It's summer. There's mud and grass underfoot. Noatak will always remember it vividly.
He finds Tarrlok standing at the edge of a small cliff overlooking the beach. Tarrlok is peering over it, his hands clenched into fists.
"Tarrlok?" Noatak calls out. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Dad's going to kill us both. What are you-"
Tarrlok flinches and turns around to face him. "Don't come any closer!"
Great, what now? "Why not?"
"I'm thinking," Tarrlok says.
Noatak sighs. "What're-"
"If I'm hurt, Dad won't make me practice, right?"
It takes a moment for Noatak to understand the question. The cliff isn't so high that a fall is likely to be fatal, but it's high enough to cause injury. "Maybe. Maybe not. Come away from the edge."
Tarrlok shakes his head. "I figure that if I just break a leg or something-"
"He'd get Mom to fix it, and then I'd get yelled at for not looking after you. Do you want me to get in trouble?"
Tarrlok gives him an odd look. "He likes you; he won't stay mad at you forever."
"It's still a dumb idea. What if you break your neck? It's not like you've got any control over what happens."
Of course, that just makes Tarrlok angry. "I don't care. I hope I break my neck."
Noatak doesn't have time for this. "Don't be an idiot."
"I'm not an idiot!" Tarrlok yells. "You think you're so great, you think you know everything, but you don't. You're more scared of Dad than I am and you think that if you keep doing what he says, everything will be okay, but it won't be. Nothing is ever going to get better. You're an idiot."
"Fine. Jump off the cliff. I won't stop you," Noatak says, because all Tarrlok ever does is make things worse for himself. Noatak almost turns away - he's willing to return home and face the consequences - but something makes him pause.
Tarrlok steps backwards, onto nothing.
And Noatak stops thinking. His heart lurches in his chest. Time slows down. The universe shrinks to the size of a moment.
Noatak isn't close enough to catch his brother with his hands. He closes his eyes. The entire world is water: plants, clouds, mud, sea, Tarrlok. Noatak reaches out.
He holds Tarrlok's shape with his mind. It isn't a conscious choice. It's as instinctive as blinking. Tarrlok yelps in pain and surprise.
Noatak gently sets him down on the beach below.
When he opens his eyes and looks over the edge of the cliff, he finds Tarrlok looking back up, wide-eyed and open mouthed, as if he can't decide whether to be outraged or relieved.
"Are you going to come home now, or what?" Noatak says, but only because he can't articulate how angry he is.
With awful predictability, Tarrlok bursts into tears.
Twenty-seven years later, some things are still as instinctive as blinking.
Once they reach land, Noatak coughs up seawater until he passes out.
The first thing he sees is Tarrlok sitting several paces away, looking out to sea. When he realizes the extent of Tarrlok's injuries, he has to fight the urge to be sick. He's seen many burns before - countless ones - but this is different.
Noatak forces himself to focus, taking deep breaths. Then he stands, limps over, and takes Tarrlok's good arm. He can't think beyond getting them both to shelter. Tarrlok doesn't resist.
Following an estuary leads them to an empty boathouse. The roof is half collapsed and the interior smells of stagnant water, but it's adequate.
Noatak draws fresh water from the grass and uses it to treat their burns to the best of his ability. Tarrlok doesn't flinch as he gently eases blackened fabric from raw skin.
They have nothing to say to each other.
It'd be easy to sleep, maybe sleep forever, but Noatak can't allow that. Despite the pain, he goes out and hunts for them both.
When he returns to their makeshift camp, he almost expects Tarrlok to be gone, but Tarrlok is still there.
Noatak makes an ice blade and uses it to skin the animals while his brother watches. It reminds him of when he was young. (Once, as a teenager, he'd tried to separate the viscera from a carcass without using his hands; the small, headless body had sat upright on its hind legs while its intestines uncoiled from its belly, and Tarrlok had shouted at him to stop.)
Tarrlok's indifferent gaze remains fixed on Noatak's face the entire time.
Noatak tells himself that things could be worse.
It isn't long before Noatak sits in front of Tarrlok and repeats, "I'm sorry."
Tarrlok gives no acknowledgment that he's heard.
Noatak sits there until the sun sinks below the horizon; then he stands, and escapes to somewhere out of Tarrlok's sight.
At dawn, Noatak checks his reflection in the water, just to make sure that he looks contrite. He is sorry, isn't he?
They leave the boathouse before too long, as they need medical supplies. They follow the estuary northwards. Where there's a river, there's bound to be people, sooner or later.
Noatak has funds set aside as a contingency plan. He assumes that Tarrlok has a similar arrangement. They just need to reach one of the larger towns. Then they'll be set.
"Tarrlok," Noatak says, as the hours drag on and the silence accumulates. "Say something."
And if Tarrlok is in any way satisfied by the abject note in Noatak's voice, he hides it well.
They reach a farmstead. Noatak tells Tarrlok to stay behind, then heads towards the main building under the cover of nightfall. His injuries keep him from moving as smoothly as he'd like (the pain across his back makes him think of the animals he skinned earlier, red-raw and wet), but he still slips like a shadow across the frozen ground. The waning moon is high and bright.
Two dogs lie on the porch of the house; Noatak senses them before they notice him, and pins them in place. He feels them try to struggle. He keeps them silent.
Getting inside is easy. The house consists of two rooms - a living area and a bedroom - and there are are four human heartbeats within the latter, but they're all slow. Noatak is confident enough to wander in and look: just a small family, a husband, a wife, a little girl, and a grandmother. The wife snores loudly.
Sleep makes them all look fragile. Noatak thinks of firebenders. He also wonders what he'd do if someone woke up. Firebenders are the least of their worries.
