Them, an avatar: last airbender fanfic

Them
. helium lost .

Author's Notes: After writing "" (the drabble that's supposed to have no title—but FF . Net requires titles, so that effect was kind of ruined), I got hit with my muse (finally!). So I managed to spew out this four-thousand-word fic. :P Yes, it's centered on an OC, but please, I know my Mary Sues and my Gary Stus.

Anywho, something to keep in mind: The Chinese grading system is roughly like this: jia is an A, yi is a B, bing is a C, and ding is a D. Shang (up) is equivalent to a plus, and xia (down) is equivalent to a minus.

Edit: I added another paragraph toward the end and made some other minor revisions; hopefully, I've explained a little better the change that occurs; if not, don't hesitate to drop me a line. :)

Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender © Nickelodeon and the others involved in the making and distribution of it. I'm just a teeny little fan. :)

It was what I had always wanted to do, ever since I was a kid. My memories are fragmented, but the ones that I still have are focused, detailed, lucid.

The first time… I remember it clearly, as though it were yesterday. The cold, metal bars pressed against my face as I took a peek into the shooting range. The thwap thwap of arrows hitting the stark, red-and-white bull's eye, every one landing in the exact center, as if led there by a string. And the look of intense concentration in all of their eyes, a look that would haunt me forever.

My next memory is of me holding a tin of my mother's dark red lipstick, the kind she used only on special occasions, like weddings and funerals. I was too little to understand what money was, and how much things cost. So I'd bent over her small, round mirror, carefully using my index finger on my right hand to scoop out mound after mound of that smooth, soft red paste, drawing that double-ax design over my eyes, and of course, adding the two diamonds. And I remember the look on my mother's face when she came home and saw her tin, half-empty, and me sitting, rubbing my eyes, trying to get the lipstick out—I was in pain, but happy. And she was shocked, but laughed, because I was too young to know any better.

Then, there was the sunset. I had been watching them practice, hitting the bull's eye as if they were simply blinking. Then, without a word, they looked at the sunset together—as if they were one—and went inside, closing the magnificent mahogany door behind them. They had left the shed with the spare bows and arrows open. I suppose they thought that no one could get in—after all, the wrought-iron gate was tall and laced with sharp points at the top—but then, I guess they didn't think about little eight-year-old kids, like I had been.

I'd wriggled under the gate like some sort of epileptic snake, and darted over to the shed. I dragged out a bow, marveling at the sleek wood that it was made out of, touching the smooth string, perfectly tensed. And I took out an arrow, running my fingers over the notch at the end, tracing the shaft of the arrow down to its pointy tip. I'd fitted the arrow into the bow, then pulled back—it was so hard, I remember, but I managed to pull back the string a few inches anyway—but my strength gave out, and the arrow shot itself into the air with a loud twang; it flew into the air a few feet, then tipped itself over and came hurtling straight back down toward me, embedding itself into the soft ground just fractions of an inch away from my arm. Then, they came back out—they never go anywhere alone—and kicked me out. The keeper of the shooting range—an old man, named Kou—had come out, scolding me and telling me how lucky I was to still have that arm. I went home, scared of the old man, but longing again for the feel of the wood.

Then, there was school with Mr. Chen, the strictest, most uptight person that I have ever met. I remember trying my hardest on everything—spending hours researching answers to his questions; going through sleepless nights, trying to edit out every last mistake from my compositions—but the most I ever got was a bing-shang, and always a bing-shang. That yi always eluded me, just a point or two away from me—and I remember crying over it quite a few times. My mother would tell me to try harder, that I was so close, and that I would do it the next time—but I never did. The build-up, the expectation, the hope—and it would all come crashing down with that cursed mark on my paper. And all the while, the people around me would be effortlessly getting yi, yi-xia…

But one day in spring—I remember, because the cherry blossoms were beginning to bloom—Mr. Chen assigned us a free topic, and I knew immediately what I was going to write about. How could I forget them, their majesty, their magic? I ran back home, so excited for what I knew was coming up. I pulled every book on them that I had off my shelf, almost causing it to collapse; I looked out my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the shooting range, hoping to hear just an echo of that thwap thwap sound that I'd come to love. And when I strained hard enough, I swore that I heard it, ever so faint. And I sat down at my desk, pulled my paper toward me, and wrote non-stop for an hour. I read my paper over and over again after I finished writing it, but I could find no errors.

I turned it in to Mr. Chen the next day, anxiously waiting for my grade. I knew I had done well that time, and the day after that, I almost fainted when I saw my paper—emblazoned across it, in bright red ink, was a yi-shang. Not a yi-xia or a yi, but a solid yi-shang. I ran home screaming with happiness to my mother, and she hugged me tight, telling me over and over again that she knew that I could do it, that she knew that I had it in me.

