The Archer's Vow

The Gandiva felt like an extension of his own spine, the curve of the bow fitting into his palm as if it had grown there. Arjun drew the string back to his ear, feeling the familiar burn of tension through his shoulders, and released. The arrow hissed through the pre-dawn air, striking the dead center of the target with a sound like a finger snapped against silk.

He had been shooting since the stars began to fade, long before the palace stirred. The courtyard smelled of wet stone and jasmine, the only sounds the whisper of his breathing and the occasional thud of arrows finding their mark. With each shot, he felt the approaching day settle into something manageable. The Yadavas would arrive before noon. The thought made his jaw tighten, and he sent another arrow flying, harder than necessary.

The target was a hundred paces distant, painted with concentric circles in red and gold. He had painted it himself three years ago, when the palace armorer complained about the cost of replacing the woven straw ones. Now the colors were bleached pale by countless dawns like this one, the center a soft blur of pink where the wood showed through. He aimed for that blur, for the exact point where the paint had worn away completely, and hit it four times in succession.

"Show-off," he muttered to himself, though there was no one to hear. The words came out sounding like his mother. He lowered the bow and rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles that knew their purpose. When he shot, the world narrowed to the space between his eye and the target. There was no politics in that space, no careful diplomacy, no need to smile at the right moment or bow to the correct degree. Just the bow and the arrow and the small, perfect moment when everything aligned.

A pigeon landed on the courtyard wall, cocking its head at him. Arjun watched it for a moment, then reached for another arrow. The bird continued to regard him with bright, stupid eyes, unafraid. He could shoot it easily—one less creature to shit on the palace statues. Instead he lowered the bow and watched until it flew away, wings beating the air with the sound of pages turning.

The sun was properly up now, bleeding gold across the eastern towers. Soon the servants would begin their morning rounds, and after that would come the noise and chaos of arrival. He could already hear the distant sounds of preparation: bronze vessels being polished, flowers strung into garlands, the low chant of priests rehearsing their welcome hymns. The entire palace was arranging itself into a smile it didn't feel, preparing to welcome guests who would arrive with their own hidden calculations and careful agendas.

He shot until his quiver held only three arrows, then walked to the target to collect his practice points. The wood was splintered and soft where the arrows had struck again and again, the damage so complete that the center had begun to resemble a wound. He pulled each shaft free with a practiced twist, feeling the give of the wood against the arrowheads. Some of the fletching was beginning to fray—he would need to replace these soon, though he suspected the royal fletcher would be too busy preparing ceremonial arrows for the festival competitions.

The last arrow came free with a sound like a bone popping from its socket. He held it up to the light, checking the straightness of the shaft, and found it still true. Good. He would need that kind of reliability in the coming days, when the courtyards filled with people who spoke in riddles and smiled with their teeth while their eyes remained cold. When the compliments would flow like wine and every gesture would carry the weight of unspoken demands.

He returned to his shooting position and nocked the final arrow, drawing it back slowly. The bowstring cut into his fingers, the pain sharp and clean. He could hold this position for minutes if necessary, muscles trembling but steady, waiting for the perfect moment to release. It was a kind of meditation, this waiting, this held breath between intention and action.

The arrow flew true, burying itself in the exact center of the target with a sound that satisfied something deep in his chest. He lowered the bow and stood for a moment in the empty courtyard, breathing hard, feeling the sweat cool on his skin. The day would come whether he welcomed it or not. But for now, in this small circle of stone and silence, he was still just a man with a bow, and that was enough.

He was still breathing hard from the final shot when he heard the commotion. A clatter of wood against stone, followed by the soft thud of something organic hitting the ground. Then came the unmistakable sound of marigolds—hundreds of them—being scattered across flagstones with the kind of violence that only gravity could achieve.

Arjun turned, still holding his bow, and saw her.

She was sprawled across the courtyard entrance, one foot caught in the gap between two flagstones, her other leg bent at an angle that looked painful. The basket she'd been carrying had overturned completely, sending a cascade of orange flowers across the stones like a sunset spilled from its container. Marigolds clung to her hair, her shoulders, the folds of her yellow silk. One had somehow managed to lodge itself in the neckline of her blouse.

