moment, he almost thought that Krishna stared at him... In pity? But such thought was soon forgotten as Arjuna commanded the army to march forward, into the chaotic clash made by his younger brothers, Nakula and Sahadeva. They rode forward, to the middle of the clash, parting ways to pinch the enemy commander.

Many warriors fell before the might of their bows. From the distance, Karna heard thunder whenever an arrow left Gandiva's string. Arjuna saw glints of Karna's arrows, imbued by the divine light of Surya, striking true at his enemies. They strafed through the unending waves of enemies, breaking through Jayadratha's defense one rank at a time, until Karna felt off. His right eye pulsed, urging him to notice the anomaly of the battle. Amidst the sea of soldiers, war steeds, and animals alike, Karna could only see the reality of war as it was—of people killing another, of arrows nocked and shot—

—of Shakuni, who was supposed to be by Duryodhana's side at that moment but chose to be by Jayadratha's.

Dread quickly filled his lungs as he watched the cunning sorcerer pointed his staff at Arjuna. There was something black gathering at the edge of it, a powerful curse that made his right eye itch. Was it a magic so foul that even his blessed eye sensed its evil?

His charioteer suddenly made a harsh turn, almost throwing Karna off the chariot. While Karna was able to keep himself within, he lost Vijaya to the sea of soldiers (he could summon it again whenever he needed it; Vijaya is a divine construct that ignored this world’s rules after all). He bit back his curse, rebalancing his position within the chariot, and looked at Arjuna's direction—

—Arjuna was fiercely strafing through the enemies before him, the hundreds of propagating arrows launched from behind him struck his enemies dead. Among the pin-cushioned enemy soldiers, he eventually noticed Jayadratha’s chariot. Karna watched as calmness left him in the wake of rage, Pasuphata's form appearing before his hand, ready to be nocked and launched. But Arjuna saw not what Karna did, for Shakuni was already done with his incantation, the horrible curse already taking the form of an arrow as he handed it over to Jayadratha. There was urgency in how the sorcerer shoved it over, how then Jayadratha haphazardly aimed it at Arjuna's personage.

There was coldness at the bottom of his stomach as he watched Jayadratha aim. It did not matter if his stance was weak; Karna had the terrible hunch that the arrow would aim true, no matter how flimsy the aim was, and he had to end this battle now before that foul weapon is launched. The Outsider Prince reached for his lost Vijaya, trying to chant the appropriate mantra to call back its form—but the words escaped him.

He tried chanting the words again, but they laid forgotten at the tip of his tongue. His mouth tasted like ash, his mind going full-blown panic as he recalled his teacher's curse: ‘When you are in desperate need of an Astra, your memory will fail you!’

"No," he whimpered hoarsely, the desperation in his words even made his charioteer's head turn in worry—as if his master was facing death (perhaps Karna was indeed facing one). "No, please, don't—"

Jayadratha released his arrow just at the same time as Arjuna did his. Pasupatha cleanly severed the Kaurava's head from its body. The black arrow, however, disappeared as soon as it was launched, until it finally appeared, dashing at Arjuna with a speed that beat his reactional speed.

Karna watched helplessly as it pierced into Arjuna's chest, as it knocked the air out of his brother-in-law—as it fell the greatest warrior of the world.

He screamed.

Chapter Text

The Kurukshetra War was an example referred to by many as 'the war that ends all enmity'. It spanned for 16 days, in which the turning point occurred on the fifteenth day of the war. On that day, many rules were broken despite the explicit ban from the avatar of the Maintainer himself. Some had referred it as the day of Kuru’s reckoning. Other likened it to divine retribution, rained down on the Army of Kuru for the greatest sin they had committed: the dishonorable killing of Arjuna, son of Indra.

However, if one was to take accounts from the Pandavas themselves, they would tell him or her this: it was the day of sorrow, a day when they lost a good man to grief and won the battle at the expense of his honor. It was a loss so great that it was mourned, instead of celebrated: the Pandavas lost many of their allies and families, the kingdom that they tried to take back was drowned in the misery of the widows, the brother who died in this field of war—

—the Outsider Prince who shed his honor to become the scourge of god.

