The sun painted the horizon with hues of gold and crimson as Abhimanyu stood on the terrace of his palace in Indraprastha. The soft evening breeze whispered through the arches, carrying with it the faint fragrance of blooming jasmine. He gazed at the setting sun, his mind weighed down by the knowledge of the impending war. Kurukshetra awaited, a battlefield where righteousness would clash with greed, and destinies would be rewritten.

Behind him, Uttara approached, her anklets tinkling softly. She carried a lamp in her hand, its gentle glow illuminating her tear-streaked face. She was adorned in a simple silk saree, her forehead graced with vermilion—the mark of their sacred bond. Her youthful eyes, which usually sparkled with joy, now mirrored the turmoil of her heart.

"Arya," she called softly, her voice trembling, "must you go? Can you not stay back and let the others fight?"

Abhimanyu turned to face her, his expression tender yet resolute. "Uttara," he said, taking her hands in his, "this war is not one of choice but of duty. It is my dharma to stand by my uncles and father in their fight for justice. The honor of our family, of dharma itself, rests on our shoulders."

Tears welled in Uttara's eyes as she tightened her grip on his hands. "I understand your duty, my lord," she said, her voice cracking, "but how can I let you go knowing the dangers that await? The battlefield spares no one, not even the bravest of warriors. How will I live if… if you don't return?"

Abhimanyu cupped her face gently, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Uttara," he whispered, "you are my strength, my anchor. I promise you this—I will return to you. If not as your husband, then as the son who will grow in your womb. My soul will always find its way back to you."

His words, though meant to comfort, only deepened her sorrow. She rested her head against his chest, clinging to him as though her touch could shield him from the perils of war. "Promise me," she murmured, "promise me that you will fight with all your might but will think of me, of us, before taking any step that could separate us."

"I promise you," Abhimanyu replied, his voice steady yet filled with emotion. "Every strike I make, every move I take, will be guided by the thought of returning to you and the life we have dreamed of building together."

Abhimanyu’s fingers brushed against Uttara’s cheek as a tear escaped her eye. She clutched his hand tightly, unwilling to let go of the man who had become her world.

“Arya,” she began, her voice shaky but determined, “I understand that a Kshatriya’s dharma is to fight for justice, to uphold righteousness. But is it wrong for a wife to fear for her husband’s life? Every time I close my eyes, I see the battlefield drenched in blood. I see you surrounded by enemies, and I feel helpless.”

Abhimanyu knelt before her, taking both her hands in his. His gaze was steady, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his emotions. “Uttara, your fears are not unfounded, nor are they wrong. You are my heart, my soul, my strength. Leaving you is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But remember this: I am not walking into Kurukshetra as just a warrior. I am walking in as your husband, as the son of Subhadra maa and Pitashree Arjuna, as a protector of dharma. I will carry your love with me like a shield, and no enemy can defeat a man who fights with such purpose.”

Uttara shook her head, her tears flowing freely now. “You speak with such conviction, my lord, but what if fate decides otherwise? What if…” Her voice broke, and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

Abhimanyu placed a finger on her lips, silencing her. “Uttara, listen to me,” he said softly. “Fate is a fickle thing, but love? Love is eternal. If I fall in battle, I will not truly leave you. A part of me will always remain with you, in the life we’ve created together. Our son will carry my spirit, my legacy. And you, my beloved, will be his guiding light, just as you have been mine.”

Uttara clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. “I don’t want a legacy, Arya. I want you. I want the man who teases me for burning the rice, who laughs with me under the stars, who dreams with me about the future. I want you.”

Abhimanyu’s throat tightened, but he kept his composure. “And you shall have me, Uttara,” he said. “If not in this life, then in the next, and the one after that. We are bound, you and I, not just by marriage but by destiny. Trust me, Uttara. Trust in our love. It will endure all trials, even death itself.”

Her sobs quieted as his words sank in. She pulled back, looking into his eyes, searching for some assurance, some hope to hold on to. “Then promise me, Arya. Promise me that no matter what, you will think of me and our child. Promise me that you will fight to return to us.”

“I promise, Uttara,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Every breath I take, every swing of my sword, will be for you and our child. I will fight not just as a warrior but as a man who has everything to live for.”

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of their words hanging between them. The moonlight bathed them in its gentle glow, as if the heavens themselves mourned the impending separation.

Finally, Uttara broke the silence. “Arya,” she said, her voice steadier now, “if this is the path you must take, then go with my prayers. But know this: I will be waiting, every moment, for your return. And if you do not return… I will find you in our son’s eyes and in his laughter. I will keep your memory alive, no matter what.”

Abhimanyu smiled, a bittersweet expression filled with love and sorrow. “You are braver than I, Uttara,” he said, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “And that bravery will carry us both through whatever lies ahead.”

As the night deepened, the couple sat together, sharing their hopes and fears. Abhimanyu spoke of his confidence, his belief in the righteousness of their cause, and the strength he drew from Uttara's love. Uttara, in turn, reminded him of the dreams they had woven—of raising their child together, of watching him grow into a warrior like his father.

When dawn broke, Abhimanyu donned his armor, the glint of steel matching the resolve in his eyes. Uttara performed the aarti, her hands trembling as she circled the flame before him. "May the gods protect you," she prayed, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Abhimanyu mounted his chariot, he turned back one last time to look at Uttara. She stood on the palace steps, her form silhouetted against the rising sun, her hands raised in a silent prayer.

"I will return, Uttara," he called out, his voice echoing with determination. "If not in breathing, then as the son who will carry my legacy."

As the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Abhimanyu rose, his resolve firm. Uttara stood by his side, her hands resting on her womb, her tears now replaced with quiet determination.

They said no more, for no words could capture the depth of their emotions. As Abhimanyu mounted his chariot and departed, Uttara stood tall, her heart heavy but her spirit unbroken. She watched him disappear into the distance, silently vowing to honor his memory, no matter the cost.

With a final nod, he signaled the charioteer to move. The wheels of his chariot rolled forward, carrying him towards Kurukshetra, towards his destiny. Uttara watched until the chariot disappeared into the horizon, her heart heavy yet filled with hope—the hope that love and duty would guide Abhimanyu back to her, in one form or another.

Dedication: pratxyz and -Dhadkan-