His brothers were already moving toward her—Bhima with his characteristic bull-in-a-china-shop energy, Nakula and Sahadeva more cautiously, as if she might explode if they startled her. Even Yudhishthir had emerged from wherever he'd been preparing for the day's ceremonies, his face arranged into the expression of paternal concern he wore for all diplomatic incidents.

Arjun stayed where he was.

The girl—woman, he supposed, though she looked barely older than a child—was laughing. Not the delicate, musical laughter court women practiced in front of mirrors, but something sharp and unguarded that echoed off the courtyard walls. She pulled the marigold from her blouse and waved it at the guard who'd rushed forward to help her.

"Don't trouble yourself," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the space. "I've been falling over my own feet since I learned to walk. At this point, it's practically a religious observance."

The guard—a young man who'd only recently been promoted from the city watch—looked stricken. Arjun could see him trying to decide whether helping her up would constitute some kind of protocol violation. Whether touching a Yadava princess, even in assistance, might be interpreted as assault. Whether the fact that she was still laughing meant she was amused or hysterical.

Subhadra—because of course this was Subhadra, Krishna's sister, the Yadava princess whose arrival was supposed to signal the beginning of three days of carefully orchestrated diplomacy—pushed herself up without waiting for his decision. More marigolds fell from her hair as she stood, and she brushed them away with the kind of casual violence usually reserved for insects.

"Though I suppose," she continued, still addressing the guard, "if you're going to fall on your face in front of strangers, you might as well do it colorfully. My brother always says I lack subtlety. This should prove him wrong."

She gestured at the flowers scattered across the stones, then looked up and saw Arjun watching her. For a moment, her expression shifted—something flickered across her face too quickly for him to identify it. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like calculation, as if she was trying to decide whether his presence changed the nature of her performance.

"Prince Arjun," she said, and her voice had changed too, become something more formal. "I apologize for disrupting your practice. I seem to have mistaken your courtyard for a garden. Easy enough error—both have stones and flowers, though I suppose the flowers are usually better behaved."

He should have said something gracious. Something that acknowledged her status without encouraging familiarity. Instead, he found himself looking at the way the marigold petals had stained her palms orange, at the tear in her silk where she'd caught it on the stone, at the fact that she was still smiling but the smile no longer reached her eyes.

"The flowers are fine," he said finally. "It's the stones you need to watch."

The feast began at sunset, when the sky outside the carved windows had turned the color of bruised plums. Long tables of polished rosewood stretched across the marble hall, each place set with plates of hammered gold that reflected the torchlight in soft, wavering circles. Arjun sat between two Yadava elders who spoke in the measured cadences of men accustomed to being listened to. Across from him, Subhadra picked up her spoon and examined it as if it were a foreign object.

She had bathed and changed since the courtyard incident. Her silk was deep green now, embroidered with silver that caught the light when she moved. Someone had arranged her hair into an elaborate coil at the nape of her neck, though already several strands had escaped to curl against her skin. She looked like she was wearing someone else's clothes, playing a role she hadn't rehearsed.

The first course arrived—lentil soup fragrant with asafoetida and cumin. Subhadra leaned toward her handmaiden, a girl barely older than herself, and whispered something that made them both snort with laughter. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the polite murmur of conversation. Several heads turned. Subhadra didn't notice, or pretended not to.

Arjun watched her spoon the soup into her mouth with the mechanical efficiency of someone performing a necessary but uninteresting task. She didn't sip it the way court women were taught—delicate movements that drew attention to the wrist, the throat. Instead she ate like a soldier, quick functional movements that got the job done. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a faint green stain on her sleeve.

"Your sister has interesting table manners," he said to Krishna, who sat two places down the table.

Krishna smiled without looking up from his own bowl. "She's been eating with stable hands since she could walk. My uncle believed it built character."

The second course was fish cooked in banana leaf. Subhadra unwrapped hers with the same practical efficiency, then paused. She held up a piece of the leaf, examining the way the steam had curled its edges, and whispered something else to her handmaiden. This time the girl's laughter was more controlled, a soft huff of air through her nose.

Arjun found himself watching Subhadra's hands. They were small but not delicate, with short nails that had clearly never been manicured. A thin white scar crossed the back of her left thumb. When she tore the fish apart with her fingers, the movement was quick and sure, the kind of economy that came from doing something many times.

