Sikhandin stared with fury into the eyes of Bhishma. Bhishma stared with sadness back. The great leader had recognized Sikhandin, though he had never seen his physical form. The stories had traveled far. Bhishma knew.
Sikhandin's heart pounded. A wild scream tried to escape from his throat, got caught, and became a sharp inhale. He had waited for this moment. Across three lifetimes, he had imagined himself in this very position, locking eyes with his sworn foe. He had imagined the feel of the weapon in his hand. He had felt the tension in every muscle, each night as he closed his eyes to sleep.
He imagined himself speaking bold words across the battlefield, words to make his enemy fearful and angry, but also to make him understand the wrong he had done. He opened his mouth again, tried to speak those words, but they did not come. His memory of this detail -- what was he to say? -- had been so clear and brittle only a moment ago. Now the words were a crackling fire: passionate, writhing, sparking, and dangerous, but impossible to grab; they had no form, no outline, only light and shadows and fury. He tried to conjure up a memory of his own voice -- the words he had mentally rehearsed every night across multiple existences -- but heard only the echoing voice of a young girl who had been driven mad with pain, as her words became water, then silent stone.
This moment of hesitation, as Bhishma stared at Sikhandi unwilling to speak, and Sikhandi stared back, unable to form words, was enough, and soon arrows from the Pandava army darkened the sky as they rained down upon Bhishma, who made no motion to escape them.
Sikhandin watched as arrow after arrow pierced Bhishma's armor, then his flesh. Bhishma fell. Soldiers from both sides ceased their fighting, rushing to the leader out of despair or triumph or grotesque curiosity.
An urge arose in Sikhandin to turn away, but he remained still as a stone, watching more and more faceless bodies gathering around where Bhishma had stood. Leaders of both armies arrived, united momentarily by their grief. Bhishma had been universally revered. This one leader's death was so tragic, it stopped an entire war, if only for a moment. Sikhandin, meanwhile, stood alone. The fire in him was quietly extinguished. All that remained was smoking, grey ash.
His mind emptied in one great sweep of darkness. All desire, every trace of passion or determination or righteous hatred disappeared, gone as quickly as an arrow loosed from an archer's bow. The blank abyss that was left of Sikhandin's spirit felt enormously heavy. It felt overwhelming. It felt like staring into a starless night sky. He lost himself in it for what could have been an eternity, disappeared from his surroundings into the embrace of his own emptiness. It felt good.
He became gradually aware that his body had begun moving, carrying him away from the scene as if guided by some celestial hand. As he emerged from within his own mind, he became keenly aware of every movement made by this suddenly foreign vessel of a body. His legs bent, picking up his feet, which came down in front of his body, again and again and again, for an acre and then a mile; his eyes stared straight ahead, dull as two lifeless stones; and yet he was not controlling these actions. They happened and he experienced them without thought or concern.
After what could have been minutes or hours, he was taken by his body to a river he had not previously known was there. The movement stopped and his body relinquished its hold on its passenger. Sihkandin stood at the banks for a long time, eyes closed, listening to the trickling water.
He started moving again, this time entirely of his own will. Each movement now was deliberate and slow. He entered the water, eyes still closed. It rose up to greet him, enveloping his form like a cold embrace. Finally, he was submerged, and he opened his eyes.
Blackness became calm blue.
Sikhandin was no longer fire or stone. He was at peace.
A voice wrapped itself lovingly around the remnants of his physical form before it slipped away with the current of the river.
"Welcome home, Amba."
Author's Note: I wanted to conclude my Amba/Skihandini/Sikhandin series with the resolution to this character's lifetime of strife: the achievement of her/his ultimate goal, the death of Bhishma.
I think the epics themselves do just fine describing what happens in the lead-up to this event, describing the war, then telling of Bhishma's death and funeral. It's clear from the stories that Bhishma was well-regarded in life and in death, and we get a lot of details to show this, including a brief ceasefire to honor the fallen leader. His story is wrapped up in a neat bow and concluded with great care.
However, we never receive any resolution to the struggle of Sikhandin. This is what I imagine happened.
I wanted to include some references to the previous lives of this character, both as depicted in the various versions of the epics (s)he pops up in, and as written in my versions. Throughout my Amba series, I've associated her with various elements or natural forces to represent her struggles, emotions, and strengths. In the first story, she was fiery hatred, and each time she felt the passion that drives her, I used fiery language. In the second story, she was stoic stone, and I used that imagery to portray her quiet yet unwavering persistence. Finally, throughout each story, I've associated water with moments of peace. Thus, my version of the character seeks this element to ultimately rest.
Source:
Wilson's Five Tall Sons of Pandu