The wheels of fate kept on turning, turning, turning—[*]

Chaos descended not long after Jayadratha's head fell to the ground. It was preluded by Shakuni’s signs to retreat, then followed by the Pandavan’s forces routing  enemies—the half under Arjuna's command, who had not realized that their leader had been shot down. Karna's did the opposite however, remaining at their place as he himself urged his charioteer to ride faster, through the opening that the retreating forces made, towards where Arjuna was. Soldiers parted in confusion—‘What is the Panchaalan Prince doing here?’—without his order, until he finally reached Arjuna’s small guards.

Karna wasted no time to leaped out of his chariot and ran—ran as if he was chased by an ashura—until he saw it: Krishna, hunched over Arjuna’s form, his ear over the latter's lips. For a moment, there was a little hope within him, urging him to believe that Arjuna still breathed—

—Krishna tilted his head, tears streaking down his cheeks despite the serenity behind those dark eyes. The Avatar gazed at him with pity (had he known about this, then?) and shook his head.

It was in that moment that light left him, weighing his feet from marching towards the person whom he cherished so dearly. Yet he fought his own breaking because he could still see Arjuna there (surely he had not passed on yet) until he finally reached where that person laid… Krishna stepping back to make space for him.

Amidst his stillness, Arjuna looked as glorious as he last saw him on that Hanuman-themed chariot of his. Those dark locks framed his face as if to show the roundness of his face—the leftover innocence beneath his pride and fame—and his dark face gleamed under the light of setting sun. He looked at peace, as if he was just sleeping, not dead—

—Karna fell down to his knees, what little hope he had escaping his brittle grasp as he fooled himself no longer. That chest was not heaving. Those eyelids would not open. Those lips would never curve another smile. Arjuna would never rise with stars in his eyes and life in his words, because the dark lines, the potent curse made to kill mortal and divine alike, from that damn arrow-wound effectively silenced his soul.

He reached out to cradle his beloved and wept.

“He implored you to keep on living, cousin of mine. Will you betray his wish?”

On the night of Arjuna’s death, Karna made himself scarce from both the Pandavas and Panchaalas, opting to choose the peace offered by the stillness of a lake nearby. In the early days of the war, particularly when the grief of those left behind tainted the air so much that he almost suffocated, Karna would seek solace in this place. Now, he was sparing them from his own grief; what he shared between he and Arjuna was private and precious. He wished not to show any inkling of its traces, even to the closest relatives that he had.

He wished not to be found, but who was he to refuse a god?

The sun had disappeared from sight, though the sky was still painted in red as if it was burning in rage before the atrocity of today's battle. It might as well be, for the one figure that suddenly appeared before Karna looked at him with fury in his eyes, held for the outcome of this battle. And even when this person wore the skin of his beloved one, he instinctively knew that this was not him.

Arjuna never possessed such stormy gray eyes. (And he was still dead dead DEAD—)

From the shadows behind that man, Krishna stepped forward. The serenity and mystery behind his eyes seemed to bear a great depth of finality, as though he had tried everything in his power to prevent a tragedy, but failing a step.

Before Karna could speak, Arjuna's lookalike cut in (and Karna wished that he could trade his everything to hear that man once more), "O greatest warrior of the world, it is I, Indra. I come to you for a favor."

(It was one thing to gain the favor of gods, but another to have said god request one's aid. Devas were not allowed to interfere in mortal business, for the sole reason to preserve the cosmic balance of the world. But even the world had its imperfection, and the gods played within these anomalies to influence fates.

When the gods grovelled before one’s feet, it would always be with strings attached—with agendas of their own.)

The news of Arjuna’s death—the son of the king of gods—seared through heaven like a roar of thunder, disrupting much order that needed to be quenched by another's blood. 'Bring us Duryodhana's blood', they said; 'Burn down Kuru', they screeched; 'I shall lend you my Shaktii to carry your duty, child of the sun', the god in Arjuna’s skin implored—

—and Karna... How could he refuse a chance for vengeance? (And to think he had looked unto Panchaali's penchant for holding a grudge with derision.)

