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It all started with a journal.
Mohan Ghale’s journal and its twenty scattered entries across Kyrat’s vast expanse, to be exact.
Or, to be particular, more like.
Finding them was about as hard as finding the Thangka scrolls, but that adventure had been worthwhile. The ending a satisfying conclusion to an otherwise startling beginning.
This ending, a trip through the mind of his father, left his mouth twisted in ugly anger.
There was a certain image swimming through him at who his father was. Ajay never met the man and his mother never spoke of him.
That should’ve been his first clue, but the picture he painted held an idea at least. A faint outline of the husband his mother caught.
That idea was miles better than what he found.
The fire gives an ominous crack near his boot. Spitting out a small chunk of smoldering wood. It lands near the stack of pages before it fizzles and dies.
Ajay bites his lip. Tastes red and sneers.
His father was a killer.
So was Ajay if he’s counting sins. Became one when Sabal scooped him up from Pagan’s palace and plopped him into a battlefield of trigger-happy soldiers.
But there was a difference between killing adults who could make their own choices, who could defend themselves, and killing a fucking child.
Because that’s what his father had done. Killed a baby. Killed Pagan’s daughter.
Ajay’s fucking sister.
He sighs harshly and leans against the chipping bell tower walls. A can of beans lies to his left, fork abandoned in the tin.
He hates wasting food, but his stomach gives a queasy burble so eating’s a no-go.
The fire sputters again, spits out more burning embers and one lands on the stack of entries this time.
Starts burning with earnest and so was Ajay because his fucking father was a child killer and he grabs the stack through clenched teeth and tosses the useless waste of parchment into the flames with a sharp snarl.
His anger doesn’t quell even as Mohan Ghale’s written legacy turns to ash.
Ajay won’t forget this.
It’s a vow, one he’ll make good on.
He’ll tell everyone what kind of man the leader of the Golden Path was.
What kind of monster they followed, still believed in.
Ajay’s cold when all’s said and done, but not because the fire burned down to fizzled bits of ember under gray.
No, there’s ice sitting bone-deep and sickening in his gut where it’s curled up next to his caged wrath.
Too much tragedy in one night and grief was a harsh bedfellow to keep no matter how familiar it was.
Go fucking figure.
He didn’t get any sleep that night.
…
Abstractly, he knows he’s screaming.
Raw and hoarse, gravel in his throat matched by pop after vicious pop of the pistol in his hand.
Shooting at nothing, at everything when it didn’t matter.
When Sabal and Amita looked at him like he was crazy, like Mohan Ghale couldn’t possibly be the man he’s describing.
“Look at what he’s done for Kyrat, Ajay!” Sabal had pleaded with him, as if Ajay was the one who needed to see reason. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“He’s right, Ajay.” Amita had added. Supported Sabal like she never did around crossed arms and a hard frown. “Many false writings crop up in Kyrat, people trying to emulate your father. You must be careful with what you believe otherwise lies like this will never cease.”
“But it’s not a lie!” He’d screamed. Had read enough of his father's journals to know they were Mohan’s.
He didn’t know how to do much well but when his mother went blind from her sickness, he made sure she could still write. Made sure she could do what she loved when she was never without a pencil and paper and he taught them both how to use Braille.
How to feel the dots and words, voice to paper, without fail. The habits of each other’s fingers easy to see, to feel so she could send letters and he could send his own back and they’d know exactly who they were talking to on touch alone and that had mattered.
Had made his mother cry when even though the world was cruel she still had that. Could still hear her son in his messy writing when he wasn’t there and that fucking mattered, so he knew damn well those were Mohan’s journals when the habits of his father's fucking hand were consistent.
When Ajay learned early that everyone had habits he could see, feel, pinpoint with scary accuracy. They couldn’t hide who they were in their handwriting and neither could Mohan.
Not when each loop and twirl repeated on old paper, crumpled at the margins, ink too heavy, hand heavier when it nearly tore through. He knew enough Nepalese to find them again and again, his mother made sure of that.
His father couldn’t hide from Ajay, not when each page was a beacon Ajay fought tooth and nail to be able to understand for his mother’s sake.
But this was his father, twenty pages was all it took for him to recognize, undoubtedly, this man he didn’t want, didn’t claim.
But Sabal had the nerve to look at him with utter pity. Amita not far behind and so sure what he’d found was false that she didn’t even entertain otherwise.
Fuck, he hisses, high and sharp in his mind. Would having evidence even matter?
No, he thinks. Avoids the pity when he’ll never regret burning Mohan’s legacy.
But that?
To know his word meant nothing?
To see how little faith they had in him beyond a bullet?
Well, that’s what Ajay got for trusting them.
He knew better, really. He was the new guy, never mind the weight of his name, and he’d been in enough dicey situations by now to know to only trust himself.
He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to here, with these two who said they needed him.
Who said they wanted him.
His lip curls, bares teeth.
What a fool he’d been.
They didn’t try and stop him when he left. Stormed out as placating voices chased his back.
“He needs time to process,” Sabal has said to his other ‘brothers.’ Stopped them from following as Amita scoffed.
“Give him a call by tomorrow. We’re fighting a war, not babysitting.”
Fucking hypocrite, but he clenched his teeth and kept walking until he didn’t know where he was.
The middle of nowhere and he had no idea what to do, where to go, and god why didn’t they just believe him? Mohan wasn’t a goddamn messiah. Every man’s full of faults but they didn’t want to see when willful ignorance was better, more comfortable, fit into their world view, fit into their cause where Ajay didn’t and his pistol is out and putting dents in innocent wood long before he realizes it.
His rough panting loud, why why why clawing at his throat, when his magazines run out. All three of them and not nearly enough to calm the tremors in his hands as he holsters his pistol, picks a direction, and starts walking.
He’s no less angry, no less numb, no less betrayed.
By his father, by Sabal, by Amita.
Two out of three who he had some expectations for and he knew better.
But it didn’t fucking matter because of course it didn’t.
His father was Mohan Ghale, after all.
…
He’s not sure how he gets there.
The North is a no-mans land, still jam-packed with Pagan Min’s army despite Ajay thinning the herd. Ruthless and far tougher than what occupied the South and they had to be when they were closer to their King.
The fact that Ajay had little trouble carving a path through it says more about who he’s had to become versus any competence on Pagan’s part.
Only this time he was alone.
Three days and no check-ins, no updates. Radio silence and the quiet were as much of an answer as Ajay expected to get. Still burned him, though. Amita and “we’re not babysitting” and no Sabal and he doesn’t think that ache, we don’t trust you, would go away anytime soon.
He wonders if that’s why he’s here. If that’s why his feet carried him to the farthest possible point away from Sabal and Amita and “are you sure” that made him grind his teeth.
Did they ever even see Ajay, a boy mourning his mother? Or did they just see his father?
They called him Son of Mohan like it was his destiny, but all Ajay saw when he looked in a mirror was his mother.
Saw her eyes looking back, impossibly soft and so kind.
Saw her in the shape of his jaw, in the dip of his nose, and the curve of his cheeks.
Saw her in the grit of his spine, in the heat of his words as anger and righteous fury spilled forth like waves against the shore.
He didn’t know his father.
He was a boy from California in tattered sneakers and a green jacket. Scuffed with too many holes that not even Mr. Chiffon could fix. A heavy weight in his pocket that he cradled tight and close to the heart, and all of that said “Ajay Ghale, Son of Ishwari” because that’s who he was.
