(Hello dear reader. I would like to start by saying this is something I wrote without the intentions of making it a long, full on fanfic, so there wont be any follow-up chapters. It was more of a one-off to show my abilities as a writes as I'm searching for new RP partners. I would like a Sajay RP, where the characters Ajay and Sabal from Far Cry 4 are slashed with each other. So thats where this story came from, though this folloing one-off DOES NOT contain Sajay or any pairing at all so if you are not into that kind of thing don't fret. If anyone is interested of roleplaying with me after reading this short little fanfic, please send me a message!)
The soft sound of empty bottles clinking against each other cut through the silence of the Ghale's otherwise quiet homestead. Stepping through the leftover mess created by the drugfanatics Yogi and Reggie - as they'd claimed the abandoned homestead as their own before being rightfully chased out - was the only rightful inhabitant, making an honest attempt at restoring his family home to what it had once been. Ajay could still smell the thick, undeniable smoke from whatever it was - though, clearly illegal stuff – the two airheads had been smoking. He was certain the stench would etch itself into the very wood of the walls and floors, so deeply that no amount of incense or cleaning - no matter how thorough – could cover it up. At least, he thought, the bastards had left without a fight. Leaving Ajay to clean up their mess.
Though the young man lived in his family home now, he hadn't had the opportunity to stick around for long and never managed to find the time to really clean the place up. Over the brief few months he'd been in Kyrat, Ajay had been preoccupied with things of more urgency than cleaning his house. What had started as a search for Lakshmana, had suddenly become something much, much more. A mess of decisions and life-threatening missions in an attempt to reach his goal, whilst keeping as much peace as possible between the two equally strong-willed leaders of The Golden Path, Amita and Sabal. The situation, however, appeared to only be getting worse, and it was putting strain on everyone including Ajay. With each passing day the wound splitting what had once been a strong united rebellion only grew, and Sabal and Amita's petty squabbles grew more heated and threatened to be their very undoing. Stuck in the middle was of course Ajay, who really had very little knowledge of the situation as a whole, yet was expected to make the toughest decisions and "do the right thing". "The right thing" being two very opposing acts, depending on who you'd ask.
The old wooden floor creaked as Ajay walked over to pick up the last of the empty bottles, his arms already barely able to contain all of them. He supposed the one good thing about it all was that he could always make his own Molotovs with them, should he have to. But it was still a Goddamn pain picking up after those cooks.
"What the fuck is this?"
The moderately irritated Ajay mumbled to himself as he reached for something on the floor, only to establish that it was an empty needle. Not an entirely surprising find, and there were probably more of them littered around the house in little crooks and corners. Apart from being generally dusty, from the odd cliché spider web in the corner to the decades old untouched furniture, the place really needed some picking up too. This evening sleep simply wouldn't come to Ajay, thoughts spinning and head throbbing, like it seemed to do so often lately. So, he'd decided to instead make use of the time and clean up the homestead. There was no use tossing and turning in bed, anyway. It was the first moment of peaceful silence he'd experienced since he came to Kyrat.
While night was sweeping the land in darkness, the dim lights from candles lit up the Ghale home within. One of these days he'd get the place fixed up, but now he hadn't the money nor time to do so. Making it look less like a drug den was only step one in a ten step plan.
At the other edge of the house, along one of the walls with the old, peeling paint was an equally old wooden table with books, envelopes, a couple of photographs and pieces of paper scattered on it. The books were stacked semi-tidily in a pile, all sharing the same size and basic look though some were slightly burned, or had pages either missing or withered over time, or suffered the abuse of rain and wind. Thankfully a lot of what was inside was still legible.
To many, the mess of letters and photographs along with the old frail books were nothing more than meaningless junk that might as well be thrown in the trash. But to Ajay, every single page, no matter how torn or difficult to read it was, had great value. On that table were the reasons for his struggle to get a restful sleep that night. Well, one of many reasons, at least.
The books, journals written by Ajay's father Mohan Ghale, were the only connection that the young man ever had to his father, as well as the only source left on earth with information about Ajay's family before his mother fled Kyrat with her small son on her hip. The Son of Mohan, as he was frequently called, had very little knowledge of his father and his parent's life before he came to the world. Ever since Ajay found the first of his father's journals, he'd grown a near obsession with finding more of them in order to map out his past. Where, truly, did he come from? What was his history, his heritage? Who, while alive, had his mother and his father truly been? The questions were many, and by comparison the journals stacked on the table holding the answers were very few. These were questions that had plagued Ajay's mind since he was young, and now when he was finally so close to getting all his answers, he was not about to give up. He simply could not afford to sleep.
Having placed the empty bottles neatly to the side in a corner where they would remain for further use, Ajay stepped over to the messy desk. On top of a couple of open letters were one of Mohan's old, tattered journals splayed out. By then, Ajay had read the entry many times, and still his eyes ran over the words like it was the first time they'd seen them. Almost like he hoped that over the time since he last read them, they would have changed.
Brushing off some dirt from the old pages, the sound soft and delicate as the gloved hand gently swept across the withered paper, Ajay began to read once again while a crease formed on his forehead, the thin brows lowering in disbelief and what looked like confusion. Perhaps even disappointment. The chestnut brown eyes, showing signs of sleep deprivation and exhaust, moved quickly as they read each line with haste, sometimes re-reading a line just to make sure there were no misinterpretations or any part he missed. There was a hunger to know more, to piece together the shredded, nearly dissolved mess that was Ajay's past. A past his mother, bless her soul, had done her best to keep hidden from her son, up until only a mere few weeks before her sickness sent her to an early grave. Meanwhile Ajay was left in the dark, with no family, no knowledge or understanding of his past, his purpose and his future. Of course there were many in Kyrat willing to lecture him in who his father had been, what kind of man he'd been, and why Ajay's mother left their home never to return. Sabal being one good source when it came to praise and adoration for Mohan, something Ajay guiltily loved listening to. Who didn't want to hear that their father had been a great man, a true warrior, a brave and respectful freedom fighter? But despite this, and however much Ajay wanted to trust Sabal, he knew the only thing that could truly be trusted with telling him the truth were the words written by his father's very own hand. Thus the journals were of irreplaceable value to him.
Pulling a nearby chair to the desk as he sat down, Ajay flipped the pages in the latest journal he'd collected. Elbow leaned on the table, and the free hand placed by his forehead, the young man continued to read, process, and wonder. From the last journal there was a great gap, making the one he was currently reading difficult to fully understand. It was maddening and certainly not healthy to wreck his brain over, but being so close to finally finding out the truth had really driven Ajay to a point of obsession and desperation. He had to know. He had to find every single journal his father left behind, no matter where he had to travel, high or low, to find them.
Once more, with a frustrated sigh, Ajay began reading again.
"Ajay, know that everything I've done is for you. All I have ever wanted is for you to grow up in a safe and prosperous country, but that goal required sacrifice."