Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable
Chapter 78 - 76: Return From War... Respect Earned Through Efforts...
(A/N):
Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.
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Gandhara Kingdom...
Royal Palace...
In the royal palace of Gandhara—The Maya screen did not flicker this time.
It held steady for the rest of the time.
And what it showed and what everyone saw—No one would forget in their rest of their life.
They watched as Devara—As Lord Narasimha—Ended Kamsa’s life in the most painful way which send shiver down their back.
They had seen his transformation to Lord Narashima and how he leaped from the Pushpaka Vimana from the sky which was very very high and landed at the battle field.
No one spoke. Not immediately. All they felt was goosebumps all over their body as hairs on their hands stood up.
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Because the weight of what they saw—Was too much for words.
At the edge—Where Devaki and Vasudeva where looking at the Maya screen in shock.
Devaki broke first seeing her brother die.
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"...."
She leaned into Vasudeva’s shoulder as he hugged her back not speaking any thing.
Tears falling freely. As he let her pour out all her heart out.
Relief washed over her—Raw. Unfiltered. That her child would now live in the world without need to worry about her brother who was after him like Lord Yamaraj.
But not simple. Because somewhere beneath it—A memory still lingered.
Of a brother—Who once loved her. Before fear twisted him. Her tears carried both.
Loss of her brother who loved her deeply.
And freedom which he gained along with her husband and child from the same man who had turned into a pure evil.
She tightened her hold on her child.
This time—Without fear.
Nearby—Goddess Ganga and Goddess Bhudevi
Watched silently.
Shock still lingered—At what Devara had become.
At what he had endured to protect the Bhulok1 the pain which shook him to the core.
But beneath it—Pride could be seen.
Quiet. Deep.
Because he had done what even gods would hesitate to do once before taking action.
At the center—Rakmata Satyavati spoke excitedly. Firm. And Certain.
"Hastinapur is blessed to have him as our prince."
Her gaze didn’t leave the screen where Devara in the form of Lord Narasihma.
"We must not repeat past mistakes."
She was hinting at what she did due to her greed not thinking about the big picture which made Bhishma to take pledge that he would not be a the king of Hastinapur but a servant to the throne.
Beside her—Ambika and Ambalika
Nodded their head. Agreement came easily. Too easily.
Since they already knew how the throne was taking the life of other princes especially their husband.
"He must be king."
The words settled.
Not everyone received them the same way.
Meanwhile...
Gandhari stood still. Her eyes remained on Devara.
"...."
On her husband. On the man who had just changed the fate of kingdom.
Pride filled her chest by what he had accomplished.
Not blind by it. Which he Earned through his suffering and sacrifice.
Because she had seen—What he endured through the maya screen. What he chose to save even if it might cause his life.
But not far from her—Silence took a different shape.
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Madri did not speak and share the same thought as them.
Her gaze remained fixed—Not just on Devara.
But on everything around him the public.
The kneeling people who were paying respect.
The reverence to the one who saved them from tyranny.
The declarations forming in the room which wants to make Devara the king while once again sidelined her husband.
And something inside her—Tightened. Not with hatred. Not even jealousy—Not yet.
But something sharper. A quiet resistance about what they were deciding.
Because she remembered.
What her husband had given. What he had endured. What he had sacrificed.
To show all these peoples about his worth of his throne which belongs to him rightfully.
But always sidelined him making him the second choice first they preferred Pandu her husband’s brother now just when after proving all his worth once again he was sidelined after a another prince appears.
And now—Without a battle. Without a question.
The crown—Seemed to shift. Away from her husband.
Toward another. Her hands clenched slightly.
Unnoticed. Because she said nothing she kept her silence.
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But her thoughts—Moved further.
Her future—Her children—The hundred lives she had carried—Waiting to be born—Were not small things.
And she would not let them become shadows.
Not silently. Not forever.
The Maya screen continued to glow.
Showing Devara—Standing calm. Revered by the public. Unchallenged.
And in that hall—Two truths were born.
One—Of hope. And one—Of a quiet storm—That had just begun to gather.
Meanwhile at Madura...
The streets of Mathura fell quiet—Not with fear this time—But with something softer.
Awe.
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Because above them—The sky answered once more by the call of Devara.
The Pushpaka Vimana descended from the sky.
Golden. Radiant. Showing its majestic to those who were looking up to it.
Not just a vehicle—A declaration.
The crowd looked up—Eyes wide—Breath held by the beauty of it.
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No chants now. No cries. Only silence.
Because they had witnessed enough to understand—Some moments were not meant to be broken by sound.
Devara stepped onto it.
No grand gesture. No final words.
Just a calm presence—That had already said everything.
And the Vimana rose. Slowly. To the sky.
Carrying him away—From a city no longer in chains.
Time passed...—Measured not in moments—But in distance.
And soon—The battlefield of Gandhara’s border came into view.
No longer roaring of fights. No longer burning around eating the lives.
Quiet. Since the war as came to an end.
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The Vimana descended from the sky since the location as arrived.
Lower. Closer to the ground.
And as it touched ground—Devara stepped out of the Pushpaka Vimana.
His gaze swept across the field which seems to be in silence.
Weapons lowered. Enemies surrendered who were being escorted to a quite corner of the battlefield where they were kept as the prisoner of war.
The war—Was over.