I fell asleep that night smiling.

Not too soon afterward, there was the job exam. I still remember the stark, white paper, the typed, black words looking oddly formidable, popping out like some sort of monster. My classmates and I filled in answers on the paper as truthfully as we could, as any slight lie could throw the entire results off. I remember that I was sweating, trying to rack my brains for the best, most truthful answer. Some people were done in ten minutes, turning in their papers as easily as though they were paying for a bill; others shrugged and looked as if they didn't care much about their future, or about some silly test. But I—this was the confirmation I needed, the confirmation that would tell me whether or not I was suited to join them. So for the entire two hours, I slaved away, erasing and rewriting probably more than half the test. I was the last one to turn it in.

Three weeks later, our results came in. And I didn't see them on the paper at all. No trace of that solid determination in their eyes, no shadow of the beautiful red mark across their face, no trace of that glorious bandanna across their heads…

But I refused to let that test dictate my life. The results were a belief of one organization—they were people, just like me, and they had no control over me. I didn't care that I was their complete opposite; I only cared about joining them, sharing in their majesty. So it was that I told my mother that I wouldn't be continuing with my education any longer—I told her that I didn't need it. And, as I was now an adult by law, she just gave me a sad look and nodded. I knew that it was her dream to have her boy graduate from a prestigious college, as she and the rest of the people in her family had been denied that opportunity. And it hurt me to see her heartbroken, but there was no way that I was going to give up my dream.

My next memory finds me lying on my back, staring at the blank ceiling, with my backpack resting on my stomach. The rooms were stark bare, with only the bare necessities—bunk beds with a hard pillow and a single, thin sheet on the mattress as firm as a rock on each, and a lone, frill-less table by the beds. There was a small slit of a window in the wall, which was bare; the floor was either very smooth, brown carpet, or dirt packed so tightly that dust hardly even came up from it anymore. And I remember the door creaking open as my roommate Tian came in, telling me that it was time for the warm-up. Tian himself had wanted to join the Fire Nation's army, only to have his dreams crushed when he realized that firebending was mandatory to join—a non-bender had no chance at all of joining. It was then that he decided just to learn taijutsu to show those fire nation soldiers that they didn't need bending to excel—just their body was enough.

Thus followed eighteen grueling months of what I perceived to be torture. We would wake up every morning at five, eat a quick breakfast of plain oatmeal and maybe a slice of an orange, then go out and try to warm ourselves in the cold, frigid morning. Five miles around the track would bring us to about five forty-five, six, maybe, and then we would have to crank out push-ups and sit-ups by the thousands, not to mention all the other exercises. By lunchtime, if we could even walk, we would eat a lunch of plain, untoasted bread, accompanied by some ham so tasteless that it might as well have been bread, as well. Then there was the broccoli, so gray that it just looked like a lumpy rock. I remember thinking that they planned out our meals so that we got just enough nutrition to keep us going.

The second half of the day was always my favorite—it was then that we would diverge and go into our specialized studies. Tian would go off with other students to train with Sifu Wu, who was known throughout the land as the master of taijutsu. He and his advanced students were so good at taijutsu that they could beat a firebender in close-range combat, and some of them could even overtake earthbenders. Me, I went off to join Shi, who had the names of all his successful alumni hanging from his belt—tiny plaques with engravings of their names.

He had seven of the twelve current Yuu Yan archers' names dangling from that belt.

I would spend hour after hour aiming for that cursed bull's eye, but always missing it by just a hair—I would have beads of sweat dripping down my face, but even as the sun was beginning to set, I would still miss the bull's eye, over and over again. I would be the last student there, struggling and struggling to hit that red spot; I would even try to shoot for the bull's eye during the night time, when my only companions were the crickets singing in the background. Shi would come and have to drag me back inside, and the next morning, my arms would be so sore that I would hardly be able to do any pushups.

As the weeks progressed, everyone around me began to work their way up to higher levels of archery. I was the last one to move on to moving targets, and I was left off the list for the hunting trip, which was basically Shi's way of telling his students that they had graduated. And on that hunting trip, the person who caught the most animals with arrows alone would be rewarded with a pat on the back, a smile, and the words "Good job." Shi never gave anyone compliments, so that was the best prize that anyone could ever ask for.

I returned for the next eighteen-month session. By that time, Tian was one of Sifu Wu's most valued students; he had progressed so far that I could hardly recognize him as the scrawny, uncertain boy with whom I'd shared a room. In fact, I began to wonder if that was how he saw me now—a scrawny, uncertain boy with no talents and no abilities, who was always just short of everything.

