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The Defeated

Ah! Yes! I'm borderline proud of myself for finally not being lazier than I already am, and coming down to post this, and keeping my adherence to the schedule.

AND!

HAPPY DIWALI! <3

The taglist remains :D

@chaanv @vidhurvrika @bleedinknight @ambidextrousarcher @melancholicmonody @demonkidpliz @stxrrynxghts @sambhavami @alwaysthesideofwonder, and anyone else here. Lord knows how much I've forgotten, and trying to remember.

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Fandom: Mahabharar | Star Plus Mahabharat

Pairings: Bheema/Draupadi

Warnings: Mentions of War | PTSD | Trauma | Bloodshed

Summary: The Second Pandava deals with ghosts of the War. Alone.

Disclaimer: This is entirely a work of fiction, based on an idea I had while reading C. Rajagopalachari’s version of the Mahabharata. But I do have to say this, this has a lot to offer that is different from the Mahabharata that is actually popular. I just hope that this resonates with the readers, and you read this, and find this worth your time and your feedback. Please leave a short comment or a like, whatever you may deem fit. And as always!

THANK YOU!

Note: Whatever the character says here, comes from a deep place of depression, trauma, anxiety, and a LOT of PTSD. As someone who has been through that, it might as well bring the worst, darkest, and the angstiest parts out of someone. And this guy has been through one of the bloodiest wars of all time, so there are some things that might be a little unsettling, and even illogical, considering they've literally lost everything, and are contemplating a world without war, where they might not have lost EVERYthing.

Also, please drop in with any thoughts you may have. XX

Links: Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

The Darkness

“I bear no remorse for the deaths of ninety-nine of the Kauravas,” the anger in his voice is palpable, and tangible to the point where she could feel it bodily.

“Nor do I feel any compassion for Karna,” this time, it is her breath that hitches in her chest, as she tries not to remember the acerbic vitriol of insults he had hurled and triggered at her, “unlike The Emperor.”

“But Vikarna, Panchaali,” she feels him breaking down, “what of him?”

He isn’t the only one who breaks into smaller pieces, with every breath he took. 

“What of those young boys? What of those soldiers? What of Uncle Salya? What of those blameless people who fought with and against us?”

This is the longest that he has spoken in what seems like an eternity. 

“Did Madhusudana tell you how Abhimanyu was slain? Did he recount how Ghatotkacha had fallen? Has he ever confided in you, of The Grandsire’s pain? His remorse?”

“Five villages, Panchaali! Five villages! Five villages! Five hamlets! And we would have forgotten, perchance, if time allowed, we would even have forgiven all!”

“When have we ever been averse to a life of hardship, Krishne?” he rallies on, thunder rumbling in his voice with every syllable. 

“We would have lived on as ascetics in those villages for all I care!” Bheemasena’s voice gives in, with a note of finality, “Varanavata, The Jatugriha, probably even The Dyuta, all those years of exile, Jayadratha, Keechaka! All of it! All of them!”

“I’d have ensured full well that Dushyasana would serve me for the rest of his life! The life that I’d deign him, with his entrails intact!”

Draupadi feels her long, lustrous hair, for the first time since the War. It didn’t reek of that fiend anymore. 

“We wouldn’t have had the blood of those hordes of people on our hands,” he fell heavily in her lap, “Hundreds of thousands of them!”

“Oh Panchaali!” he sobbed helplessly, “I feel as if I’ve killed my sons! My Ghatotkacha! My Abhimanyu!”

“I’d atleast have the luxury of having some of us survive the onslaught,” she felt warm tears grace her lap, “and then-”

- “I’d felt the strength leaving my body the day Sutasoma left us, with his brothers.”