I had an odd dream the other night and had to write it down. This should be a short story; I'm hoping no more than ten chapters (but you know how that usually goes). So if you like it, be sure to let me know! Favorite, alert, and (MOST IMPORTANTLY) review!
Beauty Is the Beast
Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
In the southern regions, the cold was almost unbearable, and the Capital of the Southern Water Tribe was no exception. It may have seemed warm and inviting, as it was inundated with a few hundred or so people and built up on a mixture of ramshackle huts for the poorer populace and architectural wonders like the ice-built dwellings of the rich, but it was still freezing. Blustery and barren, save the homes that lay scattered but tightly packed along the plowed streets.
On the outskirts of the expansive settlement, ice swaths jutted from the shifting ground, constantly moving, constantly roaming, like the ancient wanderers from old stories. Sometimes, the ground would disappear entirely, without warning, swallowing whatever unlucky soul happened to be on top. The shifting ice spared no one; human and animal alike perished without warning, for the landscape controlled all destinies, no matter their race, stature of birth, or supposed future. A few mountain ridges—more or less large piles of clipped and jagged ice—poked out from the otherwise flat expanse, standing out in the far distance more than two hands-high away. The odd range only punctured the south side of the village and it beckoned weary travelers with its glistening covering, promising warmth and shelter, but offering none.
On good days, one could see the sun for a few hours before it would slowly nudge its head back beyond the clouds, which would stir near-consistent plumes of flurries to delicately drift from the sky. Each fresh coating covered the tracks of nomads, traders, and shoppers alike; and it made the cityscape seem almost pristine, always clean.
Yet, deep beneath the Southern Capital's immaculate features, laid a dark secret, something that no local ever willingly discussed: the beast. Though nobody could directly claim that they had seen the foul creature, all knew of it. And all were terrified of the darkness that it claimed as its own.
In summer, while the rest of the world was gifted with warm, late days, the Southern Water Tribe was plunged in eternal darkness. For almost six months of every year, the Capital received nary a drop of sunlight. Plants refused to grow, winds violently blew, and the city grew eerily still. The rich covered their glass and steel-lined windows and all barred their doors; nobody left their homes, as they all feared the terrible beast that occasionally plagued their dark-filled streets.
Even though the locals were terrified of the dark—of the monster—every year, a new horde of brave and boastful hunters would arrive to claim their prize. Each man wanted their chance to hunt or kill the beast, and each year, their numbers grew as word spread and curiosity got the better of them. Similarly, each year, the numbers of the hunters who managed to return dwindled until scarcely any came back at all. Last year alone, three men out of thirty barely outlived the brutal tundra's blizzards and mysterious, endless night. None of the three had seen the beast; each one had been lucky enough—at least, according to the villagers, no doubt that the hunters would disagree—to avoid the monster. The tribespeople considered the returning hunters to be survivors and large feasts were held in their honor when sunlight finally broke through the clouds.
And even though the hunters did not succeed, every year, as the winter sunlight filtered down into the streets, the city burst back to life and all rejoiced. All welcomed the light. All basked in its warmth and celebrated the next six months of life, of prosperity and growth. For while the sun was out, nobody saw the beast.
But the sun was slowly sifting into the clouds, welcoming its yearly break, welcoming summer in the south, and the tribespeople were once again preparing for the impending darkness. And as the villager's preparations were underway, another group of hunters was preparing themselves for this year's quest in their allotted dwelling.
A few emboldened men had found their way to the Southern Capital from all across the world. Earth Kingdomers, Northern Water Tribesmen, and a rare few from the Fire Nation packed their sacks, grabbed the possessions that they decided they'd need, and cleaned their weapons of choice. Swords, spears, and knives were polished until they gleamed against the flickering candlelight before they were packed away or sheathed, attached to the hunter's hips snugly and securely so they could be drawn with skillful ease at a moment's notice.
There were thirty-two this year, two more than last year, and each had their own motivations. Some wished to kill the beast and use its corpse as a mount so they could gloat about their prowess. Others wanted the animal's hide, claws, and blood for the black market; no doubt, the mysterious, bestial items would bring in a hefty gold piece or two. A few others wanted to bring the beast back alive—if they determined it was safe, of course—so that they could display the monster for all to see and grab a sizable profit from their adventure. Others simply wanted bragging rights or a small sliver of fame.
But there was one man unlike the rest; he did not want the beast for money, as he had plenty at his disposal whenever he required it. And he did not require fame or bragging rights; no, his interests were far more intriguing. He was searching for the animal, intending to bring it back to his home alive, if able, so he could regain his honor. It was a task that had been bestowed upon him by the Fire Nation's cruel, golden-eyed ruler; his father, no less. And in order to return home and become the region's rightful heir and Crown Prince once more, the exiled youth was required to bring back the famous southern monster. Prove his worth, as the Fire Lord had told his kneeling son.