The sooner he leaves, the better. He makes a beeline for an old chest and rummages through it until - finally - he finds some suitable clothing and a thin bed sheet. Part of his attention remains on the dogs the entire time; it'll just make trouble if he kills them by accident.
Then he closes the chest behind him and walks out. The dogs only whimper when he lets them go, and he's a safe distance away by then.
Tarrlok is exactly where he left him, still sitting in the same position, although he lifts his head when he notices the bundle tucked under Noatak's arm.
"They're just clothes," Noatak says.
Tarrlok gives him a long look.
"They're just clothes," Noatak repeats, then feels childish. He places the bundle of clothing by Tarrlok's side before turning away, busying himself with tearing the bedsheet into strips and placing them in a neat pile.
Behind him, there's the rustle of fabric.
Eventually, Tarrlok's good hand snatches a bandage from the pile.
"Do you want me to-" Noatak begins, but falters. Do you want me to help? He can hear the answer perfectly: No thank you, Noatak - I've seen your idea of help.
Noatak begins the awkward process of bandaging his own back, and consoles himself with the fact that Tarrlok seems a little better.
They pass through a small fishing village. Noatak trades some animal pelts for medicine and a hunting knife. He asks for directions. He takes risks. He lets Tarrlok slip out of his sight. He gives Tarrlok a hundred opportunities.
The two of them are conspicuous. They're covered in bandages. Their clothes don't fit properly. They look dangerously interesting. The village is quiet and has no telephone lines, but even so: they are not safe there. All it takes is for Tarrlok to say the wrong (right?) thing.
Yet nothing changes.
It's only when they're traveling across the wilderness again that something inside Noatak snaps under the weight of the long hours, and he thinks about how easy it would be to make Tarrlok speak to him. He's bloodbent Tarrlok before; he wouldn't be proving anything that Tarrlok doesn't already know.
But... no. Noatak is just tired, that's all.
He makes one last attempt at conversation. Words were always more effective anyway. "You're not going to forgive me, are you?"
To his surprise, Tarrlok actually answers, though he sounds different from before. "You're too much of a disappointment."
Many others would say the same. Noatak doesn't try to offer another apology. "So leave. Move on," he says, because apparently he's still in the habit of saying incredibly stupid things to his brother.
"That'd be convenient, wouldn't it?" Tarrlok replies. "But I'm afraid you're stuck with me."
Noatak resumes walking, relieved in spite of himself.
Later, when they're settling down for the night under the shelter of some trees, Tarrlok speaks again. "You could go back to the city and turn yourself in."
Noatak looks at him. Tarrlok's eyes are brighter; he seems more present.
Tarrlok even smiles. "Not that you would."
It takes a moment for Noatak to respond. There are many things he could say. Do you think that the authorities are in any way qualified to condemn us? Do you think we'd be treated fairly? Do you think we'd be given anything other than a show trial? Do you think justice would be served? But instead, he looks down at his hands, and asks, "Do you want to turn yourself in?"
"It'd be closure," says Tarrlok simply.
"They'd tear you apart. Imagine it: two generations of bloodbenders tried in Republic City," Noatak replies, though his voice is Amon's rather than his own. "At best, posterity would remember you as something broken and pitiable. Your history would be public knowledge, and you'd be seen as a sad sort of novelty. You'd have no privacy, no respect."
Tarrlok just stares at him, then shakes his head and says, mostly to himself, "Of course."
Noatak bites his tongue and lets the matter drop.
In the morning, Tarrlok scratches at the scabs on his face and murmurs, "I wonder what that Lieutenant of yours is doing right now."
Noatak has enough self-control to avoid flinching, although he still misses the protection of the mask.
Tarrlok adds, "It's a pity that he and I can't get together and compare notes."
His brother is obviously fishing for a reaction, so Noatak indulges him. "What's your point?"
"I want to know if you're capable of caring about someone other than yourself."
"I care about you."
"You hardly know me. I'm not a person to you, I'm some sort of..." Tarrlok drops his hands to his sides, pausing to find the right words. "...Some sort of nostalgic cipher. I'm a stand-in for a sniffly, oversensitive eleven-year-old who you only vaguely remember."
Noatak meets his eyes. "Councilman Tarrlok. You arrived in the city in 'fifty-two, studied at the university on a scholarship, then joined the police. You did a stint in the marine unit before requesting a transfer to the South District, whereupon you climbed through the ranks and developed a reputation for being, ah, sagacious. You made enemies, but not powerful ones. No one was surprised when you decided to pursue a career in politics. Your conservative outlook went down well very with the Northern Water Tribe, who'd become rather reactionary in the face of rising crime and changing social mores. But..." Noatak takes a deep breath. "You're morose when drunk. The last woman you courted was Seonhwa Kung, heir to the Kung Trading Company; the courtship lasted three months. You were admitted to hospital a year ago after accidentally dropping an antique qulliq on your right foot. You claim to dislike animals, yet you keep ornamental fish. Your favorite restaurant is The Three Lanterns on Magnolia Street, even though it doesn't suit your image. You buy most of your clothing from Tan's on North Gate Road. You have a weakness for historical novels set in the Chun Tai era. You collect calligraphy. You seem to assume that most people are idiots. Your methods have become more brazen over time; sometimes you fail to hide your contempt for others. You probably waver between seeing yourself as incredibly intelligent and incredibly stupid. You still bite your nails when you think no one is watching. I could go on."
"Please don't," Tarrlok says.
Noatak falls silent.
Tarrlok offers a politician's grin. "All those years, you could've written once."
