Bhishma and Shikhandi - The Death That Was Promised

The battlefield parted. Arjuna's chariot approached, with Shikhandi standing at the front, sword drawn.

Bhishma saw and understood.

Bhishma: "Amba,"

he said quietly. So quietly that perhaps only he could hear.

But Shikhandi heard too.

Shikhandi: "That name is dead. I'm Shikhandi now."

Shikhandi: "The name died. The grievance didn't."

Bhishma lowered his bow. Around him, his bodyguard panicked—their commander was disarming himself.

Bhishma: "Lord Bhishma, what are you—"

Shikhandi: "Stand down. This fight isn't yours."

Shikhandi approached, and for a moment, just a moment, the two were alone despite the armies around them.

Bhishma: "You remember,"

Shikhandi said.

Shikhandi: "I've never forgotten. Not for a day of this very long life."

Bhishma: "The girl you abducted. The woman you refused. The princess who had to die and be reborn as a man just to face you."

Shikhandi: "All of it. I remember all of it."

Bhishma: "And you're just going to stand there? Let me kill you?"

Shikhandi: "I'm going to stand here and let karma complete itself. You wanted my death. You've earned it. Through suffering, through determination, through lifetimes of focus. Who am I to deny such dedication?"

Shikhandi's sword trembled.

Bhishma: "I thought I'd feel victorious. Triumphant. But you're just... old. Tired. This isn't the monster I've been hating."

Shikhandi: "Monsters rarely feel monstrous to themselves. I made choices that seemed right. They weren't. And now I pay. That's all."

Bhishma: "You don't even fight back."

Shikhandi: "I can't. You were born a woman. I cannot raise arms against you, regardless of your current form. This is the loophole you found. The weakness in my armor. Use it."

Bhishma: "I thought there would be more. More... something."

Shikhandi: "There never is. Deaths are just deaths. The meaning we give them is our creation, not the universe's. He's the one who will actually kill me. Your role is to make it possible. That's enough. That's fulfilling your vow."

Bhishma: "My vow was to be the cause of your death."

Shikhandi: "And you are. Without you, he couldn't touch me. Without your history, your determination, your refusal to stay dead—I would have continued forever, bound by my own invincibility. You're my release. Call it death, call it mercy, call it whatever you need to."

Shikhandi stepped aside. Arjuna's bow rose.

Bhishma: "Any last words?"

Shikhandi asked.

Shikhandi: "Tell them I went willingly. That the arrows were a blessing. That at the end, Bhishma was grateful."

Bhishma: "Grateful?"

Shikhandi: "For the ending. For you. For the chance to stop carrying this weight. Now. Let it be now."

The arrows flew. One, then ten, then too many to count.

Bhishma fell backward, suspended on the shafts that pierced him, forming an arrow-bed that held him above the earth.

Shikhandi watched, waiting to feel something—triumph, satisfaction, relief.

What came was unexpected: grief.

Somewhere in the violence, the old woman Amba had finally let go. What remained was Shikhandi, soldier, warrior—and unexpectedly, mourner.

Bhishma: "It's done,"

Arjuna said.

Bhishma: "Yes, It's done. And I don't know who I am anymore."