She looked up suddenly and caught him watching. For a moment her expression was completely unguarded—something raw and assessing that made his skin feel too tight. Then the mask slipped back into place, and she was just a clumsy girl with fish in her hair.

"Do you always stare at your guests like they're exotic animals?" she asked, loud enough for the people on either side of her to hear.

"I was wondering if you'd manage to eat without causing another incident," he replied. "The evening is young."

Her smile was sharp as a blade. "Careful, prince. Some might say you're developing an interest in my welfare."

The conversation around them continued, but Arjun felt the words settle between them like a challenge. He had been trained since childhood to read people—the way a man's shoulders tightened before he lied, how a woman's fingers worried at her jewelry when she was nervous. Subhadra gave away nothing except what she chose to reveal, and even that felt calculated.

She returned to her fish, tearing it apart with the same methodical precision, and he found himself irritated by the way she wouldn't look at him again.

The feast ended with sweet rice and saffron milk, the gold plates finally empty, the torchlight beginning to gutter. Arjun had excused himself before the final course, claiming fatigue, though in truth he’d simply grown tired of watching Subhadra dismantle her food like a siege engine. He was halfway across the moonlit courtyard when Yudhishthir’s voice caught him.

“Brother. A word.”

Arjun stopped. Yudhishthir never raised his voice; he didn’t need to. The eldest Pandava fell into step beside him, sandals whispering over stone. They walked in silence until the sounds of the banquet hall faded behind them, replaced by the low hum of night insects and the faint splash of the fountain.

“You were rude tonight,” Yudhishthir said. No preamble, no cushion. “To a guest. To a princess whose goodwill we need.”

Arjun kept his eyes on the path. “I didn’t insult her. I barely spoke.”

“You stared as if she were a stain on the tablecloth. Others noticed.”

He felt the familiar tightening in his jaw. “She eats like a groom in the stables. She laughs at things no one else hears. She—”

“She is Krishna’s sister,” Yudhishthir cut in, voice still soft, “and the Yadavas have archers enough to decide whether our eastern borders hold. Father’s alliance hangs on gestures, Arjun. On courtesy. On the impression that we value them.”

They passed beneath a torch; its light slid across Yudhishthir’s face, revealing nothing. Arjun remembered being eight years old, summoned to this same older brother after he’d broken a tutor’s cane over his knee. The tone had been identical—reasonable, immovable.

“I value competence,” Arjun said. “She trips over air, she chatters, she—”

“She noticed the footprint patterns beneath the broken canopy this afternoon and told Krishna the rope had been cut before I did.” Yudhishthir stopped walking. “You were there. Did you see that?”

Arjun hadn’t. He’d been too busy cataloguing the way marigold petals clung to her hair.

Yudhishthir’s sigh was almost inaudible. “We cannot afford your disdain. Smile at her. Ask about her journey. Pretend, if that’s what it takes.”

“Pretend.” The word tasted sour.

“Yes. Until the vows are spoken and the borders quiet. Then you may go back to your targets and your silences.” A pause. “I need your word.”

Arjun looked past him to the dark bulk of the palace wall. Somewhere beyond it Subhadra would be undressing, brushing crumbs of fish and rice from a sleeve that still smelled of marigold. He imagined her expression if he appeared at her door with reheated courtesy on his tongue. The image made his stomach knot.

“You have it,” he said.

Yudhishthir placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of approval and expectation together. “Good. Begin tomorrow. She rides out to the river at dawn to watch the flower offerings. Accompany her.”

The hand lifted. Footsteps receded. Arjun remained where he was, listening to the fountain until the sound became the rush of blood in his ears. He felt fifteen again, banished to the armoury for smirking during a diplomacy lesson. The difference was that then the punishment had been just. Tonight he had saved a girl from a falling canopy, had watched her lick fish grease from her thumb, had felt something stir that was neither duty nor disgust—and still he was the one found wanting.

He unstrung his bow with a violent tug, the hemp cord singing against his palm. The string left a thin red line across his skin: a small, precise pain he could catalogue and control. Everything else—Subhadra’s laugh, Yudhishthir’s calm, the memory of her startled eyes above the marigolds—refused to be named.

He looped the cord, slid it into his sash, and started toward the barracks. Dawn would come whether he slept or not. He would stand beside her at the river, mouth shaped into the shape of civility, while inside him something knotted tighter with every breath.