Noatak takes the comment as sarcasm and doesn't rise to it.
Tarrlok's grin doesn't waver. "So, is this the reunion you'd hoped for? Perhaps we can torture some wildlife together and bond over the fact that we're both habitual liars with an unhealthy interest in teenage girls."
Noatak gives him a level look.
"What did you do to her, anyway?" Tarrlok asks.
"She won't be a problem." Noatak tries to sound certain.
Tarrlok doesn't reply.
"If you turn yourself in, the authorities will be more lenient," Tarrlok tells him, later in the day.
Noatak almost smiles. Tarrlok has always been stubborn, although his bluntness is a little surprising. "I doubt that."
"So you'll spend the rest of your life as a fugitive, then?" Tarrlok makes a moue of distaste; the expression makes him look more like the little brother Noatak once knew. "What will you do if you're caught? Fight?"
"I'll be careful," Noatak says.
"Being careful isn't enough. I'm sure you've thought you were 'being careful' before, but... Well. Look how that turned out."
"I'll take my chances." Noatak still avoids Tarrlok's gaze. "You must have given thought as to how they'd imprison a bloodbender. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life in solitary confinement, sedated out of my mind."
Something in that sentence makes Tarrlok pause. "You don't think they'll just try to kill you on sight?" he says, although Noatak senses that this isn't the question he really wants to ask.
"I know things that would be useful to them."
"All the more reason to turn yourself in, then. You have something to bargain with."
Noatak just shakes his head. "If you want to return to the city, I wouldn't stop you," he says, although he's not sure if that's true.
"That's a nice sentiment, but I'm afraid you're stuck with me. I've decided that you shouldn't be alone. There's nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose."
"Oh," Noatak says, though he's extremely grateful.
They continue walking in silence for a little while. The winter sky is a bright blue, almost unreal, with wispy clouds sketched across it. On either side of the road, fields stretch out past the horizon. Noatak can't help associating the quiet with the North. Republic City was always so noisy. He'd forgotten what peace was like.
He notices that Tarrlok is studying him. Tarrlok's lips are pursed, though his eyes are unreadable.
"What?" Noatak asks.
"To be honest," Tarrlok says, "sometimes it's difficult to believe you're him."
Noatak forces a smile. "That's fair enough. I'm not entirely sure who I am, either."
"You're the former leader of a terrorist faction who attacked civilians."
"I suppose so," Noatak replies.
Tarrlok's expression hardens. He stands still, opens his mouth, pauses, and then shakes his head.
Noatak almost asks: you think I'm insane, don't you? But he isn't very interested in hearing the answer.
Tarrlok quickly recovers his composure and resumes walking, although he still studies Noatak's face. "On that note, I've been wondering: if your coup had been successful, would you have let me out of my cell?"
"Of course." In time.
It's then that Tarrlok glances away, as if he can't stand looking at him.
They reach a town. It has telephone lines, and Noatak is willing to bet that most of the households own a radio. There are even a few Satomobiles on the streets, although they move slowly so as to avoid disturbing the ostrich horses that are far more common.
Noatak's first action is to head to the bank. He still doesn't feel safe, but when will he ever? In the meantime, they need money. His paperwork is a little crumpled after being hidden under his clothing for so long, but it's miraculously legible, save for the odd scorch mark.
He hides his unease very well, and the bank teller refrains from asking difficult questions.
Once he has money in his pocket, he finds Tarrlok waiting outside, and says, "We should leave."
Tarrlok gives him a blank look. "Ah. Is that the plan? We keep walking until one of us keels over and dies from infection?"
"We're still too close to-" Noatak begins.
"We're both tired, miserable, and in pain. I'm missing half my fingers, and it looks like someone tried to skin you alive but got bored and gave up part way though. We're not getting any healthier. We need rest. This town is reasonably large. We're going to stay at a proper inn, just for one night. Do you understand?"
It's been a very long time since someone last gave Noatak orders. It takes him a moment to figure out what to say.
"I... perhaps you have a point," he replies, not because he agrees with Tarrlok, but because he wants to humor him.
"There's hope for you yet," Tarrlok mutters.
It's not really a proper inn as such - the walls are peeling, and there's a persistent mildew smell - but it has cheap rooms. Noatak doesn't know how long his money will need to last. He should sit down and plan ahead, but it's difficult to think beyond an hour at a time. There's a seaport a few days west, and they just have to reach it, and then they'll go... somewhere. Back to the North. That was his original idea, when his mind was clearer.
Once the door is closed behind them, Noatak inspects the room's windows, then slumps down on one of the beds. He needs to think.
He closes his eyes, as if that'll help. And when he opens them again, it's dark outside.
"Tarrlok?" he murmurs, cotton-mouthed.
"I'm still here," Tarrlok replies. He's sitting on the floor, and he looks different, and... spirits, what is he doing?
Noatak sits up and stares.
Tarrlok is trying to cut his hair short. He does this by holding a lock in his mouth to keep it taut, then sawing through the lock with the hunting knife. The result already looks terrible.
"Why are you doing that?" Noatak asks, still sleepy and stupid.
"I don't want to catch lice from the bedding here. Also you wouldn't believe what I used to spend on hair oil."
"Well. Stop."
Tarrlok gives him a very odd look. "Excuse me?"
"You're making it worse." Noatak hauls himself off the bed and walks over, holding out a hand for the knife. "Let me do it."
Tarrlok gives an abrupt little laugh, but offers the knife anyway.
Noatak sits behind him. He takes a clump of hair and cuts through it, trying to be careful. It'd be so much easier with scissors.
