Ashwatthama’s Vengeance – Episode 1
Night settles over the Kaurava camp without ceremony. Fires burn low; sentries sleep where exhaustion placed them. War has taken its last visible breath, and men trust that what remains can wait for morning.
Ashwatthama does not sleep.
The words spoken by the dying Duryodhana follow him like a task left undone. Until it is completed, rest has no place in him.
Kripa watches him closely. He recognizes the signs: the restless pacing, the fixed gaze, the hand that refuses to release its grip on the sword. He has seen this before — the moment when restraint stops arguing.
“This night will not mend what has been broken,” Kripa says quietly. “It will only add to it.”
Ashwatthama does not answer at once. “My father was killed when his weapon was set aside,” he says finally. “Dhristadyumna still breathes. So do the sons of the Pandavas.”
Kritavarma stands nearby, listening. He does not urge restraint. He does not object either. Too much has already been crossed; resistance now would require a clarity he no longer possesses.
“Sleeping men are not enemies,” Kripa says again. “This is not how warriors answer war.”
Ashwatthama turns then. There is no fire in his eyes — only decision, edged with derision. A faint, ironic curve touches his mouth, as though the argument no longer requires words.
They move through the camp without resistance. No challenge rises. No warning is sounded.
Dhristadyumna sleeps, untouched by the war he survived.
The commander of the Pandava forces — born for Drona’s death — lies unarmed, breath slow and even.
The sword falls.
Nearby lie the Upapandavas — sons of the Pandavas, asleep within the camp.
They do not wake.
When it is over, Ashwatthama stands still for a moment, listening. The camp remains silent.
Something in him settles — not peace or joy, but the gratifying certainty that the unfinished task has been completed.
He turns at once and moves away, toward where Duryodhana lies.
By dawn, the Pandava camp begins to stir. Word passes quietly, unevenly.
Arjuna reaches the place first and stops short. Bhima comes after him, his strength checked, unable to act.
Draupadi comes last.
She does not run or cry out. Her face tightens, then stills. One by one, she looks upon their faces.
Five sons. All gone.
She kneels, placing her hands upon the earth. When she speaks, her voice is level. “They were not in battle,” she says. “They were asleep.”
No one answers her.
When Ashwatthama is discovered, he does not defend himself. He flees.
The Pandavas give chase. The war has ended, but pursuit begins again — stripped now of banners, witnesses, and rules.
Behind them, the camp remains. The bodies remain. Draupadi does not follow. She stands where her sons lie.
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