Having extracted his vow to end the war on the morrow (to rain divine retribution unto the world), Indra left the mortal realm in a clap of thunder. The god left him alone with his cousin, who had had not said anything, a silent observer among things. Krishna decided to break the silence between them, a shade of anger underlying those orbs.

"There could have been other ways to end this," the half-divine said, a trace of disappointment in his words as if Krishna had expected him to handle this better, "Why do you choose complete ruination?"

Karna only stared at the divine construct on his hand, judging the weight of a god's weapon, measuring the power bore by this Astra. He pondered on these: how Krishna had always been there for Arjuna; how the reverse was also true; how his cousin would go to great lengths to make path for his beloved to glory; how, as much as Bima influenced the scales or war through his might, Arjuna did so through his myriads of mystical favors; how Arjuna became that point of light, dashing towards danger, urging others to follow him, to follow the trails of destruction—

“Because you know there is no other choice, else you would have counseled me rather than stood silently by the sideline,” Karna solemnly replied. The sky had vaguely turned dark, while the moon rose in the east. Krishna’s dark eyes glistened from it, reflecting a pool of thousand stories and fates that he had witnessed but never shared, as they locked with his mismatched ones.

“I had hoped that you have learned a solution with that gifted eye of yours, an alternative to this,” he said, moroseness seeped deep in his words like grief unto Karna’s soul, “because as much as I accept this as necessary, Karna, I cannot find it in my heart to drive you to your doom.”

Karna hit the divine lance to the ground once, straightening his posture as he did so, and understood what his distant cousin meant: there was a cost of using this divine power, one that would burden his fate.

And yet, with Arjuna robbed out of his life, what more could he lose?

(The cost of utilizing Indra’s weapon was a divine item worthy of its use. Krishna silently pointed at his armor when he asked it, so Karna offered it as the price to wield it. What was the worth of his armor, compared to a complete victory?)

The war ended with the victory of Pandavas, right at the noon of the 16th day. But no one was willing to celebrate, not when they barely survived the Kaurava’s night raid led by Ashwatthama. Most of Pandava’s supporters perished overnight, including Shikandi and Draupada.

He was arrogant to think that he could not lose more.

Thus, when the vision hit him—when he saw, once more, the face of Arjuna from the other side, with Pasupatha piercing his neck—Karna would think that this was it. This was the sign that he should depart the world, that he should end this right now.

As he knelt on the blood-drenched plain, a knife silently pointed at bowel, someone gently grabbed his hand. Karna turned, eyes meeting those belonging to Krishna, and was rendered silent at the infinite compassion welling beneath.

“Will you not honor his wish?”

He remembered croaking the word ‘yes’ at that question—a broken, hollow thing that held his promise. He remembered Arjuna, whose eyes would turn to him at the mention of his name. He remembered Arjuna, who sighed as their lips met.

He remembered of promising to live on, because Arjuna had fulfilled his vow for vengeance, thus rendering Karna’s death vow null. On top of it was a new promise made from the broken shards of his heart.

Karna always kept his promise.

“I will,” Karna croaked, as pathetic as he was on the day Arjuna died, his knife dropping gracelessly to the ground. “I will.”

There were stories behind the Outsider Prince', now Regent of Panchaala's, red hair.

It was said that his hair turned so after he massacred the entirety of Kaurava's army on the 15th day, dyed with the blood of his enemies. The massacre was so gruesome that rain turned to blood, corpses were mangled and desecrated, and the fumes that rose from the ground tasted like blood and death. 

There was also the story that it was the mark of Gandhari's curse, the Queen of Kuru, laid on him for the devastation caused by his hand at the blessing of Arjuna’s divine father. ‘I curse you both!’, Gandhari's voice exploded with power, acknowledged by the world, ‘May Yadu and Panchaala perish on a single day, and the women shall weep like how Hastinapura's do!’