Except now, as he stands next to sheer white walls staring up up up, he realizes he could see his father in him, too, no matter how dark the night sky is.
Could see it in the rust colored stains marring his jacket and jeans. Barely visible under the starlight but they were no less accusing.
Could see it in the weight of the kukri on his belt, the harness wrapped around his chest. The potential for violence heavy and without apology.
Could see it in the dirt under his chipped nails, the mud and dust and grime caked onto scarring skin. A history collected across time and waiting to be told no matter how ugly the story would be.
He could see it, now, and he bites his cheek till he bleeds just to keep himself from screaming because he doesn’t want to.
His mother would be disappointed in him, he thinks.
That particularly sad frown she did when Ajay came home with bruises and black eyes when kids at school thought making fun of the “pointy-eyed fuck” was something they could get away with it.
He’d tell her he fought back, proud like children were, and she’d sigh and tut while dabbing at his split lip. Chided him, every time, that violence was only one answer among many and, “you must always be mindful, Ajay. Actions taken cannot be undone,” even though the fingers carding through his hair were gentle.
But he’d followed Sabal and Amita and murdered his way across Kyrat for the sake of a dream he didn’t hold. Was called Son of Mohan and the Golden Path only ever saw the prodigal son, no mother in sight, but now he’s dirty like his nails. Their once blind puppet now soiled and discarded when he spouted truth not worth believing. Not worth trusting when he wasn’t blind anymore and his father killed a child and he wouldn’t sit back and watch him be praised as a god for it when he was just a man.
He had years to be celebrated when he didn’t deserve to be, but in a contest between Ajay and Mohan, he knew however absently who they’d pick.
And somehow, standing here now, that was okay even if it hurt.
His mother was more important than a legacy he didn’t ask for. So he thinks of her kind eyes with crinkles in the corners, her fingers tracing over letters and her soft, “Oh, my son,” when he came to visit her in the hospital.
He thinks of her because she matters, was the only one that mattered as he looks up again, eyes the dip where the wall meets the parapet, and throws his grappling hook.
What came next wouldn’t matter, he thinks, because at least his mother wouldn’t be disappointed in him anymore.
…
Getting in is laughably easy.
His grip on the nylon rope steady, steadier than it’s been in months and it’d be funny, hilarious even if he could care enough to feel.
But his mind’s gone blank, took a step and a half back like he’s seeing and doing without really feeling it. Some part of Kyrat having chipped away at who he was and all that’s left is the thing clinging onto castle walls and colored rope like a spider on a thin, mealy web.
Except it’s Ajay up there, dangling precariously on more than just the rope in his hands, but he still climbs. Has made peace with his decision so when he reaches the wall, hauls himself over and onto his feet, there was no going back.
There was nothing to go back to regardless.
Nothing he trusted. Nobody that trusted him.
But maybe there was one. His hope small, paralyzing if he lingered on it too long, but it was hope nonetheless.
A hope that led him through unguarded halls, polished floorboards that didn’t creak because Ajay was forced to learn better than to let them.
A hope that heard humming and followed its thread as it tickled at memories of cribs and lullabies and the calming love of his mother.
A hope that found him staring at a garish pink back, perfect posture as elegant as the music flowing through the room, through the lips of a King whose gaze washed over mountains and valleys instead of the boy behind him.
A boy who could barely speak, let alone breathe. But he made it. He was here.
Searching, aching, wanting and the words crack over the air when he finally speaks.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He ignores how the humming stops.
Ignores how he wished it didn’t.
Pagan Min is poised when he turns. Not a single hair out of line as he meets Ajay eye to eye like he knew he was there all along.
Maybe he did.
Except the King doesn’t speak. Not a damn word when all he’s ever done is fill Ajay’s silence and it’s frustrating.
Pagan doesn’t get to be silent now. Not when Ajay’s here in front of this man who’s never been anything but talkative. Crude and callous but present with Ajay, always with Ajay, and he needs that, is begging for it when his father-
When his sister-
When his mother and-
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tight and threadbare and he wants to shake the man. Wants to rant and rage when the only motion in the room is the twitch of Pagan’s jaw.
Faced turned sour and sad and so much more that Ajay can’t place, doesn’t know how it read, doesn’t trust himself enough to even guess about and he’s so tired. So fucking tired.
Tired of the missions, of choosing sides, of hearing about the Golden Path and Mohan Ghale and “You’re doing the right thing, brother,” as am I, am I, am I rings loud and treacherous through the silence that always followed when Sabal or Amita saw him out and closed the door in his face.
He’d turn around and walk away. Closed his eyes against the hurt, against the arms that kept him at length and led him across tightropes with no net. If he fell, he’d do so with no hands to reach for him, none that’d scream and scrape and pull him up, and maybe the distrust was always there.
Maybe that’s why he closed his eyes against it. Hid himself and his doubts and his whys in the black behind his eyelids where no one could see and that’s why he doesn’t see this coming.
Doesn’t hear Pagan approach him. Doesn’t watch as he stops before the brittle boy turned man a breath away from falling apart. Doesn’t see the angered anguish marring Pagan’s face, a hateful familiarity when he’s been there before. Hunched over and broken and lost and Ajay doesn’t see this, doesn’t see the mirror Pagan is facing at him with, but he feels it.
Feels the comfort. Feels the heart wrenching empathy, the whispered, “I know,” as arms curl warm and grounding around him and Ajay can finally, finally, breathe.
Stutters around the staccato of unfurling doubt and fear that eventually drowns under the sheer relief of someone being there with him. Actually there.
One beat, then two, and he hiccups. The choked off noise of desperation but he’s not crying. Face dry and red and he just… leans.
Rests his head on a suit worth more than him and lets Pagan hold him up when he knows he can’t do it by himself anymore.
They stay like that for a long time.
Ajay, breathing. Pagan, there. Staying.
And that?
That speaks louder than words ever could.
…
It was ugly, really.
Sorrow and heartbreak never pretty, never the beautiful poetry it’s written as and his choked off gasps were no different.
Composure eventually reaches him. Enough so that the quiet understanding bleeds out of the room as something more blase, more familiar, slithers in to take its place.
Pagan is of a wily breed. Unpredictable and all the more crass for it. Ajay barely knows him but this much is a given so when Pagan steps back, gives Ajay’s cheek a pat, it’s not entirely unexpected.
“There, all better?”
Ajay blinks.
Weird, but not unexpected.
“Good.” He nods as he gives a quick flick of his hand. “Because we must do something about that.”
As if the before never happened.
As if Ajay being here, seeking Pagan, wasn’t the most bizarre decision he’s ever made.
As if who or where Ajay was didn’t matter because he was here now.
“You just gestured to all of me,” he manages to get out, voice rough and going along with it because hell, maybe it really didn’t.
Maybe a lot of shit didn’t.
“Yes, and I meant it too,” Pagan assured with an arched brow. “I mean really, Ajay, when was the last time you looked in a mirror? You’re not a monkey for God’s sake and I have standards. Standards that will be met if you insist on creeping into my palace at the ass crack of dawn.”
He should feel affronted at that. That’s an appropriate response when someone insults your clothes, but he merely looks down and tries to see what Pagan does.
They’re just his clothes. There’s no reason for Pagan to be that disgusted. Besides, “Not like anyone’s here to see me.” Not like anyone’s cared before. Not like anyone’s ever seen him to begin with.
