The king, his voice heavy with remorse, spoke: “O Queen, if I had not confessed this terrible deed to you myself, my head would have shattered into a hundred thousand pieces at once, so dreadful was its consequence. Know that for a Kshatriya, especially, to knowingly slay a forest-dweller brings ruin so great it could even cast Indra down from his throne. And if one were to release a weapon knowingly against a steadfast, celibate sage, his own head would split into seven parts. But, because I acted in ignorance, I still live; otherwise, today the noble line of the Raghus would have perished with me. How could I have survived such a sin? When I realized what I had done, the boy’s parents, stricken with grief, implored me, ‘Lead us, O King, to the place where our son lies. We wish to see him one last time.’ I took them there, where their son lay unconscious on the ground, his body stained with blood, his deerskin garment cast aside—he had already departed to the realm of righteousness. Alone, I guided those two sorrowful ascetics to their child, and allowed them to touch him. Overwhelmed with grief, they fell upon his body, and the sage, his voice trembling, cried out: ‘Am I not dear to you, my son? Here is your mother, O righteous one—why do you not embrace her, you gentle-voiced child? Speak to us! Whose sweet voice, reciting the sacred texts and teachings in the night, will I now hear to gladden my heart? Who, after performing the evening rites and bathing, will offer me words of praise as I sit, tormented by grief and fear for you? Who will bring roots, tubers, and fruits to feed me, helpless and without protector, as one would care for a dear guest? My son, how shall I care for your blind, aged mother, who is wretched and yearns for you? ‘Stay, do not go yet to the abode of Yama. Tomorrow, together with your mother, you shall depart with me. Both of us, bereft of support and pitiable in this forest, will soon follow you to Yama’s realm. There, upon seeing Vaivasvata, I will plead: “Let the king of righteousness forgive me and grant protection to these parents of mine.” The righteous guardian of the world ought to grant me one inexhaustible boon of fearlessness for such a one as I. ‘By the truth that you, my son, are innocent and were slain by one who acted wrongly, may you swiftly reach the worlds attained by valiant warriors fallen in battle. Go, my son, to that supreme state which the brave attain, who do not turn away in battle and fall facing the foe. Go to the state reached by Sagara, Shaibya, Dilipa, Janamejaya, Nahuṣa, and Dhundhumāra. Go where all the virtuous dwell—those devoted to study, givers of land, maintainers of sacred fires, and the faithful. Go where those who give a thousand cows, who honor their teachers, and who have renounced the body have gone. No one born in this lineage has ever reached an unfortunate state; but he who slew you, my kinsman, will surely go there.’ Thus, again and again, the sage lamented, his heart broken, and together with his wife began to perform the water-rite for their son. Then, by the merit of his own deeds, the ascetic’s son, now in a divine form, swiftly ascended to heaven, accompanied by Indra, the knower of action. With Indra beside him, the ascetic’s son comforted his aged parents, addressing them gently: ‘By your service, I have attained a great place; soon, you both will join me in my abode.’ Having spoken thus, the self-controlled ascetic’s son quickly ascended to heaven in a radiant, divine chariot. The great-souled sage, having performed the water-rite with his wife, then turned to me as I stood nearby, his palms joined in sorrow: ‘O King, end my life at once today; I do not fear death, for by your arrow you have made me, who had but one son, childless. Yet, because you slew my pure son unknowingly, I will not curse you with death, but with a grief most grievous and terrible. The anguish that now afflicts me from the loss of my son—you too, O King, shall one day meet your end, consumed by grief for your own son. Because you, a Kshatriya, slew a sage out of ignorance, the sin of Brahmin-slaying will not seize you at once. But this same fate will swiftly overtake you—a dreadful ender of life—just as a gift returns to the giver.’ Having pronounced this curse and lamented deeply, the grieving couple placed their bodies on the funeral pyre and ascended to heaven. O gentle one, this very sin, committed by my own hand in my youth while practicing the art of shooting by sound, now returns to me. As disease comes from eating what is unwholesome, so too does this suffering arise from my deed. Therefore, when I have come to this, the words of the noble sage will be fulfilled: I, consumed by grief for my son, shall give up my life today. Now, Kausalya, I do not see you with my eyes; do not touch me, I pray. Thus, weeping and trembling, the king spoke to his wife, overwhelmed by the weight of his sorrow.