"Remember when we went to the capital, and some brat put stew in your hood and pulled it over your head, so you pushed him in a canal?" Noatak says.
Tarrlok is silent for a moment. "...I don't remember that at all."
"You were barely four years old. I think we were there for cousin Neema's wedding. I took my eyes off you for two minutes to get some food, and then I heard this shriek of rage and a splash."
"I don't think I was the sort of child who pushed people in canals," Tarrlok says.
You have always been the sort of child who pushes people in canals, Noatak thinks, but keeps it to himself. "Well, that's what happened. It was a good job Mother rescued the boy before he froze to death."
There's another thoughtful silence. "Did the other boy have a gap in his front teeth, and pale skin? And a broad nose?"
"He did, yes."
"Ah. That might have been Kianbak. Second cousin, I think. I always wondered why he didn't like me."
"Whatever happened to him?"
"He became a shipwright, got married, had too many children, that sort of thing," Tarrlok says, as if that's the epitome of dullness.
Noatak wants to ask questions - what about the rest of their relatives, where are they all now? - but decides against it.
Still, against his better judgment, he keeps talking. "You really don't remember?"
"No."
"What is your earliest memory?"
Tarrlok almost answers, but seems to change his mind at the last second. "Sentimentality won't help, you know."
Noatak bites his tongue and focuses on cutting Tarrlok's hair.
When he's finished, he sits back, and says, "You look like a bandit." One of the more pitiful ones that you get in the far east, thanks to the droughts.
Tarrlok turns around to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Well, you know how it is for nonbenders. Lack of opportunities force us into crime, and so on. Allegedly."
"Your speech still is too middle-class," Noatak says. If Tarrlok wants to bait him, he'll have to be more subtle about it.
"Are you saying that middle-class nonbenders aren't terribly oppressed as well?"
Noatak shakes his head. "You know, it's a little late to be telling you this, but cutting your hair short won't stop you from getting lice. They lay eggs in the seams of your clothing. It helps somewhat if you use a candle to-"
"Thank you, Noatak," Tarrlok interrupts, primly.
Noatak goes out and buys extra clothing and food for them both. He returns with baozi. Tarrlok dissects the buns before eating them, and despite all that's happened, Noatak tries not to laugh.
"You can't give me my bending back, can you?" Tarrlok asks out of nowhere, mid-way through inspecting the last bun.
Yes. No. Maybe. Why would you even want it? Noatak forces a smile that's meant to be reassuring, and answers, "For you, I could try."
That makes Tarrlok stare at him. "Oh. It'd be a special favor, would it? How generous."
"Come over here," Noatak says.
Tarrlok still stares. "What are you going to do?"
"Heal you. That's all."
"Have you ever managed it before?"
"No," Noatak answers, truthfully. "There wasn't much cause to try."
"So I'd be an experiment, would I? Not your first, I'd imagine, though probably the first one to actually consent."
There's no good way for Noatak to answer that. Some of his subjects were volunteers, but that might not count for much.
Despite Noatak's silence, Tarrlok moves closer until he's sitting within arm's reach. "I don't trust you," he says flatly, "But if you can do this, then that's a start."
Noatak thinks for a moment, unsure of the best way to do things, then places his thumbs on Tarrlok's temples, framing his face with his hands. It's so different from when...
"Is the physical contact really required?" Tarrlok asks, derailing Noatak's train of thought.
"It helps."
"Ah. I always wondered if the thumb-on-forehead thing was just for show." Tarrlok closes his good hand around Noatak's left wrist. "I've also wondered if you have any idea what it's like to lose your bending."
"I've thought about it. I've spoken to people. Not everyone wants their bending. People who can't control it, for instance. There's a demand for suppressants; you must have heard about the ongoing research in Ba Sing Se. And sometimes individuals lose their abilities due to psychological conditions-"
"That doesn't answer my question. I'll rephrase it: do you have any idea what it's like to have your bending taken from you?"
Perhaps. A little. Noatak has lost fights to other chi blockers (albeit a long time ago), but that's hardly the same. He asks (because he's Noatak now, not Amon, and he no longer has to pretend that he knows everything), "What it's like?"
Tarrlok studies his face again. He seems surprised, though he hides it well. If he was preparing himself for an argument, then the impetus is lost. "Probably like losing your own name," he says, then reconsiders. "Actually, no - that's a terrible comparison. Alright, I suppose it's like being put in a cell and watching the door close. It's the realization that your future will be very different from what you imagined. That, you know, all the hours you've invested in something are now worth nothing."
Noatak tries to think of something to say.
"Or it's not like any of those things at all," Tarrlok adds, and lets go of Noatak's wrist so he can airily wave his hand. "Anyway. Get on with it."
"Let me know if it feels strange."
"Strange relative to what?"
"Well, if you notice a headache, or visual disturbances, or-"
"That was a rhetorical question," Tarrlok says, and repeats: "Get on with it."
Very well. Noatak closes his eyes.
Tarrlok's blood stands out sharply against the darkness, a tangle of intricate rivers. Noatak can visualize it, although it's more of a tactile thing; the blood pulls at him, exerting a gentle force. He ignores the rush of the arteries and the lazier flow of the fat, delicate veins, and focuses on the capillaries that worm deep into Tarrlok's brain. It's easy to find the spot where the capillaries aren't quite right - they're too weak, and there aren't enough of them - though repairing the damage would require inhuman finesse. It's easy to ruin something delicate. It's another thing to mend it.
He tries anyway. (And if he really concentrates, it's not just blood he perceives; blood is the mother to chi, and so on.)
Noatak focuses, pushes.