Zuko, the now-dethroned and banished Fire Nation Prince, freshly scarred and barely older than twenty, prepared his choice blades with a determined, half-bandaged expression, sparing the other hunters nary a thought or care as they gloated about their past expeditions, both animal and female alike. He sharpened his prized dao swords with a fist-sized stone, making sure that the slightest nick would draw blood. And when he was finally satisfied, he sheathed his valued blades and attached them to the waistband of his red-tinted parka. He shouldered his pack filled with foodstuffs, a spare change of clothes, a one-person tent, a bedroll, a few spare bandages for his incredibly irritating facial wound, and miscellaneous supplies, before joining an older fellow at the far side of the thick-canvased tent.
The grey-bearded fellow held a clipboard in his hands and was scribbling vehemently, jotting down the addresses of the hunters' emergency contacts, people who the Southern Water Tribe would contact in case the hunters died during their expedition. The scribe silently gestured to the wounded exile, but Zuko shook his bandaged head and walked to the other side of the tent, beside a war-hardened, Earth Kingdom man.
The ex-soldier looked at the injured youth and gave him a cryptic nod. Zuko returned the silent movement and crossed his arms, waiting for the rest of the hunters to finish their preparations so that they'd be allowed to embark upon their own separate journeys.
When most of the men were finished and waiting in the open area of the tent, the flap near them opened and a kindly-looking but battered, old man wandered inside. His ornate, blue parka, emblazoned with white markings, told them that he was Water Tribe. But he wasn't simply a tribesman; no, he was their chief, their awe-inspiring, merciless, yet gentle leader.
Chief Bato of the Southern Water Tribe.
He stood before them, his hair a matted, tangled mess from the wind, slightly pulled back into a half wolf-tail. After giving the crowd a brief scan, his two-toned, blue, three-fingered mittens quickly pierced the empty air and a resolute silence from the hunters followed as all looked to the chief, anticipating a silly blessing or a subtle warning.
"Welcome," Bato said, his voice firm and commanding, the tones of a hardened warrior and leader. "Welcome to the Southern Water Tribe." His cobalt eyes skimmed the crowd one more time, but he didn't bother to take in a single face because he was sure he wouldn't see most of them ever again. Instead, he looked at their expensive weapons, sheathed and hanging at their sides or held aloft in their hands, ready and waiting for their adventure to begin. They would certainly need those well-polished tools over the next few months and he grimaced at their eagerness to potentially die.
After a few nods and near-silent welcomes, the chief continued, lowering his hands and catching the stares of the hard-warn hunters before him. "For more than a decade, our people have hid from the dark, hid from the beast that comes out during our eternal, summer night. And now, you all stand before me, ready to embark upon a tireless journey in hopes to capture or kill our monster." He looked sad for a moment, ice-blue eyes seemingly glistening with tears that refused to fall; a grizzled and seasoned warrior seemingly crumbling during his own speech. "For ten years, hunters from all around the globe have tried and failed their task. Admittedly, some have perished by the beast's ruthless hand; others have died from their own follies…exposure, idiocy, and the like."
He frowned and gave each hunter a calculating gaze, studying each one and already knowing which ones wouldn't survive the first week. The Fire Nation man with half his face bandaged in thick, white wrappings probably wouldn't even withstand the first night and his expression darkened, wondering why the youth was bothering with such a merciless quest. "The task that you've decided to undertake is extraordinarily dangerous. I don't expect most of you to return. And, as a warning, if you don't return by the time first light breaks, we won't send anybody out for you until we've seen the sun for a fortnight. And even then, I will not risk the lives of my people to save yours. Does everybody understand?"
A few men nodded and one smallish man nestled in the back raised his hand. The school-like gesture prompted a few callous chuckles, but the squat man looked on, not caring, until the Southern Chief nodded at him, acknowledging him.
"Chief Bato," the small man said, shivering in his green-tinged parka even though they weren't even fully exposed to the brutal winter air that the south had to offer. "Can you tell us what the beast looks like? I've heard several accounts, but I don't know which to prepare for. Is it true that it's a shape-shifter and can appear out of nowhere?"
Bato frowned and closed his eyes. "Nobody has ever faced the beast and lived to give us a description." He let a small, half-smile fill his grim features, more or less trying to scare the youth and deter him from embarking. "So I urge you to be cautious."
The smallish man gulped and took a deep breath, barely determined to continue. A few other men smirked at the squat, Earth Kingdom man—more boy than man, really—as he tightened his grip on his backpack straps, lips puckering with concentration.
