It's a lie, between you and I
The first time Yudhisthir met his son after exile, he didn't recognise him. Prativindhya had grown, from the boy who stomped his feet and yelled that he wanted the sweetest fruits. He has grown from the boy who was obsessed with the colour gray and always rubbed his eyes sore at the sun. He had grown so much.
"My son!" He wants to cry,"My first son, my only son, my darling son." But it's not true, it never was.
(Yudhishthir was a father as soon as he put fire to his father's pyre.)
No, father can be alive, let us check his pulse again!—No, Mother doesn't need to leave, we can ask Mahadev for a boon!I won't eat if you need me to!—I promise to never cry!—I promise I won't speak for years!
Prativindhya helps Krishna with the plate of fruit he's carrying with a smile. He's young, his boy, and yet so serene. Yudhishthir hates himself for taking away his childhood like his father took his.
(Father! Come back, please, I can't live, take me with you, please, please, please, ple—)
Prativindhya wears his hair the same way Balram does, shorter than most and with no partition in his hair, slicked back. His waves are all Panchali, curling like live fire. His eyes have changed, they're lighter. There's some scars on his skin, residue chandan behind his ear.
He wants to laugh hysterically. Of course, his son learnt from his klutz of an uncle. Bheem complained of sweat too much and chandan was the only thing that kept him quiet.
(That and now, his anger.)
Prativindhya glares at his younger brothers until they stop squabbling amongst themselves before he greets them. Nakul sneaks a teasing glance at Yudhishthir that is ignored entirely.
Prativindhya collapses in his arms the second he embraces him and Yudhishthir almost wishes for his spear to run someone through. His son. His darling son, so young, barely a man grown and so, so cracked within.
Yudhishthir knows a broken boy forced to become a man too soon when he sees him. He sees him everyday in the mirror, in his brothers, and now his son. He cradles the back of Prativindhya's neck in the same way he did when he first held his boy and his son melts.
"I will protect you," he promises to his son in a whisper harsh and primal and something savage that only comes from living in the forests as much as he has. "Nothing will happen to you. I will tear down any pain that comes your way, my son."
Prativindhya doesn't reply. He hides his face in his father's neck like he was a child again.
(A child you are, and a child you will be, my son. I ruined your childhood, I will spend my life repenting.)
That was the last time they embraced before the day Yudhishthir held his dead son in his arms. Face in neck, arms too tight around him and the back of his neck bowed.
That day, Yudhisthir is the child. He has no father, he has no respite. He has no son, he has no hope.