And then Tarrlok's hands shove against his chest, almost knocking him backwards. He opens his eyes just in time to see Tarrlok recoiling away from him.
"How did you..." Noatak begins to ask. Tarrlok shouldn't have felt anything. Not yet, at least.
"I don't- that was-..." Tarrlok gives him a strange look. "...What have you been doing to people?"
Noatak reaches out, wanting to reassure him. "I don't take their bending away. I change the way they think."
"Oh. I suppose that makes it acceptable, then," Tarrlok snaps.
"Are you alright?"
Tarrlok doesn't bother to reply.
Noatak still holds up his hands, like an idiot. "I could still do it, I think, if-"
"I've changed my mind. I don't want it back," Tarrlok says.
Noatak is speechless for a second, unsure whether he should argue. Everything is backwards.
Tarrlok seems to collect himself, then stands and brushes the dust off his clothing. "Give me a moment," he says, deceptively calm, before leaving the room.
Noatak doesn't try to stop him.
The night passes. Noatak waits. Tarrlok returns before sunrise, although Noatak still expects the worst.
Tarrlok crosses the room and goes to lean against the wall furthest away from him.
"Have you been sitting there looking miserable the entire time I was gone?" Tarrlok asks.
Again, there's no good way to answer that.
Tarrlok rubs at his brow. "What are we going to do with you?"
Noatak forces a smile. "I'm surprised you haven't reported me to the authorities yet."
"I don't trust them to deal with you properly," Tarrlok says, although that might be an excuse. "You're too dangerous, and if they mishandle things, the consequences will be ugly. Still..."
Noatak observes the way Tarrlok hesitates. He studies his face, reading the worry in the lines around his mouth and eyes.
"You're meant to be good at thinking ahead. You can't be... I mean, you can't have completely lost your wits. You must know you can't run forever," Tarrlok tells him.
"Then I'll make the best of my time with you while I can." Noatak keeps his voice level, if quiet.
"That's not the answer I wanted to hear, Noa," Tarrlok says, then ends the conversation by walking over to one of the sleeping mats, curling up, and pulling the blanket around himself.
Noatak resumes waiting.
They leave the inn and head west, to the seaport. Traveling by air would be faster, but it doesn't require so much paperwork to travel by ship, providing you know where to ask. It should be straightforward. Should be.
The landscape becomes more interesting. The fields give way to marshes, and then the marshes give way to small lakes. One lake has a temple nestled by it; the building is a crude copy of Northern architecture, with a crescent carved on the gate. It's so scruffy-looking that it makes Noatak feel a sort of... well, a sort of cultural embarrassment, even though he hasn't thought of himself as a Tribesman in a very long time.
Tarrlok gives the temple a pointed look as they pass it. "We should stop."
"We stopped at the town," Noatak replies, but pauses, eyeing Tarrlok's injuries. "Has the pain got any worse?"
"No. I'm fine." Granted, Tarrlok has always been a very good liar. "Or I'm as fine as I'm going to be under the present circumstances, anyway. I just thought we should see a qualified healer."
"There'll be healers in the North," Noatak says. "Good ones."
"Oh. Is that where we're meant to be going?" Tarrlok laughs. "You know, I hadn't thought about our destination until just now. Isn't that strange? Do you think we'll actually get there?"
"It's possible."
"And what will we do if we get that far?"
"I intend to live a very quiet life."
"What, settle down, marry a nice girl, produce a couple of children?"
Tarrlok's problem is that he's never been able to resist a cheap shot. "That was a little on the nose," Noatak tells him.
"Someone has to state the obvious, since you're willfully ignoring it."
Noatak manages to hold Tarrlok's gaze. "I'm going to find somewhere remote, and let people forget about me. I promise."
Tarrlok smiles very slightly. "You'll get bored. Do you trust yourself?"
Noatak has to think before answering. In the end, the best he can say is, "We've survived this long. Give me a chance to prove myself."
"You don't really need to run off to the North to do that."
Noatak takes a deep breath, exasperated all of a sudden. "Tarrlok. I can't stay in the United Republic."
"You know, you're really a little dense at times," Tarrlok says. "You can't outrun a guilty conscience. You're not thinking at all, are you? You're just blindly following some sort of imbecilic homing instinct because you believe that, if you return to the right place with the right person, the world will magically reset itself and the past twenty-six years will mean nothing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Noatak says, because it's not that simple. And returning to the city won't change anything, anyway. He needs to go away and collect himself, and plan ahead.
Tarrlok sighs. "Regardless, the North is a terrible choice. Too obvious. It's the first place anyone will look."
"And you'd suggest?"
"Excuse me, I'm going to going to advise you on your new career as a fugitive," Tarrlok says, then changes tack. "Though perhaps it won't really matter where you go."
Noatak worries that Tarrlok has a point.
They find places to rest; the countryside is forgiving, and the 'winters' here barely merit the name - at worst, they're dark and damp, with snow drifts that barely reach your waist. Noatak is relieved to discover that his time in the City hasn't softened him much. Despite his poor health, he finds the terrain easy and the weather tolerable. He might be able to survive on the road indefinitely.
After he hunts, he gives Tarrlok the best cuts of meat, until Tarrlok realizes this and tells him, "I'm not an invalid."
"You don't eat enough," Noatak replies.
Tarrlok gives him a withering look. "You're trying too hard. Actually, I think you look more sickly than I do."
Noatak shrugs (he disagrees - but then, he hasn't seen his reflection in a while) and turns the piece of game roasting over the fire. The meat blackens; fat crackles as skin splits.
"How are your injuries?" Tarrlok asks.
"They're tolerable."
"Can I see them?"