Bato straightened his back and shook his head, narrowing his cobalt eyes as he did so and betting his chieftainship that the Earth Kingdom boy wouldn't survive the night, either. Why was Tui so cruel when she picked her unsuspecting victims? And why did the horde of men before him seem so damaged, young, and unsuspecting. He knew that they would need all of the prayers he and his people could offer, so he bowed his head and opened the flap, letting them know that they could begin while contributing one final sentiment. "I offer you all luck and well-wishes. Be safe out there…be smart. Maybe then, you'll survive."
With grim expressions, the crowd slowly dispersed into the last few hours of the sun. They each chose a direction and ambled off into the snow flurries. Some squinted as they walked directly into the sun. Others winced as the wind nipped at their clothing and semi-covered faces. A few hunters paired up and walked off together, trails of thick fog pouring through their heavily-padded face furs as they discussed their strategies.
After the horde of hunters departed in different directions, Zuko strolled out of the tent and looked left and then right, narrowing his single, usable golden eye as he located his path. His goal was to reach the jutting mountains, hoping that he could find a safe cavern within its icy structure before the darkness blinded him and left him stranded, exposed, and vulnerable in the snowy wasteland.
He set off at a brisk pace and left the safety of the large settlement. Without sparing a backward glance, he trekked into the wild tundra, unaware of whom or what he could potentially encounter.
He found himself alone for a long while, and when the Capital finally disappeared from view, he spotted a wild winter hare, ears perked and exposing the slightly pink flesh of its inner ear. He stilled and steadied his gaze on the first possible kill of his expedition. The hare would provide a good first meal when he finally established a shelter, and since the landscape was so unforgivable, he doubted that game would wander into his path so easily ever again. He needed to take food whenever he could.
Slowly, he reached for the dagger attached to his left hip and he steadied the blade between his gloved fingers, ready to impale the creature by chucking his weapon at it. Born a prince and raised in a militaristic society, Zuko was a bred killer and a stunning marksman. His swordsmanship was regarded with the utmost respect, though he rarely displayed his skills and prowess, preferring to keep those talents hidden from his potential enemies so he could catch them off guard.
But the motionless rabbit wouldn't tattle about his abilities; no, the creature would soon perish and hang lifelessly from Zuko's gloved hand as he continued to the mountainside. And then he would disembowel, skin, and consume his kill in the safety of his new home for the next few months.
Aware that it wasn't alone, the hare cocked its head to the side and crinkled its small nose. Sniffing an unfamiliar scent, the animal tore off, scattering a plume of snow in its wake. But Zuko was quicker than the bunny and unleashed his blade, impaling the small creature and sprinkling a handful of its crimson blood into the soft, white ground. The snow turned a sickly shade of red until the rabbit's left hind leg twitched once and then twice before stilling entirely, dead.
As Zuko approached his dinner, he maneuvered his pack and brought it to his front, intending to tie the bunny to it instead of carrying it by hand, as he had originally intended. He rummaged through his knapsack and he found a tight coil of twine. After unraveling a small section, he grabbed his bloodied dagger and cut through the rope, winding the portion he was going to use around his gloved hand before he redeposited the unused coil in his pack. Carefully, he tied the twine around the hare's legs and attached it to the clasp of his pack, securing it tightly and making sure that the blood from its wound wouldn't drip precariously and leave behind an easy-to-follow trail of crimson splotches.
Once satisfied, Zuko shouldered his knapsack, rubbed his bloodied dagger in the snow to clean it, and continued onward, sheathing the blade on his left hip.
He walked for a few more hours, hearing nothing other than the soft snowfall and the loud crunching of his boots. The icy floor was slippery in some spots, but his spiked boots were extraordinarily helpful and provided the ultimate form of traction. Though his footing was secure, he was extremely cautious and kept his golden gaze on his feet, making sure that the ground wouldn't randomly swallow him up and send him plummeting to his death. He imagined that falling through a crack in the ice would be a brutal way to die, no matter if the fissure broke deep or shallow. If shallow, he would slowly starve to death, perhaps unable to climb out; if deep, he would fall and break every limb until he landed, broken and dead, upon an ice shelf. And there, his corpse would remain for an eternity; not an appropriate death for a citizen from the Fire Nation, or the Fire Nation's prince, no less.
His thoughts were interrupted by a quick glance skyward and he looked at the looming mountain of ice and growled, noticing that it was still more than a hands-height away. Halfway, he mused darkly, sparing a glimpse at the sliver of sun that remained. Only halfway and he would soon be out of light.
He mumbled incoherent curses and shook his head, wondering how much longer he would have to walk before he finally made it to that stupid mountain.