“I am, Ajay,” the King argues over folded arms and judging eyes. There’s dirt on the floor where Ajay’s sneakers tracked it in. Messy globs that Pagan sneers in disdain at.
Pagan misses how winded Ajay suddenly is.
Or perhaps not when he gestures, “Now shoo! Off to the shower with you. And leave your clothes outside the door!” Tutting away as Pagan’s hands quickly push him into a bathroom that looks too modern to belong in Kyrat.
Flat whites and grays with hints of polished red and running water and of course he has a toilet and not an outhouse. Pagan is the King of Kyrat after all, but it’s so bizarre that he can’t even muster up any resistance, any shock as he’s manhandled in and left to his own devices.
He looks down again once the door creaks mostly closed. Tugs at the edge of his jacket and feels the confusion mar his face when he fails to fathom what the hell Pagan would find so disturbing about his scruffy jacket and jeans. Still, he shrugs out of them and leaves them in the unceremonious heap Pagan asked for outside the door.
That, and anything else he’d consider a weapon. He lost most on his trip up the mountain. When he’d run out of ammo, out of bombs and knives and the patience to resupply, he let it hit dirt and kept walking.
His kukri was the last remaining vestige of his time with the Golden Path. It sits atop the dingy pile but he closes the door without hesitation.
Ajay’s sure he’ll never see any of it again, but his mother is resting gently on the counter and soon there’s hot water running streams down his back and he can’t really be bothered to care about much of anything anymore.
…
He realizes he’s on autopilot, somewhere between getting in the shower and getting out.
Running water had a way of quieting the world, hushing the buzz of thought and all its sharp edges, and Ajay lets it. Leans back and has the warm spray carve paths through grime and sweat and betrayal until hot steam and nothing is all he feels.
But it’s not like before.
There’s no pressure here. No urgency.
He just is, so he grabs a rag and soap to clean under his arms, behind his ears. Watches suds and mud and the waft of too much copper get swallowed by the drain before he steps out and grabs a towel. Musses a grime-free hand through his wet hair and distantly registers how he feels better. Feels a level of clean and human and calm he doesn’t remember ever feeling… but now what?
He’s on the edge of a cliff. Squeaky clean and peering over a precipice full of possibility with a towel in one hand and his mother on the counter and the doorknob off to his right looks too large, too heavy to turn and pull open. Is suffocating in its implications until he looks over.
The urn glints like battle armor under the bathroom light, bright and unmarred like he kept it.
Whole and safe and not forgotten by a grand total of two people and Ajay?
Ajay reaches for the handle and swings the door open.
He’d made his decision already. That’s why he’s here.
Pagan finds him on the other side. Immediate as he zones in on Ajay and his barely-there towel held tight with one hand and he freezes in wide-eyed shock.
Pagan huffs, his hair tousling and Ajay feels like some sort of voyeur when their eyes meet.
He thought Pagan would leave the clothes by the door or something. Not be there, waiting, when Ajay came out.
There’s a familiar burn to his cheeks and neck, crawling slowly over his body in a mortifying display as they face off.
Even Kyrat and all its shit couldn’t banish the bashful part of him.
He almost apologizes for the absurdity of it all.
Almost.
That is until he remembers this is entirely Pagan’s fault so the man can take his amused smirk and shove it.
“I don’t have anything else to wear,” he still defends, reminds the King this is his fault with a boyish embarrassment he doesn’t recognize.
“I’m aware.” His chuckle is definitely, purposefully, sultry and makes Ajay go a few shades redder.
There’s a lump of clothes in Pagan’s arms when he turns. He offers them easily enough but the King’s shoulders are still shaking behind poorly hid humor as Ajay snatches them up. He slams the bathroom door in Pagan’s face for good measure and finds petty satisfaction in how the noise echoes.
“Oh, Ajay, you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Pagan teases, teases, through the goddamn door as Ajay fumbles to get the pants on. “Though you’ve certainly grown since your diaper days.”
Ajay barely had the first leg on. He misses the second one entirely.
Fuck Pagan.
But there’s a disbelieving smile sliding onto place.
How could there not be when this is the most human he’s felt in months?
…
Pagan hands it to him later.
Once he’s out of the bathroom for good. Once he takes in the too big room with its sun-streaked furniture and bed fit for a King and realizes he snuck right into Pagan’s room of all places.
He doesn’t regret it.
Not when the bed is soft where he sits on it.
Not when the weight of his mother gleamed light in his hands for the first time since she died.
He wonders how he kept her safe this long. Whole and untouched like she should be.
He thanks whatever gods there are that he has.
The bed dips reminding Ajay that Pagan was still very much present.
They fall into the stillness of morning as the sun rises outside. A peace neither wants to break until the sound of searching hands through cloth bring Ajay back to the present.
Then there’s gold in his view. So in contrast to the silver that he has to blink a few times.
He recognizes this thing now staring back at him. Well worn, well loved, polished so it shines.
The last time he saw it, it was glinting angry red in harsh hands. But Pagan’s not wearing gloves now, there’s no blood here, on shoes or hands and Pagan’s fingers run familiar tracks on the gold plating like it’s a palm stone. Like it’s grounding him and Ajay understands because it’s how he holds his mother when life gets too loud inside and out.
He’s hesitant as he takes the pen and holds it next to the silver urn.
“Your mother gifted me this, as we grew close,” Pagan shares, voice filled with somber fondness. “I said to her, ‘What use do I have for a pen?’ She asked what use I had for her.”
It sounds pointless, really. A memory with little meaning beyond being just that; a memory.
Except this is Pagan.
And Pagan is honest, even when his words are not.
“I miss her,” he doesn’t say but Ajay hears it, loud and clear, and there was so much to miss after all.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s quieter than before, less choked up like a spear through his throat when so few cared in the first place.
When no one bothered to ask ever and Ajay wonders, not for the first time, why Pagan hadn’t said anything first? Used his sharp tongue and quick wit to stall Ajay, to let loose his family history, sordid as it was.
To tell Ajay that his father was a murderer. That his mother killed him in her grief. That he had a sister. That this country destroyed his family before he even knew it.
Why didn’t Pagan tell him, if he wanted to keep Ajay by his side? Why did Ajay have to find out through journals now ash in the wind between him and those he thought he could trust? Those that lied to him, lied to themselves?
If Pagan wanted Ajay to stay, all he had to do was say something, so why didn’t he?
He looks up and their eyes meet, gray on brown and Ajay doesn’t wonder anymore.
Not when the answer is written in pained, rueful lines on the King’s face.
“Would you have believed me?”
And the Ajay of before? He wouldn’t have.
Face turned sour, but it’s true. He wouldn’t have believed a word of it. Would rather have suffered denial and found small comfort in thinking himself righteous instead.
But now?
Now Ajay holds the gold plated pen with something close to reverence. A tremor to his palm when he cups it and a bubbly wet laugh escapes him as he stares at the keepsakes of his mother, of who they belong to. An urn and a pen, a son and a King, and thinks, how fitting.
But they’re together now, this pen and urn, this son and King, and the pieces of his misguided, used self feel slightly less broken for it.
…
“I didn’t know sweatpants met your standards,” Ajay tests later. Breaks the ice when his eyes are dry and there’s no hand squeezing his heart.
His mother and her pen are sitting quietly on the desk.
“If you had stayed, you would have,” Pagan replies, firm but not unkind. Tentative even as a wry grin starts slipping onto his face.