Noatak wonders what's behind Tarrlok's request. Morbid interest? Guilt? A desire to see his own handiwork? Regardless, he removes the layers of clothing from his upper body. The night isn't too cold. (It's possible that he has a slight temperature.)
Tarrlok moves behind him to get a better look at his back, then mutters, "Those are the most disgusting bandages I've ever seen." He peels away some of the dressing, as much as he can without pulling the scabs off, and remains silent for a moment.
Then he says, "I don't regret what I did, you know."
Noatak assumed as much, although that doesn't make things any easier.
He breathes in, slowly. "Well, next time, use a more sensible method."
"Next time?"
"As you've said, I can't run forever. And I know you. I'm not the Noatak you remember, and if you think I pose a threat to others, you'll see my death as your last shot at redemption. "
Tarrlok places a hand on Noatak's back. When he speaks again, he sounds tired. "I've thought about it. I'd still prefer it if you went back to the city and turned yourself in. If you want my forgiveness, then those are my terms."
Noatak closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face. A proclivity for holding grudges runs in the family.
He's exhausted. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he spent the rest of his life in a cell, if it meant he could get some rest.
But no, it doesn't have to end like that. Perhaps there's a third option.
Perhaps he could make Tarrlok forgive him.
Then he realizes what he's considering, and feels disgusted with himself.
"If I turn myself in, I'm as good as dead anyway," Noatak says, to distract himself from his thoughts. "If anything, death would be kinder and less humiliating. You understand that, don't you? It's not atonement you want. It's revenge."
There's a pause, slightly too long, and then Tarrlok inhales sharply. "That's not it. You could help repair the damage you've caused. You have things to offer, like you said. You could be useful-"
Noatak remembers the revulsion in Tarrlok's expression after he tried to restore his bending. "Don't you think the things I know are best forgotten?"
"You've set a precedent. You've demonstrated bloodbending's capabilities. Others will try to imitate you, though I wish it were otherwise. By this point, the best thing we can do is try to understand rather than condemn."
Poor Tarrlok. Idealism doesn't suit him. "And do you think you could convince the Council of that?"
"The Avatar might listen."
"The same Avatar you tried to kidnap?" Noatak says, just before it occurs to him that Tarrlok is out of his mind. Tarrlok is meant to be better at arguing than this.
"What other options are there?"
Noatak keeps his eyes closed. "Tarrlok, I'd never willingly return to Republic City. The conditions of your forgiveness are impossible to meet."
"I see," Tarrlok says, unsurprised.
It's as good a time as any to mention it, so: "I took the Avatar's bending away."
That makes Tarrlok shut up for a second.
Might as well be honest. "Well, most of her bending," Noatak admits.
Tarrlok draws a breath, much like their father used to when he was preparing to shout at someone. "...What do you mean, 'most of'?"
"Apparently she was still capable of airbending." Noatak already regrets raising the subject.
There's no anger, though. Just exasperation. "I wondered how she beat you."
She didn't beat him. She was lucky. However, there's no way Noatak can say that without sounding bitter.
Tarrlok is quiet for a moment, probably thinking, before he says, "You really are a very stupid man."
Noatak almost turns around to look at him.
"So, you managed to terrorize a maladjusted seventeen year old. Are you proud of yourself?" Tarrlok adds.
It's not that simple. "She isn't just some child, Tarrlok. She's the Avatar."
"Yes, that's what I used to tell myself, before I decided to try behaving like an adult."
Noatak shakes his head. "Don't frame her as an innocent victim. You know what she's capable of."
"She lacks common sense and restraint because she's young. What's your excuse?"
Noatak rubs his temples. He knows he ought to keep his mouth shut, but: "People paint the Avatar as a poor little girl whenever they want to malign those who challenge her, and yet she's still treated as an important figure with adult responsibilities whenever the establishment needs a figurehead. It's very expedient."
"Don't try to digress. You didn't need to pick a fight with her. There were other ways to change things."
"Perhaps I would've seen other options as viable if Republic City hadn't been so rife with political corruption."
There's another uncomfortable pause, and then Tarrlok laughs, incredulous but resigned. "Alright. You can try to shift the blame and argue that I don't have much of a moral high ground. But my lack of a moral high ground just means I understand you better."
"And what are you going to do with me?"
Tarrlok removes his hand from Noatak's back, and moves to sit at his side. "What can I do? I've never been able to stop you from doing anything." His tone is matter-of-fact, but the resentment is still clear.
Noatak almost winces, although it'd be a mistake to see Tarrlok as hapless and ineffectual. "You'll figure something out."
Tarrlok eyes him, weighing him up, then says, "Is this how it has to go, then?"
"I'll trust your judgment."
"Don't... just..." Tarrlok says, anger making his voice crack. "Just don't try to twist the situation to make yourself seem tragic and self-sacrificing. I'm the one who has to deal with the consequence of your actions. And if you die, then what? What would I do afterwards? That was the whole idea of the... what I did earlier; it was convenient, and- do you ever actually think?"
Apparently not. "I'm sorry," says Noatak, although the phrase might be a little meaningless by now. He decides, distantly, that he doesn't want to be Noatak anymore.
"Then take responsibility for things," Tarrlok replies. "Don't force my hand. Don't make me act against you."
Noatak watches the fire. It's strange, when he thinks about it: a very long time ago, in a different life when he'd been too young to know better, there were times when he'd found Tarrlok annoying. (And Tarrlok, for the most part, had been patient and affectionate.) Now he's the proverbial cangue around Tarrlok's neck, in a way his child self would've never foreseen.
If he's honest with himself - though it comes a little too late, and doesn't suit him - he can admit that he stopped being Tarrlok's older brother a very long time ago.