(She did throw that curse at him and Krishna both, and Karna could not help but laugh hollowly. Dhri was brutally killed in the chaos of the 15th day. Both Shikandi and King Draupad perished at the night-raid led by Ashwatthama, on the night of the 15th day. With no crown prince to take reign, Panchaal was already beyond saving.)

It was said that his hair turned red while his eyes turned molten gold when the curse came into effect.

But if one would ask the four Pandavas, now reigning over the Kuru from the grand palace of Hastinapura, they would retell the story of a man who sacrificed his honor so that they could achieve peace. A man with the divine Vasavii Shaktii in his right hand, calling unto beams of thunder to scorch the earth and deluge of water to separate the enemies apart. A man whose hair had turned back to its original color at the start of the 15th day, for he was released from the curse cast by his teacher. A man, as their mother disclosed to them when the bloody curtains of the war had fallen, who was their blood brother through her lineage.

A man who refused the throne of Kuru, who rejected his lineage out of his love for the kingdom that adopted him.

There were many stories about his red hair.

There was not enough of them about his life after the war.

Yudhistira sent him women.

Or rather, he sent him princesses related to the Pandavas to appease his heartache, hoping any of them would finally catch his eyes (because five years had passed and never had he visited the family that cast him away—the mother who abandoned him when he was a mere baby). Perhaps there was still room in his heart to help him grow, to grant forgiveness for their affront.

(They did not understand why Karna could never forgive... her, because they never knew the reality of his and Arjuna's tryst. Had he known, had Kunti not lied, Karna would have fought his own interest, restrained it--killed his own heart if it was necessary.

But then he recalled the pleasure in Brihannala’s—Arjuna’s—eyes and knew in his heart it was not possible to quench the flame within him—a flame that burned still, killing him inside.) 

He refused whatever the Pandavas gave him until his own sister knocked on the doors of her home.

When they met again, seven years in passing, Panchaali looked at him with both understanding and sympathy in her eyes. Karna did not divulge into her sentimentality and then offered to lead her to her room, even when it was the pages' job. When they arrived at her chamber, she implored him to stay for a while—so that they might discuss.

"I have always known," she started, quietly like a breeze, "that there was something between you and Arjuna."

He should have kept his face impassive, but Arjuna had become a festering wound in his heart for the last seven years, one which, he thought, he would bring to his grave. He was involved with his sister's husband, after all. Shame fought to sour out from his personage, breaking his facade. "You must hate me, then."

Panchaali’s following chuckle was hollow, unlike the burning flame that she was in their younger days. “I was angry at first, for he tried to hide it for me. But then I look at you, brother, and... You looked like you have found your purpose. So I turned a blind eye, but then he..."

Silence once more, one which Karna was grateful of, for Panchaali's voice was closed to breaking. Had she continued, Karna knew that his whatever was left of his composure would break too. The air grew too stifling for Karna, however, so he picked the coward way out: he stood up and head out for the doors.

But Panchaali had always been sharp and quick with her words, striking at the right moment like a thunder racing across the sky. Before he even reached the door, she spoke, "I forgive you, brother."

They said forgiveness should feel like a cool balm on one's conscience. For Karna, it felt like singeing fire that burned on his festering wound, painfully eradicating the rotting part away—the shame of hiding this.

“I…” he whispered, wanting to stop yet knowing that he had to say it—that Panchaali deserved to know of his gratefulness amidst his own self-loathing. "Thank you, Panchaali."

Panchaali insisted for one of her handmaidens to stay and assist around the castle before she departed to Hastinapura. She was tasked to take care of housekeeping, working together with the head of royal housekeeper. Her name was Vrushali, and under the orders of her queen, she stayed loyally by his side. 

On the matter between her and Karna, there were at least two different stories told by the bards: that she was the hidden mistress who survived the bloody curse that Gandhari inflicted on the Kingdom of Panchaala, or; that she was a simple attendant who perished along with thousands of Panchaalan people at the end of Karna’s rule.