“The tortured souls soundtrack you had going was a major turnoff.”
There’s a beat. And another.
The room quiet as they watch each other and then… Pagan scoffs.
Undignified and fond and, “You sound like your mother.”
And Ajay is breathing again. Didn’t know he was holding his breath but wait…
“My mother?” Because he’s pretty sure he fucking does not.
“Oh, yes,” Pagan assures around a knowing smirk, the sadist. “Though she certainly had a decorum and propriety you do not possess. But her wit!” He claps, points jointed fingers at him, “That you possess in spades, dear boy.”
Ajay doubts that.
“Almost as much as me.”
And now it’s Ajay’s turn to scoff. Sharp through the nose and it’s barely been 12 hours and Ajay’s cried on the man’s fluffy, stupid bed, but this?
Them?
It’s surprisingly easy.
Ajay could get used to easy.
…
“Lakshmana isn’t a place, she’s a who.” Pagan’s tone low and full of gravity.
Oh.
Ajay was an idiot.
Because of course Mohan had never bothered to learn her name. A filthy daughter born from a relationship he despised and she was only worth as much as a body in a bathtub.
Their walk to the shrine is quiet, Ajay clenched with rage and nowhere to aim it.
Then he sees the shrine past Pagan’s shoulder and everything grinds to a halt.
Peaceful does not do the unassuming shed sat high and haloed by white on the crisp mountaintop justice.
There’s the faint melody of chimes swaying, and though the wood is worn by time it is still well-kept and clean.
A place, a daughter, loved infinitely by one man who gives a single, gentle stroke to the door. Ajay’s heart is heavy with a strange mix of grief and relief when he reaches it.
“Your mother wanted peace, Ajay. It was her dream.” Pagan confesses as Ajay rests a hand of his own on fading red. Pausing when Pagan moves to continue. “One I… did not fulfill.”
“You lost a daughter,” Ajay says through the wind and ice and history laced across lifetimes like that explains it all.
Because it does.
Death was unforgiving, and grief had a way of twisting people into shapes they no longer recognized.
And while Pagan is responsible for all that he has done, Ajay cannot find it in himself to blame the man for becoming the monster Mohan thought of him as.
“We make our own monsters, Ajay,” his mother had said.
She was talking about Mohan, he thinks. About Pagan, too.
“And,” Ajay says into the silence, glancing at his mother then Pagan again. “You lost my mother, too.”
Pagan stares, face unreadable. He takes a breath, slow, then lets it out in a wispy trail of condensation that sounds lighter somehow.
“And Ishwari, too,” Pagan agrees.
Ajay presses his hand more firmly to the door. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore, indeed,” he hears whispered as he pushes it open.
…
The shrine is quiet on the inside.
No, not quiet. Still.
While there is distinct care in how it’s been kempt, the memorial itself mutes the world beyond its walls. He takes in the trinkets, the toys. A pile of dusted books and dried plants. The smell of burning incense sharp in his nose.
Native wildflower and worn books, her favorite spice and musky rainwater.
It’s a time capsule.
His mother and her scent, who she was, what she was remembered by, fills the room as if giving the child who watches from the painting tiny pieces of her mother to rest by.
An act of painful yet undeniable love.
Ajay’s throat is tight when he reaches the altar. Gold to match his mother’s silver.
Lakshmana’s visage is taken in black and white, but Ajay can see the family resemblance. They both have their mother’s eyes.
He places his, their, mother gently next to her. An act so simple but he no longer feels like Atlas. A whole world bearing down but it falls away.
His mother and Lakshmana stare back in silence.
He picks it up, then.
Lakshmana’s urn is painfully light though the gold shines brightly.
He runs a thumb over her name. Once, twice. Etches the pieces of her into memory, his last family member and he’ll be damned if he forgets what her name feels like.
He’s not Mohan.
“I’m sorry,” he catches himself saying to the urn, then to Lakshmana herself. “I’m sorry for what my father did to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
The words were important, somehow. Necessary when Ajay doubts anyone else has bothered saying them, bothered acknowledging Lakshmana’s death in the first place.
But Lakshmana deserved an apology. Deserved more than that and his throat goes tight again.
His eyes burn as he rests his head against the urn.
“Rest well, little one. Our mother has returned to you.”
…
He’s different when he walks out.
Not the same as before. Not the same as he thought he’d become after laying his mother to rest. After meeting his sister.
He finds Pagan under the barren trees by the cliffside, back facing Ajay.
Pagan isn’t the same either, Ajay supposed.
Was, perhaps, never the same since he found his daughter and lost Ajay's mother.
And there, with the snow and sorrow and lost time between them, Ajay makes a decision.
A decision that matters because maybe Pagan was different now, different than what he could’ve been, but so is Ajay.
And that’s okay, he thinks, fierce like Mr. Chiffon taught him.
Because maybe, between the two of them, that difference won’t feel so lonely anymore.
…
“I’m sorry I left, Pagan,” he says a week later over Crab Rangoon and some sort of sparkling berry concoction he didn’t think he’d like.
There’s no reason to, really. Why would he apologize to a man whose army has only ever tried to kill him?
But… it felt right.
Right like too much hadn’t until then.
So he said it, and froze Pagan in the process.
Fork halfway to his mouth. The food drops off long before Pagan notices.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Ajay”, he eventually says softly. A new side Ajay has begun to see, and see often.
It’s a lie, though.
They both have much to be sorry for. But they both also know that life’s too short to dwell on the past.
Ajay spoons around his plate and takes another bite. Cutlery scraping and Pagan flinches in his chair.
“Manners, Ajay!” He huffs, but Pagan is eating again so Ajay scrapes the cutlery once more, smirking all the while.
…
“What brought you here?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Not to Kyrat, Ajay, I mean here. To my keep.”
"To me," Pagan doesn’t say.
“…Oh.”
Pagan’s decidedly unimpressed when Ajay doesn’t elaborate further.
He sighs. “You knew my father, Pagan. What he did, who he was. The Golden Path didn’t want to believe it.” Didn’t want to believe me.
“And,” he adds at the end like this wasn’t the most important part. Wasn’t what had him moving, running here to begin with. “You remembered my mother.”
“I could never forget Ishwari.” Immediate and beyond doubt.
A promise, Ajay notes as he relaxes into the silent office again.
“Was it the journals?”
Ajay perks up. “You knew of them?”
The face Pagan pulls is more than a little nasty. “I should’ve burned them all when I had the chance.”
Ajay snorts. “Already done.”
The King blinks from behind his desk.
It’s not often Ajay gets to surprise Pagan. He can’t remember doing that much at all. Twice, maybe?
It’s a funny look on the man.
One that has Ajay snorting again, then all-out laughing when the cut of Pagan’s brow dips further.
A pen comes flying at his head.
Pagan doesn’t get it back for days.
…
The calls come in with glaring frequency.
They never stopped, actually. Just paused for a week and some days like they were giving Ajay space to throw his tantrum then come back.
A week and a half too late, if you ask him. Three fucking days too late.
It blares to life again from somewhere in the room.
“Ajay, please answer me brother. We’ve not heard from you in days and we’re concerned.”
Concerned for what? That he’s gone a died on them? That he’s not there to do the fighting for them?
Ajay stares at the little black box from afar but otherwise doesn’t move from his tea and leathered seat.
“You going to get that?” Pagan asks over the rim of his own cup.
Pagan was also receiving calls, as it were.
