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The Gods That Used To Live Here | Pashwari | by Almesiva-Moonshadow The Gods That Used To Live Here | Pashwari | by Almesiva-Moonshadow
Dot Bullet (Black) - F2U! What song I was listening to while drawing \ writing this - Perfect of this couple. Easily my favorite band ever. Go give them a try. small heart - black  | x |

-"And i am just another tool in this game,
And i have never put any doubt in your name,
Not even when they took it all,
Left me here alone to fall,
I kept screaming, "Oh, where have You gone?"
Perhaps you left us to live without you
To learn to fly on our own."-

Pagan Min never had the habit of walking through the down the demolished, neglected, bombed streets of Kyrat often and unaccompanied, not because he feared death, civilian retaliation, an attempt on his life, an angry mob fit for a tyrannical madman - oh, far from it - what was the point of fearing all that anyway when he was already long since dead on the inside, power or no power - he believed that he's long-since outgrew his dread of mortality by now - but because, simply put, every time he did, he was bound to see her face somewhere, anywhere, one way or another, following him around like a specter of the past through every broken window, every war-torn sight, every turned stone. Ishwari Ghale has left this country decades ago and she never came back but in the form of her post-mortem ashes carried in the hands of a son he silently considered his own, but she still lived in the walls, in the buildings, the ancient rocks that held the very pavement together, in the pores of the earth, the faces of all the Gods and all the shrines of old ever worshiped by her people, her kin, her blood - she was also each and every call to arms, every desire for rebellion and change, every piece of crude, amateur civic artwork that graced burned houses, familiar graves covered in curses, lamentations and warnings. The Kyrati people loved their idols. They painted them on their homes. Their places of worship. It was a custom. A ward against malice. Evil spirits. He would have casted it off as uncivilized, laugh-worthy superstition if it wasn't for one particular deity. The Tarun Matara herself. The living avatar of the heavens embodied by a woman. The previous one before the young, brainwashed, poor upstart. Her outdated, paling visage on a crumbling wall. An old, robbed cottage lacking children and a family. He didn't doubt they were long since murdered. Buried in some unmarked, muddy grave. Ishwari's face was covered in slurs, insults and defamation in Hindi and broken English alike. Whore. Bitch. Infidel. Traitor. Runaway. Heinous things written on account of Lakshmana being a bastard. A mixed demon-spawn deserving of death. Her sari red from the bucket of dried, darkened paint someone tossed over her and the decorative, idyllic vista behind her. A bullet hole in the middle of her forehead instead of a bindi. A place where her heart should have been replaced by a colossal crack in the wall, no doubt the result of a throwing grenade in the hands of some soldier or other. Propaganda posters of his party edging and gracing her akin to a rotten, worm-embedded frame for the Mona Lisa herself to add to the oxymoron of the goddamn situation. The rough, sprayed-down question "Where is your god now?" right above her and Pagan felt his belly clench and his heart sink almost instantly. Indeed, where was there god now? Where did she go and why? Why did she have to leave? The graffiti next to his bend shoulder like the final nail in the coffin of irony. Some snot-nosed kid scribbled a piece of apology, declaring that if "Anyone finds this, I'm so sorry you're here." Pagan did feel sorry. He really did. He felt regret. Shame, probably. Kyrat was his purgatory. Ishwari's memory was his punishment. Karma struck him like a fiery, venomous arrow in that moment and he pressed his face against the palm of his hands, nearly crying like some miserable, commonplace street beggar. Someone left a solitary rose on the ground - no doubt paying respects to a fallen idol next to the creates of discarded war-arms. An old leader. A prophetess they now called false. He wept in that moment. Fuck, he wept. He hasn't honestly, sincerely wept in years. Pagan Min could have ordered the construction site torn down or painted over that very afternoon - he had that sort of power, that sort of authority - his workers would have made due of the artwork and whoever created it. Hooligan by hooligan. Down to the last goddamn rebel, terrorist and knave. He could have had it painted over in white. Pink. Sheer gold. Whatever he pleased. But, he didn't. He left it right where he found it. Instead, here merely sobbed, surrounded by the forgotten trash, junk and indignity of the vile rabble. He assumed he belonged here too. How metaphorically fitting for a falling King who orchestrated his own historical demise. Yuma was right all along. He truly was turning soft. His own father would rise from a grave to disown him a second time, if only he could.

He believed he deserved to suffer knowing something like this existed in the borders of his country.

He left it as a testament, as a reminder - Pagan Min never walked the streets alone.

Not ever again after this - with an armored vehicle, a patrol of guards.

He didn't fear death, dismemberment or torture.

Butchery at the hands of all he oppressed.

He feared flashes of the past.

The now, the present.

The future.

The future he created.

The homeland of hers he destroyed.
madame-sunshine Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2016  Student Digital Artist
KibaDuncan Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I really really love this! Very good, both! Lil' story AND drawing! <3 Good work, mate!
Almesiva-Moonshadow Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanksies, darling! So happy you liked it! I should try and draw more Pagan \ Ishwari in the future! They're so tragic and beautiful together. :heart: rvmp :sadtard: 

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Submitted on
October 4, 2016
Image Size
7.6 MB


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