Note: Dedicated to Lantur and the lovely denizens of the Korrlok chatroom.
"Korra, sweetie, you're looking a bit flushed." Tarrlok sits down on the bed, the back of his hand warm on her clammy forehead. Frowning, he then fondly brushes the wisps of hair out of her face. She hasn't been eating well, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
She refrains from reacting.
He would follow Korra to the ends of the earth. Can't she see that? He'd sacrifice anything for her. Her words, her laughter, her skin against his, it all proves that he's breathing. He's not a shell of a man, not his father. Korra approves of him, sees the worst aspects of him and loves him anyway.
If Tarrlok hadn't cared for her, he would've left her in that box to die. She was a risk, after all. The Council members and everyone else of importance already knew his secret, so why would he need her? She'd just get him discovered.
Yet he didn't just release Korra. He gave her a sanctuary. She should be thankful, Tarrlok thinks as he goes to retrieve a washcloth. She was stressed, unhappy in Republic City; Korra told him so. Told him everything.
She doesn't have to be the Avatar around him. He doesn't care about that. The only reason others paid attention to her was because of her title. It was her title that drove him to desperation. Yet he still loves her.
Wringing the cloth of excess water, he returns to tend to Korra. They're happy together, Tarrlok insists. Happy. After all of these years. A family. He's found one.
Finally.
It's a rainy summer evening with the close onset of autumn. Korra lifts the hem of her dress up as she sits at the window.
She wonders if bleeding out will be sufficient. As she leans, the rain is soothing on her skin. No, no, he can easily clean that up.
Though it would be funny—to die in a pool of blood by her own accord instead of him doing so. Not that he will now. He thinks everything is fine, that Korra is content in captivity. Will Tarrlok levitate her corpse to its last destination? The cold prickles Korra's skin. She smells of sweat and parsley.
She can't take it. Can't take being away, can't take being a failure no matter if she's at home, in the compound, in the city. Or here.
I'm sorry, Mom, Dad. Everyone.
She numbly rattles off all of the names of her friends, mentors, and family in her head like the sluggish lyrics to an old lullaby Katara taught her.
It is regrettable that Tarrlok's greatest accomplishment is not his own. He doesn't strike the fatal blow. If one murders a thousand men, he is a conqueror. But who is a man who kills a god?
It must've taken her about four minutes to die. Tarrlok can't bring himself to weep when he finds her in the bedroom after a long day of work, when the thing the door bumps into isn't a wad of clothes discarded onto the carpet.
The last time they saw each other, he kissed her cheek while Korra laid in bed. Almost mechanically, she pressed her lips to his. He would do something nice with her this afternoon, Tarrlok considered. Korra deserved it.
He rubs his fingers on the bruises mottling her neck and begs, pleads, does everything he can to fix her broken body. But not even a bloodbender can raise the dead.
Korra's blood is on his hands. If only he hadn't left. He reasons that he might as well be with her; he should take his own life too. Not in some misguided display of love that the mindlessly doting consider romantic. Do it, and Tarrlok saves the world. His father's legacy will be permanently erased.
Tarrlok buries her in the garden. Sitting at the dinner, he admits to himself that he cannot bring himself peace. Finally, he allows the tears to fall, clasping the necklace he'd carved for her in both of his hands.
He's always been a coward. A weakling.