Calls like, “We’ve secured the bridge again, sir.” And, “They couldn’t hold the airport, my King.”
So many that the man’s desk began to pile up with enough reports he could rebuild a fucking tree out of them.
A vindictive part of Ajay quite liked the view from where he was sitting.
“No,” he answers after a long sip and is surprised by how much he means it.
There’s guilt in him knowing that he’s sitting here, safe and relaxed while innocent people die. But, he finds, it’s not enough to make him regret his choice.
Not enough to make him pick up the radio and respond.
Ajay never asked to fight. He simply wanted to lay his mother to rest. And they burned the bridge between them of their own volition.
Ajay wasn’t going to build it again. Wouldn’t even pick up the tools and try.
He doesn’t care if that’s selfish of him.
The radio goes off again. Muffled and urgent.
Then again an hour later.
Ajay misses the last one. Chose to nap instead when he had months worth of sleep to catch up on.
He misses the thoughtful tilt of Pagan’s head too, but he’s safe and sleeping so it’s probably fine.
…
Dropping bombs was easy.
Ajay was constantly reminded of that fact when he was racing across Kyrat with enough armaments strapped to his body that he became a walking hazard to anyone within ten feet of him.
And yet there was no shortage of fire and shrapnel and poorly placed C4 flying full speed at him all the damn time.
Mostly expected, some not.
The morning he grabbed the remote for the C4 instead of his radio was an exercise in fear and futility.
Never happened again, though.
So… he was familiar with bombs. The kind that killed.
Pagan was, too. But they were bombs of a different kind.
“Did you know you’re the rightful King of Kyrat?”
Ugh, no. No, he didn’t.
He hopes his wide, horrified eyes convey that properly.
“You didn’t know?” And fuck Pagan’s faux innocence, he’s not fooling anyone. “Your mother was the Tarun Matara, the spiritual leader of Kyrat and Kyra incarnate. That makes you, her son, a rightful heir to the Kyrati throne.”
The explanation does not help.
“…What?” It comes out a little strangled.
“I was going to give it to you regardless, whether you wanted it or not,” Pagan waves carelessly. Ajay stops breathing.
“Do you want it?” And oh, how thoughtful. Pagan’s asking and that’s so considerate and-
“Fuck no!” He shouts, hands everywhere.
Pagan has the gall to look amused.
“Well then… we have a problem.”
Yeah, he nods fiercely. Yeah, they do.
…
Pagan doesn’t want to stay King.
Ajay doesn’t want Kyrat.
Neither think Sabal nor Amita are good leaders.
They take walks and talk about Ishwari and Lakshmana instead of bothering with it.
It’ll sort itself out, they’re sure.
…
They weren’t quite sure when it happened.
If Ajay had to guess, it was the day he crawled into Pagan’s castle and then stole a shower and shared his grief with the man.
But it doesn’t really hit him until weeks later when they’ve had the space and time to talk and they just never talked about this.
About how Ajay has taken up residence in Pagan’s castle.
About how they share every meal together, even the late snacks over raksi and the night sky.
About how Ajay is never alone, and neither is Pagan.
Where one goes, the other follows. Always.
Ajay usually hated constant company. The need to perform, to put on a mask and be too tiresome for him to deal with.
He doesn’t have to do that with Pagan. And Pagan doesn’t have to do that with him.
There’s no secrets between them.
Sure, there are those unsaid as of yet, but when one asks, the other answers.
A genuine, raw honesty typically found in bonds built over decades.
But it’s been days, a handful of weeks when strung together, yet here they are.
It reminds him of his mother, their relationship, but not quite. Pagan is not his parent.
He’s not a friend either, though. Is too close to just be called “friend.”
They’re sitting together in Pagan’s office, a common occurrence as of late, when it hits him.
“Family,” he says. Lets the word hang on his tongue, rest in the air.
There’s a thump from the desk.
Ajay turns to see that Pagan has dropped the book he had in hand. Hands aloft like he’s still holding it but his eyes are on Ajay. A little wide and a lot of bated apprehension held in them.
Ajay frowns, hating what he sees.
Uncertainty is not a good look on Pagan.
And this Pagan has never been uncertain about anything. Not where Ajay could see.
But the more he stares, the more Ajay thinks about how much he wasn’t seeing. How much he never saw. And with every passing second, he becomes more and more sure of what he said.
“We’re family,” he states again, voice hard with the certainty of a King.
Pagan gives a small flinch. Missable if Ajay weren’t searching for it.
Ajay wonders when Pagan last heard that word from someone who meant it.
Pagan swallows and makes to grab for the book he dropped. He picks it up, resettles it so the pages aren’t being crinkled and the spine is no longer pinched.
He refuses to meet Ajay’s gaze all the while.
“Yes,” Pagan eventually breathes. His hands still rest on the book, but there’s gold held tender and warm in his fingers. “We are.”
We always have been.
…
Though the North was retaken by Pagan’s army, his forces were still worn thin. Brittle in the wake of Ajay and his relentless path through bodies and safe houses. Outposts and bell towers.
“You couldn’t have left more alive?”
“They didn’t give me much choice.”
“Yes, well I doubt you gave them much of one either,” and it’s supposed to be an accusation but Pagan’s pouting kinda ruins it.
Then he sighs, long and loud past the report he’s viewing.
“Yuma is dead.”
Ajay’s first thought is to ask who did it. He was first in line and there wasn’t news of any after that handled the workload Amita and Sabal thrust at him.
They kept secrets though. Hell, maybe it was Sabal or Amita who did her in. Finally getting their hands dirty when they couldn’t ignore it or push it off onto someone else anymore.
But then it registers and Ajay feels like an ass.
“Are… are you okay?”
“Hmm?” Pagan looks up. “Oh, you expect me to mourn her, do you? My sister was dead long before the Golden Path made it official, Ajay. Now? Now I’m just disappointed.”
“She wanted to kill you.” He adds after a thoughtful moment. “Thought you made me weak like your mother did.”
Ajay’s answering snort is sharp and mocking. “As if she could ever be.”
Pagan smiles. “As if she could ever be.”
…
“I found Shangri-La.”
“And I caught Crabbs from an elephant, Ajay. Please, be more specific.”
“I… found Shangri-La.”
“…You did?” Pagan asks, actually listening this time.
Ajay nods, fighting hard to hold the petulant glare he’s got pointed at Pagan.
“…Huh.”
That’s it?
And it must show on his face because Pagan chuckles.
“Yuma would be quite upset that the son of Ishwari found what she spent years searching for. How did you? Find it, I mean.”
“It’s a long story…?” Ajay shrugs, deflating.
“Won’t you share it?” And the irony is not lost on either of them. But Ajay knows Pagan’s asking because he wants to know Ajay and nothing more.
Ajay’s grin is light and a little less grouchy. “Why not?”
…
Ajay doesn’t return to the fighting. At all.
Pagan’s desk and radio and phone, “For fuck’s sake, did I say you could call?” continue to show evidence of the Golden Path’s imminent defeat.
It’s rather anti-climactic until it isn’t.
“We’ve cornered them, sir.”
“Good. Bring them. Alive, or you won’t be.”
Ajay raises his head from his camera. Nestled in old photos but he arches a brow at Pagan.
“We’re throwing a party, Ajay. The guests of honor must arrive alive for the party to start.”
And that’s… slightly less confusing. But not by much.