A brutal wind picked at the exposed quarter of his face and he snarled at it, perturbed, like his frustration would will it away. Instead, it tugged harder at his parka and made the fur lining tickle his chin and wrists. The slight prickles continued to irritate him and he clenched his teeth together while realizing that he wouldn't make it to the mountain before the sun drifted away…for the next six months.
But he needed to try.
So, increasing his pace once more, he shuffled onward, fighting against the unrelenting wind. His workable eye squinted at the gleaming, silvery ground and he continued thinking, wondering what sort of creature he was supposed to be hunting.
Truthfully, Zuko was prepared for anything. Big or small, he was ready to take down whatever sized beast the Southern Water Tribe had. And he was determined to complete his task in record time and return to the Fire Nation a hero to his people, honorable once more.
The thought of spending more time than necessary in the South irked him. Besides being inexperienced, the cold and the brutality of his task were particularly annoying, but he knew that he'd have to endure his punishment so he could return home. And even though he had never been particularly interested in big game, he had gone on a few hunts with his grandfather and uncle when he was in his mid-teens. Back then, he thought them mind-numbingly boring, but his uncle had always made the trips memorable. Sometimes, even though he really didn't enjoy the actual hunt, he reminisced about the man's infatuation with tea and always tried to recall that one joke he could never quite remember.
"Leaf me alone, I'm bushed," he mumbled to nobody other than himself, stifling a light chuckle as he remembered the punchline. Always the punchline…only the punchline, and Uncle Iroh wasn't around to remind him what the rest of the joke was. He sighed, slowing his pace for barely a second, risking another quick and irritating glance at the mountain.
Damn, Zuko thought bitterly, holding his gloved hand out again and noticing that he only made it an additional inch. He looked skyward and noticed that the sun was more than halfway beyond the horizon. Damn, he thought again, narrowing his good eye.
Knowing that things were already not going according to plan, he grumbled angrily and scoured the ground, noting that it seemed sturdy enough. He'd have to make camp and he'd need to do it quick before night fell and he wouldn't be able to see his own hands, let alone his supplies.
Peeved, he took off his pack and removed his tent. The thick canvas was wrapped around a few poles and he furiously unpacked his makeshift shelter, shaking out the fabric in the air before laying it flat. He inserted the poles and carefully climbed in, still grumbling as he shoved his pack to the rear of his tent. Grimacing at the sight of his unskinned, still whole, and pleasantly dead dinner, he sighed at his rotten luck and exited the small tent, shielding his face from the snowfall that had picked up while he was inside.
An early summer blizzard seemed like it was stirring, which made him curse once more, wondering how much more the spirits wished to spit on his luck…and pride. He knew he'd need to skin and consume the bunny quickly, lest he lure dangerous predators to his tent in the middle of the night, which would further sully his poor luck.
So he laid the rabbit on the frozen ground and began flaying the animal, pressing the solid edge of his dagger diagonally to the ground. Skinned, the tight, woven meat was exposed and Zuko looked around, blinking blearily and realizing that he didn't have wood for a fire. He cursed at his stupidity and then ungloved his hand.
After taking a deep breath, a small, controlled flame poured out of his fingertips and he pressed his palm against the meat, cooking his dinner with meticulous precision. He hated using his bending this way, but in order to survive, he knew he'd be forced to do things he didn't like. To Zuko, bending was used for war and fighting; it was a respectable art that shouldn't be used for culinary purposes. Using his bending for heating water, for cooking…it felt like a waste of his talents. And in that moment, he was disgusted with himself a little bit, but he knew it was for the best.
When the animal was thoroughly cooked and devoured, Zuko crawled back into his tent and watched the final rays of sunlight slowly disappear beyond the horizon. He took one final, warm inhale and darkness quickly consumed the earth, swallowing everything up with its eerie blanket. Haughtily, he snapped the flaps of his tent closed and shuffled further inside.
He untied his dao swords, but kept his dagger strapped to his hip, unwilling to part with it in case a critter managed to sneak up on him in the dead of night. After unlacing his boots, he stacked them carefully at his side and wiggled his semi-frozen toes until his fiery blood brought back feeling.
Sighing once more, he unrolled his bedroll and scuttled between the covers of his sleeping bag, still completely dressed in his parka since he didn't know how cold it could get. He rolled between the bedding and made himself comfortable before he slowly drifted to sleep, positive that he would waken and jump up at the slightest sound.
Zuko dreamt of happy things. He fantasized his return home, of the parades they would throw celebrating his triumphant return. He visualized his betrothed, Mai, and murmured her name in his sleep, praying that she would wait for his homecoming. And finally, he dreamt of a mysterious pair of captivating, cerulean eyes, more beautiful a shade than he had ever seen before.
Puzzled but stewing over the unusual shade of blue, Zuko dreamily thought about what it meant…until he woke, body tense and realizing that there was something sniffing around outside his tent.