Then—They approached. One by one.
Bhishma, Dhritarashtra, Drona, Ashwatthama, Karna, Parashurama and King Subala and his sons.
Leaders. Warriors.
Witnesses to the war and also those who participated.
And among them—Prince Shakuni Who stepped forward first.
A wide smile already on his face.
"They surrendered the moment you left with him,"
He said, almost laughing.
"No one wanted to face... that."
There was no need to explain what that meant.
As all of them had witnessed before.
Behind him—The others stood in quiet awe. Because they had seen it.
Not fully. But enough.
Bhishma spoke calmly—Yet even his voice carried weight.
"What we witnessed..."
A pause.
"...was no illusion."
His eyes met Devara’s.
"That form was yours. I knew the moment I saw you.."
Not a question. A conclusion of a brother knew who it was the moment he saw him.
Around them—Warriors who had faced death countless times—Stood silent.
Not afraid. But humbled. What they witnessed made them feel a respect for Devara.
And then—Pride surfaced through them that they were able fight alongside him in this war.
Not loud. Not boastful.
Deep. Because among them—Among their own—Stood someone who had done what none else could.
And in the quiet aftermath—One thought settled naturally across many minds—
Princess Gandhari Had chosen well.
Or perhaps—Fate had chosen for her.
Because the man who stood before them—Was no longer just a prince.
He was something far more—And the world had just begun to realize it.
By afternoon, the storm of war had become a story already being told.
At the borders, the sons of King Subala—along with Prince Shakuni—remained behind.
Not for glory. For for duty.
It was for Tending to the fallen. Securing the surrendered.
Closing the wounds that war always leaves behind.
Meanwhile—The rest returned.
Toward Gandhara. As the one who won the war.
And as they approached—The gates of the kingdom opened.
As soon as they entered through the gate.
The city did not stay silent. It erupted in celebration of their victory over Madura Kingdom.
Flowers filled the air—Petals drifting like soft rain—Landing on armor the warriors wore—
On shoulders of them—On tired faces but had a excitement of what they had achieved.
The people of Gandhara Kingdom—Lined the streets. To see their warriors who were coming back from the war.
Not just to see.
To welcome them showing them their support. To thank them for protecting them and ensuring their safety.
Voices rose all over the streets—Layer upon layer—Calling out the names of warriors.
King Shubala, Bhishma, Drona, Dhritarashtra.
Each name echoed all around the streets as they moved forward—Not as titles—But as shields that had protected them at this war.
Even the soldiers—Those who stood behind the great names—Were not forgotten.
Hands reached out.
Children waved excitedly at them looking at their prade in awe and longing.
Elders bowed their heads in gratitude.
Because victory—Was not carried by one alone.
It was built—Step by step—By every blade that did not fall.
At the center of it all—Devara raided a horse.
Not ahead. Not above. Among them.
Petals landing softly on his shoulders—As if the city itself recognised him the prince who had married their princess—Yet chose to honor him not as something distant—
But as someone who fought for them.
The chants grew stronger and stronger.
Not chaotic—But unified. A rhythm.
A heartbeat of a kingdom—That had survived. That had been defended.
That could now breathe.
And as the procession moved deeper into Gandhara where the royal palace was.
The roar of celebration softened into something warmer—More intimate.
Victory had returned to Gandhara—But now—It stepped into homes as the army soldiers.
Where their family is been waiting for their return.
One by one—The warriors crossed their thresholds at the entrance of the royal palace their family waited.
King Subala was welcomed by his queen—The soft glow of the aarti lamp circling him—As if warding off the shadows he had walked through.
As for Mahamantri Vidura was greeted the same—A quiet smile exchanged between the couples—No need for words.
While crown Dhritarashtra stood still—As his wife Madri performed the ritual before him.
With a proud look of her husband.
Her hands steady. But her eyes—Searching. As if confirming—He was truly back and was not injured during the war.
For Bhishma—It was Rajmata Satyavati.
Who stepped forward. Not as Rajmata.
But as as his step mom since Goddess Ganga as returned back to her domain. Along with Goddess Bhudevi seems to be having a important business they need to attend to.
The flame circled Bhishma—A blessing—And perhaps—A silent prayer that everything has been fine.
Nearby—Drona and Ashwatthama Were greeted by Kripi
Relief flickering across her face—Even as she tried to remain composed.
Seeing her husband and son safe after participating in the war.
And then—Devara stepped forward.
The air shifted—Not loudly—But noticeably.
Because even after everything—Even after the divine moment she had witnessed—This moment—Was human.
Gandhari stood before him.
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Aarti plate in hand.
Her fingers trembled—Just slightly.
The flame circled him—Once. Twice.
As if she was tracing the outline of his return—Making sure nothing was missing.
And then she completed the final circle—She stopped.
Not waiting for ritual to finish perfectly. Not caring for formality.
She stepped forward—And hugged him. Tightly.
No restraint. No hesitation.
All the worry—All the fear she had held back—Spilled into that single moment.
Devara paused—Just for a breath. He had thought she would welcome him with wide smile.
Seems like he had worried her too much.
Then—He held her back. Firm. Gentle.
Returning the hug. Not as a warrior. Not as something divine.
But as her husband—Who had returned.
And in that quiet embrace—The war truly ended.
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(Author note:)
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Mortal Realm: Earth