And a tad disconcerting when he remembers his welcoming party, but Ajay’s not keeping count.
They’re greeted to the sounds of gunfire and mortar shells. The terror filled screams of active warzones through their comms.
Then it gets real quiet for too long to mean anything good.
There’s a rustle. Someone fumbling around the sensitive microphone. Ajay winces as a voice comes through.
“They’ve managed to escape, sir.”
Ajay and Pagan both know who they are, and of fucking course they did.
But what would Amita and Sabal decide to run for, besides saving their skins?
They must feel it. That this is it for them, for the Golden Path. Writing on the wall and all that.
And it’s not like they had some secret weapon in store. A trump card, do or die, waiting on a back burner.
Their people are dead or dying. So is Kyrat as it’s torn to more pieces than in half.
Hell, they didn’t even have family to return to. No loved ones, spouses or otherwise. All they had between the two of them was a child that wasn’t even their’s and-
Ajay pales.
Fuck.
His camera clatters to the ground, the sound harsh in the gritted quiet.
“Ajay?” Pagan questions, real concern when he looks Ajay over and frowns.
“The kid,” Ajay manages, chokes, horrified. “Did they see a kid? About 14, green eyes, female?”
How could he forget?
Pagan’s a King, had stayed King for a reason, and he’s already talking into the mouthpiece before Ajay finishes.
There’s a few agonizing beats where nothing comes through. Torturous and Ajay will never forgive himself if something happened, not to her, not ever when it was something he could’ve prevented-
“No, sir. There’s been no sign of her.”
Ajay slumps, energy spent as he melts into the chair. “Fuck.”
That’s who they’re running for.
“The little Tarun Matara?” Pagan asks cause Ajay said that out loud.
“Bhadra, yeah.” Ajay sighs rubbing a hand down his face. “She’s a good kid, Pagan. Stuck between Sabal and Amita but she’s the one who told me about Mohan. About my mother and the journals. I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t said anything.”
And maybe that’s an exaggeration, but Bhadra was honest with him when no one else deemed it important to tell him a damn thing.
To tell him about the father he never knew and a side of his mother he didn’t know.
That was because of Bhadra. And sure they’ve met less than a handful of times but the way Sabal and Amita fought over her like a piece of meat with no voice sat ugly and sour on Ajay’s stomach.
She didn’t deserve that. No one did.
And her getting killed due to their stupidity, Ajay forgetting, was somehow worse.
“Find her. Please.”
Ajay doesn’t know what he expected Pagan to say, but the sobered, “We will,” had him slumping in relief.
…
They tried to kill Bhadra.
Angry red on her neck. A thick, accusing line as she coughs. There’s a tremor to her hands, fear in too young eyes as she grapples at her throat and chest and attempts to breathe for all that she can.
They tried to kill Bhadra.
Ajay almost kills them. One second is all it’ll take.
They’d deserve it. Just like Mohan did.
And they’re right here, not even hard to find. Easy, when Ajay got involved and he wants to kill them.
Curl his own hand around helpless necks but Bhadra’s behind him. Ajay a shield between them and her and that is the only reason he’s not moving right now.
They’re a hunched over mess, handcuffed and huffing on their knees when they finally spot Ajay.
Then it’s “You?!” and, “We thought you dead, brother!” as he feels Bhadra flinch at his back when their ire hits the air. Poisonous like smog and if he were the Ajay of before, he’d have flinched too.
But he’s not and they don’t control him anymore. Can’t use him anymore. Can’t use Bhadra anymore either, of that Ajay will see to.
“He will be,” Amita promises not a beat later with a violent tug of her wrists to prove it.
There’s a snap of shock, of knee-jerk rage that alights on Sabal’s face. On Ajay’s behalf, or Sabal’s own he doesn’t care to know.
They’ve always been at odds. This was them. This was always them.
He can’t help the derisive scoff that escapes him with all the force of a fucking gunshot.
What did he even expect?
Nothing, he sneers, and he was still let down.
That realization, and its subsequent disappointment, aren’t as heavy as he’d thought they’d be.
His nod comes easy, at that.
The man who sat attentive but silent in the background now sauntering forth and Ajay lets Pagan do what he does best. The star of the show as he turns, back to his once-companions, and it feels good to dismiss them as they’d done to him, as petty as it seems.
Bhadra, for all her stature and age, looks every inch the hurt child she is when he finds her face.
But she meets his eyes, as red-rimmed and shiny as they are. There’s a question there though, a fear of if she should be afraid of him too.
His gaze flits down, traces the path of handprints on her neck.
He swallows the acid climbing up his throat, maintains his composure but only just, and dares to provide comfort.
“I’ve found tea is a good remedy for sore throats. As well as ice.” It sounds terrible to his own ears.
She stares at him like she agrees, but fuck Ajay never said he’d be good at this whole comforting thing.
The fact that she nods eventually, however wary, is a win in his book.
The fact that she’s alive at all means everything else he doesn’t say.
…
Getting Bhadra treated was the easy part.
A soothing balm, some light bandaging, and a cup of honey-laced tea a generous start.
They set her up in a room next to Pagan’s, “Laid empty for too long,” the King had said, but not anymore.
Dust-lined linens and a covered couch soon prepped for the young women as they ushered her in.
Except Bhadra hadn’t moved an inch since sitting down to receive treatment. Stock still with hands fisted tightly in themselves, her tea untouched, and Ajay thought she’d wanted some space.
Considered that, maybe, he and Pagan’s presence were the problem, that adults were the problem, but when he moved to stand, “We’ll be right next door-“, a hand lashed out at his arm.
A death grip no child should have, and she was a child, fourteen is painfully young to be seen as the living God of an entire people, but her fingernails were sharp with anxiety and quick to release like what she’d done was a crime. Like reaching for him, for help, was punishable, would bring her harm.
He sat back down, wordless at first, because if he spoke it’d be to spit fire and venom and Bhadra didn’t need that. Not when it wasn’t directed at her.
“I’m staying,” he said as minutes passed, careful to keep it even as he addressed Pagan. The man didn’t seem to mind. The tight line of his shoulders a tell to the King’s own anger.
“Rest well. No one will bother you here,” he told Bhadra. Sincere in a way Ajay had come recognize. “You know where to find me,” he gestured to Ajay, a brief hand resting on his shoulder before he was off.
And so Ajay had stayed.
They didn’t speak. Bhadra never offered a word and Ajay wasn’t inclined to force the interaction.
But he stayed.
He stayed until her exhaustion had her listing towards the side.
He stayed as he helped her to the bed, helped her settle in under warm covers as she finally crashed under the weight of the day's events.
He stayed for hours after that, too. Vigilant in the chair he pulled over toward her bedside.
He stayed until her shuffling awake the next morning woke him up and she looked at him in relief and grief and “Thank you,” though it sounded so painful.
He stayed through all of it, and then he decided to stay some more.
…
She refuses to leave his side now.
Ajay can’t say he minds. Can honestly say her presence is something of a balm to the simmering anger crawling under his skin.
Seeing Bhadra, alive despite the harsh purple hidden behind hair and cloth, was a reassurance that he’d done something right.
Which is why her question, her first words mere days after her arrival at the palace, damn near bowl him over.
“Will he kill me?” Said so deceptively soft, resigned, that Ajay did a double-take.
Who “he” is was undeniably clear. Ajay nearly jumps to deny it, that Pagan would never kill a child, let alone Bhadra.