"I haven't done you any favors in life, have I?" Noatak says.
Tarrlok opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates as if holding something back. "You could." He pauses. "You could help people. Like I said."
Except that's what Noatak thought he was doing, once, a very long time ago. Tarrlok is willfully forgetting certain things. Everyone has their own ideas about what 'help' means.
It doesn't matter anyway. Nothing is going to change. Noatak doesn't regret leading the Equalists. He regrets some of his actions, but not his ambitions. He has no desire to surrender or negotiate. Compromise won't fix anything. The world will remain irrevocably broken regardless of what they choose (and, on some level, Tarrlok must already know that, otherwise he wouldn't have tried to do what he did). Noatak is tempted to say as much, but he reminds himself that Tarrlok isn't in his right mind. There's no point arguing.
"No," he says, and doesn't try to apologize again. Apologies require sincerity, and sincerity requires sentiment, and he's always thrived on coldness. He's trying to be as dispassionate as possible, for both their sakes. Sentimentality won't help, as Tarrlok has said. "It won't work. You'll never forgive me, and I don't expect you to. The most responsible, unselfish thing I can do is remove myself from your life."
"You-" Tarrlok begins, then shuts up for a moment to process Noatak's words.
"As you've just said, you're the one who has to deal with the consequences of my actions," Noatak adds. "You think that you're the only person who can deal with me, in one way or another. Therefore, I don't want to be your burden."
"You don't get to decide that, you sanctimonious ass," Tarrlok says, very slowly.
Actually, I do, Noatak thinks, because I'm stronger than you, and life isn't fair. All of Noatak's attempts to change things have simply proven this fact. There's no point in discussing it. He's made up his mind.
All it takes is a careful pressure to the arteries in Tarrlok's neck.
It happens slowly enough for Tarrlok to realize what's going on. "You're not-..."
He is. Noatak still wants to apologize anyway. He's also wants to tell Tarrlok that he'll be careful, that he knows what he's doing, that he won't cause any permanent damage - but that might not be terribly reassuring under the circumstances.
Tarrlok's good hand moves to his throat. "Don't. This won't solve anything."
"Perhaps it'll stop things from getting worse for you, though," Noatak says. Self-destruction is all very well, but he has no intention of dragging Tarrlok down with him.
"You're completely ridiculous. Do you even listen to anything I say without reinterpreting it to suit yourself? You r-... If-" Tarrlok manages to steel himself, buying time. He's now a very different Tarrlok from the one who asked 'what can I do?' a moment ago. "...This isn't a solution. This is just you being a paternalistic idiot who... who..."
Noatak catches Tarrlok's shoulders as he passes out.
"We'll have to agree to disagree," Noatak says.
Unconsciousness does little to smooth out Tarrlok's features. Noatak will remember his brother's frown for the rest of his life. He carefully brushes a strand of hair from Tarrlok's face, as if the gesture counts for something, and ignores the nagging feeling that he's abandoning the one person who might still need him. (Because who else does Tarrlok have, now?)
And, though he tries to dispel it from his mind, he still remembers what Tarrlok said days ago: there's nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.
Noatak doesn't know if he's doing the right thing, but how can you ever tell? What if everything still comes down to selfishness, in the end?
Awareness comes to Tarrlok in glimpses. He sees mud and grass. He manages to figure out that he's being carried again, and he knows he should be angry about that, but it's difficult to think for very long. The world keeps fading in and out of darkness.
There's only one thought he can hold on to, and it's this: what's the point in being a prodigy if you're still woefully stupid?
Tarrlok eventually wakes to the sound of water. His mouth is dry and he has a headache.
"Noa?" he calls, sitting up, then remembers that he shouldn't use his brother's name.
Things come into focus. He looks over his shoulder and sees a stone fountain (topped with a statue of Yue bearing a pitcher of water; it's a little tacky, actually) and humble wooden walls. The room (no, hallway - it's large, with a high ceiling) smells of disinfectant.
He stands (it feels like there's a marlinspike stuck in his forehead) and tries to head to the nearest door without the indignity of throwing up, thank you. A woman in healer's robes appears from somewhere like a ghost and tells him to sit down, but he ignores her - he has enough to deal with - and staggers outside. There's blue sky, a green lake, a road in the distance. He looks back at the building he just came from. It has peeling white walls and far too many moons carved on the roof. He knows this place, this temple, they passed it... when? Recently.
Of course, Noatak is gone.
Tarrlok sits down by the side of the road and feels absolutely nothing apart from the cold breeze off the water.
He could get up.
It might not be too late.
He could still try to find his brother.
Trying isn't good enough, says his father, who has the worst possible timing.
Tarrlok rubs some of the grit out of his eyes, and then mutters, "Fuck it." The expletive is unsatisfying and clumsy. He doesn't sound like himself.
He stays where he is, and refuses to cry.
(Eventually the woman in the healer's robes cautiously brings him some tea, so there's that.)
It's summer when the Avatar finally appears. She finds Tarrlok when he's replacing some of the temple's roof riles.
He doesn't realize she's there until she noisily clears her throat and shouts, "Uhh... HEY."
Tarrlok, to his credit, does not fall off the roof, but turns around slowly and looks down at the temple courtyard. Korra looks much the same as she did when he last saw her; it hasn't been that long, after all. She gives him a very nervous smile.
Korra is the only person present. Apparently the temple's other occupants have made themselves scarce.
Tarrlok tries to think of something to say, then decides that his first priority is to get down from the roof. He can't think beyond that. He finds the ladder and climbs down, feeling clumsy and slow. Then he approaches Korra until they're just barely within conversation distance, and they both size each other up.
