The divine eye Krishna had given Arjuna could see farther than any human sight, and now it carried his gaze up, past the dust of the battlefield, past the clouds, into the bright country of the gods.

There they all were. The Rudras stood in their storm-coloured robes, the eleven fierce ones whose anger makes the thunder. Beside them blazed the Adityas, twelve suns in a row, each one bright enough to light a world. The eight Vasus shimmered like polished metal — gods of earth and water, fire and wind, the day-star and the night-sky. The gentle Sadhyas drifted near, and the Vishvedevas, the All-gods, and the two Ashvin twins who ride their golden chariot at dawn to heal the sick.

The Maruts, the wind-gods, hovered with their bright spears. The Ushmapas, the ancient ancestors, gathered close. And behind them came the great crowds: Gandharvas with their silver instruments, Yakshas who guard hidden treasure, Asuras tall as towers, and the Siddhas, the perfected ones who had finished every journey a soul can make.

Arjuna had grown up hearing stories of these beings. In the tales, they were the ones who knew everything, who had seen the beginning of the world. Surely, he thought, nothing could surprise them.

And yet.

Every one of them had stopped. The musicians had let their songs fall silent. The healers had set down their golden cup. The fierce Rudras stood perfectly still. They were all gazing in the same direction — at Krishna's immense, glowing form — and on every face, from the smallest spirit to the greatest god, was the same expression Arjuna felt on his own.

Wonder. Pure, open-mouthed wonder.

"Even they," Arjuna whispered. "Even the ones who have seen everything are seeing this for the first time." It comforted him, somehow, to know he was not the only one whose breath had been taken away. The whole of heaven had paused, like a crowd of children, simply to look.