But her reasons for asking were not unfounded.
Kyrat had a strong sense of spiritual self, even to Ajay’s untrained eye, and Bhadra was the Tarun Matara, its spiritual leader.
It’s also no secret that Pagan has waged a bloody war against Kyrati beliefs for many long, tumultuous years. Some efforts of which Ajay had been present to halt.
It makes sense, really, why Bhadra would ask.
He wants to throw up regardless.
But this was also his legacy, too, in some ways. A legacy of two sides and he supposed now was as good a time as any to address it.
“Do you know why Pagan has targeted the religious practices of Kyrat?”
She shakes her head slowly but she’s listening and that gives him the courage to continue.
“The Golden Path was created by Mohan Ghale, founded on Kyrati belief and its unwavering necessity in Kyrat’s continued existence, right?” Because even he gets it wrong sometimes. He’s still new, sue him, but Bhadra nods and if she thinks he’s right then he hopefully is. He takes a deep breath. “Mohan hurt Pagan. And so Pagan hurt him back. Even his legacy. Especially his legacy, and the religion of Kyrat is part of that.”
And there. Now it’s in the open.
He’d never said it before, though he didn’t say much, but lines could be read through and he and Bhadra have already lived through the effects of some of those unspoken words, regardless.
“But I am the Tarun Matara,” she hedges, grimacing at the title or her own argument, Ajay could guess.
“And?” Ajay blurts, because really, “So was my mother and Pagan loved her.”
Bhadra blinks, throat wheezy as she gives a long exhale.
“But don’t take my word for it,” Ajay offers, purposefully light. “He’s right next door if you want to ask him.”
…
She did. Ask, that is.
Shook her head nearly off her shoulders, wincing afterward, but Ajay knew what certainty, assurances, could do to calm the mind.
So they went next door, they asked, and Pagan nearly laughed out of his seat for it.
“You’re a child,” he’d replied, hard, when his laughing stopped. “As if I’d ever allow such a thing.”
And how horrible was it that though Pagan was responsible for much, Ajay could trust he wasn’t a child killer?
Mohan didn’t set a high standard, clearly.
But it said something that Bhadra looked to Ajay, saw the ease in his face, and let herself relax, too.
He doesn’t remember ever inspiring any trust with the young woman, but that?
That had him setting a careful hand on her shoulder, slow and loose so she could move if she wanted.
She didn’t, and their side hug had something bright and alive twinkling in Pagan’s eyes.
…
“Did you find Lakshmana?”
Ajay didn’t expect the question. He’s learning to expect much from Bhadra, but he did not, would never have, expected this.
Neither did Pagan, for all he was acting poised at it.
It was simple why.
No one cared. Not enough to ask, not enough to even remember.
But Bhadra apparently did. She was the second, and Ajay was so, so grateful for it as he gives a content nod. “I did.”
An easy, sincere smile pulls at her face.
They’re seeing them more and more every day.
“She was my daughter.”
And they’re seeing more of Pagan now too, apparently.
Pagan never said, never told anyone really who Lakshmana was. It was a fact those in the palace either knew or didn’t.
Bhadra didn’t, and her lips parted in shock, wide-eyed and startled. It slowly morphs into a somber frown as she finds the porcelain cup cradled in her hands.
“Even Kyra cannot match a mother’s grief,” and just like that the breath is stolen from the room, from everyone in it.
Because Bhadra is a child for all that she’s never been treated like one, and yet she is also wise in spite of life’s cruelties.
“I dare say little can,” Pagan agrees softly.
Ajay nods for good measure when he remembers he can.
It should be inappropriate, bonding over the death of Mohan Ghale. Of his mother’s hand in it.
It somehow isn’t.
…
It’s interesting how life can change so swiftly, Ajay muses one morning.
Interesting and hilarious.
“So you are the King?” An innocent question, but it’s been over a week and they’re no longer fooled.
“Unfortunately,” Pagan deadpans, and Ajay snorts.
“But a fortune for some,” Bhadra insists, and Ajay doesn’t know where she’s going with this but he is so here for it.
“Yet not for others,” the King of Kyrat argues back.
Ajay struggles to hide his amusement.
The mean glare Pagan shoots his way says he’s doing poorly.
But fuck, watching Pagan and Bhadra do anything together, let alone debate philosophy of all things, was its own pastime. How did her teachers handle her?
They didn’t, he thinks, they tried to crush her instead. Crush this part of her.
Oh, how they’d despair if they saw her now.
That, more than anything, leaves Ajay satisfied.
Bhadra opens her mouth, mirth in every line, and Pagan’s sigh is truly withering.
Well, that and this.
…
Amita and Sabal were, admittedly, on no one's radar.
And if they were, they were on Ajay’s and his imagination was less than pleasant with them.
It was easy to forget them, though. To not care, but there was one who did. Or, who at least didn’t want them dead.
Bhadra stood by the door, barely in the room as she fiddles with her shirt. Nervous like she hasn’t been since she first got here.
Pagan is nothing if not patient, for all he rarely showed it. But he watches Bhadra, lets her muster the courage to speak and Ajay is so proud of her for it.
“Are they still alive?”
Ajay has good eyes. Sharp when they need to be, and they watch as Pagan softens at her question.
Ajay knows the feeling.
“They are. Though they won’t if you don’t want them to be.”
And maybe it’s cruel of Pagan to say this, to test the waters, but if anyone has a right to decide their fate it’s Bhadra.
Ajay and Pagan would certainly think no less of her for it.
But she fiddles a bit more. Hesitates.
“I…,” she begins, falters, then gives a weighty exhale. The nervous tick goes with it and something else sweeps in to replace the uncertainty. A force that straightens her spine despite the tremble in her palms.
“No,” she finally says. Demands. “Life does not equal mercy. Living can be their punishment.”
Barely any time has passed, they know Bhadra little, but there is an odd comfort that the young woman in front of them is still, against all odds, so impossibly kind, even to those who tried to kill her.
She is better than both of them.
And as Pagan smiles, a tender thing that pulls at his lips. Offers a gentle, “As you wish,” Ajay knows the King believes it too.
…
“So what now?”
Ajay had been sitting on that question for more than is probably healthy.
Pagan had been considering it too, though he let Ajay set the pace. How nice of him.
“Kyrat is yours, Ajay. You can do whatever you want.”
Or not.
There’s a vague sound of choking.
They hadn’t told Bhadra that yet.
“Ajay, what does he mean?” She asks, high in her tone and more than a tad bit alarmed.
Ajay can’t blame her. That’s likely how he sounded. Hell, he was probably worse.
“According to Pagan,” he gestures since it’s his damn fault they’re having this conversation again and Ajay is not above being petty, “I have a claim to the throne of Kyrat.”
She whips around to look at the man in question and there’s smug satisfaction in Ajay when the man all but wilts under her gaze.
Serves you right, fucking dropping bombs on people.
“He would already be King if he’d stop being so stubborn.”
Oh, for fucks sake, “I still don’t want it, Pagan!”
“Well, neither do I!”
…
There’s shouting, after that.
Lots of cursing too.
Maybe a bit of… unhinged chaos.
It all works out though.
Because once the noise stopped, once everyone took a breath like the dignified humans they were, the answer to their problems became quite easy.
“Does either of you want to stay?”
Leave it to Bhadra to make sense.
Nothing like having the youngest in the room make Pagan and him pull their shit together.
“No.”
“No.”
God, was it really that simple?