Korra being Korra, she immediately stares at his hand. "What happened to you?"
He's almost used to the question by now. Children are the worst for that. If Tarrlok liked kids, he'd have a few stock answers prepared: I fought a rampaging firebender, I had a run-in with a dragon, I used to work in a firework factory, etc. But he doesn't like kids, so he just tells them to mind their own business. He's tempted to tell Korra the same.
"Worse things happened at sea," he says, then cuts Korra off before she can say anything else. "You're here to arrest me, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"Don't apologize, it's quite understandable." Perhaps he should just be glad she didn't blast him off the roof and spring on him with a pair of cuffs. On the other hand (or what's left of it, hardy har, very funny), he isn't sure that he appreciates her awkward attempt at sympathy. "So, did you come here by yourself, or is there a strike team hiding behind a bush somewhere?"
Korra sticks out her chin. The nervous smile vanishes. "I came here by myself." Pause. "Well, alright, Lin is waiting by the gate, but only because she's head of the investigation. Relax."
Tarrlok refrains from telling her that when you order people to relax, they usually do the opposite. The courtyard contains a stone bench, so he sits down, in no great hurry to go anywhere.
Korra sits on the ground so she still has to look up at him. "I, um, would've come earlier if I'd known, but I didn't know you were here until a few days ago," she says. "I'm actually really glad you're alri-" She's about to say alright, but realizes it's the wrong word. "...Alive."
He smiles. "What gave me away?"
"I got an anonymous tip-off." Korra scratches her arm. "So, ah... Nice temple."
Poor girl. "Running away and turning to religion is a bit of a cliche, isn't it?" says Tarrlok, even though that's not quite what happened. (And, of course, he wonders who snitched on him.)
"I don't know," Korra murmurs, then sneaks another glance at him. "Your hair is shorter. And you grew a beard."
"I did. I'm not a very imaginative fugitive."
Korra makes a noncommittal 'hm' sound. "Do you like it here?"
"Excuse me?"
She gestures vaguely at the surrounding courtyard. "You know. Here."
"I suppose so," Tarrlok says. He's never really thought about it. People have been kind to him, but he still wishes that he didn't require kindness. "I'm not unwilling to leave, though."
"Okay. Good." Korra goes back to staring at his bad hand. She's trying so hard to be tactful that it's a wonder she doesn't sweat blood from the effort. "No rush."
Tarrlok imagines Lady Beifong waiting by the gate, scowling. He'll have to face her eventually. "I don't know; I don't see the point in delaying the inevitable. Although I can't say I look forward to airing my dirty laundry in front of everyone. Assuming they don't know most of it already."
"I only told Tenzin and a few others," Korra says, almost apologetically.
Tenzin. Of all people. Naturally. "Yes, I expected as much," Tarrlok says, then looks for a way to change the subject. He remembers something important. "You look well. You have your bending back, don't you?" He's been following her exploits in the news, but he wants to hear some things straight from the ostrich horse's mouth, so to speak. When it comes to the Avatar, he tends to wonder how much is truth, and how much is propaganda.
"Yeah," Korra says, now eyeing him. She has every reason to be cagey: the loss of her bending wasn't really made public. "But I'm not answering your questions unless you answer mine first."
"Fair enough."
"So, you gonna come back with us to the city, or...?"
It's funny how she makes it sound as if he has a choice. "Yes. However, I'd better say goodbye to the people here first. Is that alright?" They've been gracious hosts, patient despite his sullenness and secrecy. The least he can do is offer them an explanation for the Avatar's visit, and an apology. It'll be awkward, but he'd better get used to that. There's going to be a lot of awkwardness in his life from this point onwards. (At what point can he decide he's had enough? There are already too many days when he resents that Noatak saved them both.)
"Okay, I guess," Korra says, "I can wait out here, unless-"
She's incorrigible. "You should come with me," Tarrlok says. It's a wonder that Beifong let her confront him by herself.
"Okay." Yes, she can stand around and look uncomfortable while he apologizes to people. That's what she gets for being the Avatar.
Tarrlok gets up and dusts off his clothes, while Korra hops to her feet. Before they go inside, though, there's still a question that has to be asked. "By the way, any news of my brother?"
Korra lets out this huge sigh. She must have been waiting for Tarrlok to mention him the whole time. "I'm not meant to talk to you about him yet."
Something twists deep in Tarrlok's chest, catching him off-guard. "Is he...?" Tarrlok's mind always goes to dark places, and in some ways, it's been easier to assume that Noatak is dead.
Perhaps it shows in his expression, because Korra is too quick to take pity on him and answer when she shouldn't. "We - uh, they - they think he's somewhere in the southern Earth Kingdom."
"Oh," Tarrlok says. Just 'oh'. Is he relieved? He's not sure. He tells himself he wants Noatak to live, and yet there's still an ugly part of him which insists that Noatak is a coward. (Perhaps he shouldn't be too horrified by that, though. He's resigned himself to ugliness.)
"But I guess you'll get to hear about Amon a whole lot when you're back in the city anyway," Korra murmurs, sounding older than her years for a moment.
Tarrlok finds it difficult to move his feet. He feels old, and tired, and capable of remaining in the same place forever, like a particularly sad statue.
He considers staying in the courtyard until Beifong runs out of patience and turns up to drag him away. Then he decides that he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction.
"Right. Of course," he says, and begins walking towards the temple building. He tries not to think about what'll come next.
Korra offers one last attempt at a reassuring smile, and walks by his side.
Tarrlok still wonders where Noatak is, and envies him.