However, it was decided among the story-tellers that this happened: exactly one year after Draupadi’s visitation, the political tension amongst the dukes of Panchaala broke and gave rise to a bloody power struggle. 

From the moment of his rise as the regent, half of the court members—the older ones who had great respects for Draupad but sat back during the war to preserve their kingdom—already supported him. The other half were those whose fathers perished in the war and saw the current regent not as a survivor, but as the reason for their father's demise. Karna had governed the kingdom while maintaining that precarious balance, quietly grooming a son of his father who was born in obscurity.

It took exactly eight years for the Kingdom of Panchaala to perish, the members of royal court revolting against each other in a bloodbath. ‘The Regent was responsible for their ruin', they said. ‘We are kingless because of him', they said. ‘He had no right to rule', they said.

‘Burn him in public', they said.

On the night of his death, nothing of such happened. Instead, warned by his faithful followers, Karna sneaked out of the castle, bringing alone several persons whom he trusted, to avoid his own assassination. He meant to ride to Kuru (the people’s safety took priority before his poor relationship with the Pandavas) in hopes to find support. But his little group was caught in an ambush laid by a court member from the opposing faction; a young man in his bare twenties, he recalled, who led the eastern army that guarded Panchaala.

When he watched his trusted people gutted out, rage burning in his guts as he restrained himself from chanting anything (he had seen enough death to last his lifetime, bathed in his enemies’ blood even, and Karna vowed never to use Astras again), a little part of him wondered if this was the end of the line.

Ironically, his red eye showed him these: an Arjuna who triumphed over the war but gained no joy from it; an Arjuna who lamented over Karna’s death, and; an Arjuna who wished that Karna back down on the night of his appointment as the commander of Kaurava’s army.

An Arjuna who was alive and regretted killing the eldest of them.

When he opened his eyes again, the corpses of his close supporters (kind Vrushali whose eyes opened lifelessly, staring at him in a suspension of pain for she had choked on her own blood; loyal Satyajit whom he deferred to in matters of the governance, now lying in the pool of his own blood, coming from the hollow of his cleanly-stabbed stomach; bright Kumar, whose smile easily diffused uneasy situations, his face bulging outdue to death by suffocation) strewn around him, Karna felt not dread, but rather, guilt, mixed with sprinkles of hope. Amidst the pain from being beaten profoundly by his ambushers, the horrors of losing his loved ones around him, Karna still held onto that small vision of Arjuna.

As the ambushers manhandled him so that he could face his executioner, Karna held on to that memory. Perhaps his giddy smile was too irritating that it invited a raging strike from the young man. He spat out loose teeth, then watched as the young man retracted his anger under a pretense of calmness. The sword in his hand glimmered under the moonlight—the weapon that would deliver his doom.

“Do you have any last words, O False King?”

Had he any? As he swayed there, propped by the young man’s followers, the only matter that filled his delirious thought was Arjuna as he died struck by an arrow. Of all realities he had glimpsed on, why had Arjuna died in this one?

“I wish—”

But the sword had come down, cutting through his ribs and abdomen. There was a mad glee in his executioner’s eyes as he hacked his sword through Karna’s body. Karna did not even make out a scream, for he was too tired to deal and tried to focus his last breath to word out what needed to be said.

As he fell to the ground—the final sleep eluding but there, at the edge of his hearing—Karna managed it: “—he had survived.”

Death greeted him with a hug, and Karna was first rising, reaching and expanding, even before his body fell to the ground. It smelled like the perfume that Brihannala used and felt attentive like Arjuna’s secret glances.

Dying felt like going home.

[*]—until they halted in the presence of that golden light that welled out from an urn.

And from that light, two figures emerged: one bathed in gold and white while the other in red and black. The former was dark-skinned, while the later pale.

The former, a Ruler, while the later, an Avenger.

The former emerged without a wish so that he could perform his duty; the latter did with one to overthrow fate, to take what was taken from him, to make his wish come true.

When they clashed, perhaps the stories told by the bards would matter no more.