They look at each other, disbelief flowing between them.
They were idiots.
Neither wanted the throne, so what if they both just… left?
Left and never came back?
Ajay could be down for that.
So could Pagan, from the thoughtful tilt of his head.
And yet…
They both turn to Bhadra next.
And yet, if they left, Bhadra was next in line. A fourteen-year-old to lead an entire nation.
Yeah.
No.
“Do you want to stay?” Ajay asks Bhadra, unhappy at the prospect, but he keeps it hidden. Doesn’t let it bleed through for however crappy it makes him feel.
It’s not Bhadra’s fault. None of it.
But Ajay knows that if Bhadra stayed, he would too.
He wouldn’t, couldn’t in good conscience, leave her here without backup or support or someone to help carry the burden. Not when Kyrat is that kind of country. The kind to shovel insurmountable responsibility on a fourteen-year-old's shoulders.
It takes Bhadra a long time to reply. Her face blank then pained then “These are my people. I do not wish to abandon them, but…” She swallows, displeased. “But I do not want to stay either.”
Relief pours hot through his chest, nearly melting him as he starts breathing again.
She doesn’t want to stay. She doesn’t want to stay.
“My mentors taught duty over desire, but I am also selfish.” She explains, sharing through what must be sour to twist her face like that. But then she gathers herself, sits taller with a determination Mr. Chiffon would be proud of and speaks. “Kyrat is my home, but not all homes are kind. Am I wrong, to want to leave for that?”
The question - heavy and searching - hangs there.
Ajay isn’t sure what to say. Pagan, however, is.
“Putting yourself first is not wrong, Bhadra. And you are too kind to ever let it be.” Firm yet certain, an experience to his reply that nags at Ajay. Itches like he’s seen this before. Heard it before.
Then it clicks.
It clicks because his mother was much the same way.
And Pagan, right now, with his calm understanding and unwavering support, has all the makings of a parent.
It shouldn’t feel this natural to see Pagan as a parent. To superimpose the image over the King in front of him, but even here Ajay can spot the shadows clinging to his words, whispers of what could be and what has been.
Could still be, too.
For when tears build in Bhadra’s eyes, fall slow and heavy down her cheeks, Pagan is already moving.
Yeah, Ajay thinks as Bhadra leans into the comfort Pagan offers, fuck Mohan.
…
“How will we handle finances?”
“‘We’ won’t be doing anything. Pagan and I will take care of it.” Ajay corrects. God knows he’s got too much money stashed away from him-hawing around Kyrat for weeks on end.
“‘I’ will take care of it, Ajay. As for the funds, I have been the King of Kyrat for over a decade, Lamplight.” Pagan interrupts before Ajay can protest, loudly, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Where do you think that money went?”
Bhadra clearly disapproves of the King’s title-appropriate hoarding habits, hands on her hips and so damn fierce but her lips give her away. They tremble, then her shoulders too until she can’t hold it anymore. A belly full of laughter bursting forth and Ajay’s grin is so wide it hurts.
Even Pagan is smiling, though that’s not hard. They’re talking about money and leaving, after all. Two of his favorite things.
Well that, and the clear adoration Pagan has developed for their newest addition. If the nickname wasn’t enough, then the religious debates to food etiquette “Really, Ajay, you must take lessons from her!” to just the general ease they fall into step with says it all, and he’d find it bizarre and borderline manic had he not been the same way.
He refuses to examine what that says about him.
Ajay asked Pagan one night what the nickname meant though, curiosity getting the better of him.
“A guide through the dark,” Pagan had said. “And a reminder that someone’s home. Someone is waiting for you.” He didn’t say if he was talking about himself or Bhadra. Maybe both.
But after that night, Pagan couldn’t stop saying it, said it more often really, and Bhadra never asked him not to.
“It’s my first,” she’d replied, shaking her head when Ajay asked if it bothered her. “I’ve never had one.” Besides her title, she didn’t say.
And so Bhadra became Lamplight and Ajay couldn’t be more smitten about it. All of it so fucking cute he almost wanted to throw up, but it was good, they were all good, and that’s what mattered.
“No one is afraid of heights, yes?” Pagan’s voice pulls him back to the present.
“If you don’t count Whitley.” Ajay barely filtered at the best of times.
“You don’t count,” the King points as Ajay chuckles.
Of course, he doesn’t. Who the fuck else patently abused the high-flying abilities of buzzers with careless disregard for their physical well-being?
So Ajay, afraid of heights?
Yeah, right.
Bhadra though…
And yet she, too, shakes her head and that’s that.
“Then we are going to tear shit up!”
…
“Kidding! I was kidding!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mhmm.”
“Fine,” Pagan sighs, the drama queen. “I’ll book us a flight like normal people.”
“You hungry,” Ajay asks Bhadra, the both of them already headed for the door.
“It is lunchtime,” and they make sure the door thuds a little harder than usual on the way out.
…
“This is it.”
The airstrip is at their back, the plane getting ready for their flight. A moment of departure fast approaching and it felt like forever ago that Ajay first stepped foot into Kyrat. Into his legacy and a war zone and so much more.
“Is it normal to grieve when you haven’t lost someone?” Bhadra asks.
“No one has to die for you to lose something,” Ajay replies.
Because he lost much the day he came here.
He also gained much, too.
“You two ready to get this show on the road?” Pagan says, nearly hollers over the noise, but he's patient as he waits for them to answer.
They take a second, knowing this could very well be the last time they see Kyrat. Then they nod. Bhadra’s hand finds his, a show of support as he squeezes back lightly. Pagan brings up the rear and they welcome his presence.
They board the plane with little fare and disappear with no one the wiser.
As Kyrat becomes a dot of mountains, snowy peaks touching the sky, then nothing at all, Ajay realizes that leaving isn’t as painful as he’d thought it’d be.
…
They land who knows where. Pagan said it was a surprise, for all three of them.
“Here first, Ajay, and then California. I promise,” but then he wouldn’t say where they were or when, if ever, Ajay would actually return to Cali.
He’s suspecting he never will. Not with Pagan's shady ass involved.
But as they offload, they’re met with warmth and sand and the fucking ocean and Bhadra’s already running for the makeshift tarmac’s railing so she can get a better look.
“We needed a vacation first,” Pagan shrugs and Ajay scoffs, helpless and a little disbelieving.
A lot of thankful too as he moves to take a page out of Bhadra’s book.
“Look, Ajay, look! I’ve only ever heard stories of the sea! Can we really swim in that?” All questions and excitement and looking fourteen as she stares and points and that’s when it hits him.
Slaps him hard when he recalls a house on fire and a hug afterward. The desperation and gratitude of someone who needed to be heard, and here she is now.
Smiling easy and alive and free as she takes in the view. As she marvels at the world she’s never seen, and Ajay turns. His eyes finding Pagan automatically, drawn to him like the star he’s become in Ajay’s life when this is all his doing and he has to thank him for this, for everything, but the man is already looking back.
Waiting for Ajay to find him. Just like the first time.
Like every time after.
And he has the same breath of peace painting his features. Worry lines smoothed, gray eyes glowing with life and cherishing all that he sees, all of Ajay and Bhadra and this.
Looking, for all the world, complete.
Something missing slides into place, then. A piece now fitting and fitting right as Ajay laughs, just as free as Bhadra, just as complete as Pagan.
Three generations and god, it all started with a fucking journal.
But oh, did it end as so much more.