"Don't skip any of it," Arjuna said.

He had heard storytellers do that before — leave out the slow parts, hurry past the long lists, jump straight to the end. As a boy he had hated it. When the old bards came through the palace and sang of gods and heroes, he would tug at their sleeves and beg, "And then? And what else? Tell me every part." He wanted the whole shining thing, not a shortened version.

Now he felt that old hunger again, far stronger.

Krishna had just hinted at something enormous — that he was woven through everything, that he filled all the worlds and held them up. To Arjuna it was like standing at the foot of a mountain at sunrise and seeing only the first gold light touch the highest peak. He did not want only the peak. He wanted to watch the light pour all the way down, across every ridge and valley and stream, until the whole mountain glowed.

"These divine glories of Yours," he said, leaning forward, his armour creaking, "tell me of them in full. Every one. By these glories You spread through all the worlds and stand within them, holding everything together. I want to know how. Where do You shine? In what?"

The two armies waited on either side, banners hanging in the still air. A moment ago Arjuna had been sick with worry about the battle. Now, for a breath, the worry slipped away, the way fear slips away when a good story begins.

Krishna looked at him with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. He could have said, "It would take forever." He could have given a short answer and moved on. But he saw the open, asking face of his friend — the same face that had once tugged at the bards' sleeves — and he did not refuse.

He would not tell every single glory, for there is no end to them. But he would tell the chief ones, the brightest, the ones a person can hold in the mind and follow, like a path of lamps leading home. And so the great listing was about to begin.