During that session, I met Zeng—his two older brothers had already joined the ranks of the Yuu Yan archers, and I was, to say the least, jealous. It seemed as though he'd inherited those same genes, as well—every day, he would plunk arrow after arrow into the bull's eye; he was the first to move on to moving targets, in a record six weeks. Shi was so impressed with him that he let him be second in command—he even told him that he was even better than both of his brothers. Zeng had just smiled—a warm smile, to be sure, but his eyes were dark and cold.

During break, he came over and sat next to me, watching me miss the bull's eye again and again—though I was getting much closer this session. Then, he stood up and blocked my path as I was loading in another arrow. He asked me why I tried so hard—why I didn't just go off and manage records at the front office. And I told him that I wanted to be a Yuu Yan archer, to be a member of that group, and that that had been my dream since I was old enough to think.

And he just laughed in my face and told me that I wasn't worthy enough, and that I would never feel the touch of that red war paint kissing my skin.

Shi had come by just as Zeng was saying that, and had demoted him back to just a student afterward. The look of shock and incredulity on Zeng's face was magnificent, and Shi showed me a rare smile, warming me up inside. He said, "Talent is rare, but true hard work is rarer. Keep at it."

So it was that I began to improve, blazing a brilliant trail, fueled by the warmth within me. I was amazed when I landed my first arrow in the dead center of the bull's eye, and even more amazed when I found that I could do it again. It was thus that I gradually began to gain confidence. I soon moved up to moving targets, and I took them down quickly, almost instinctively.

I was first on the list for Shi's hunting trip, and I managed to nab more animals than many of the others combined. I glowed when Shi patted me on the back, smiling and telling me that I'd done a good job, and that he was proud of me sticking to my hard work and never giving up. And that filled my heart with warmth, such warmth that I began to feel it spill over from my eyes—I turned away, and, not wanting Shi to see me crying, I quickly wiped away my tears.

The next few months were a blur. I went back to my hometown, and dropped by to see my mother, who was amazed to see my transformation. She hadn't changed at all, though—she looked the same, with the same, beautiful black hair, the same white skin, the same gentle eyes—and the house hadn't changed, either. I wanted to visit Mr. Chen as well, but he had retired, gone to live somewhere in the middle of the Earth Kingdom.

Then came the time for me to go to the shooting range… to face the Yuu Yan archers. But they weren't there when I went—only Kou was there. He told me that the Yuu Yan archers had gone off at the call of some commander by the name of Zhao. I asked him if he remembered me, and he said that he did, and that he knew why I was there—he gave me a bow and a quiver of arrows, made of the same material that I had first felt so many years ago… Then, he instructed me to shoot the arrows into the bull's eye—a tiny dot the size of a pinhead, one that was hardly even visible from so many feet back. But I took in a deep breath, loaded the arrow, pulled back on the string, and released.

Just a fraction of an inch, hardly even noticeable, away… and I had failed.

Kou shook his head. Almost, he told me. I was almost there, but I didn't have the eyes of a Yuu Yan archer yet… and I had left, dejected, but more determined than ever to come back and show him that he was wrong, that I could be a Yuu Yan archer, and that I would.

I spent the night lying in my backyard, gazing up at the stars. They seemed to smile down on me—or, they were laughing; I couldn't tell. By the tree, there hung a lantern—at least, I thought it was a lantern, until I realized that it was actually just a gathering of fireflies. Quietly, feeling as though my hands and arms weren't my own, I lifted up my bow and loaded an arrow, aiming carefully at the mass of light. I released the arrow calmly, then watched as it whizzed through the air, pinning a firefly to the tree. It stayed there, wriggling, still alive.

And I smiled.

I spent the rest of the night pinning fireflies to the tree, writing out Yuu Yan with their glowing bodies. With each one I pinned to the tree, I felt a strong, calm feeling overwhelming me, a blue aura that seemed to envelop me. And gradually, I began to feel disconnected from myself, as if I were floating, seeing myself from a distance—and I felt myself communing with the stars, gathering up the threads of twelve other souls, feeling my way into the web of lives that came into a point in the center, that double-ax insignia.

Morning found me waking up on the grass, dew dampening my clothing, covering my face. And I couldn't tell if the night before had been a dream, or if it had been real—the tree was covered in arrows, but I couldn't see the traces of any fireflies—until I pulled out an arrow, and saw the faintest glimmer on its tip. Whether it was the remains of a wing, or some sort of shiny residue from the tree, I would never know, but I would have liked to believe that it was a firefly's wing…

I returned to Kou and, summoning up a deep, enveloping breath, I felt that same sensation enter my body. I effortlessly shot the arrow into the dead center of that tiny pinprick, and Kou smiled, applauding me. He then instructed me to hit a series of moving targets, all of which I pinned quickly and easily; he guided me through other tricky shots and maneuvers, all of which I breezed through. I came out smiling, and I grinned when he told me that I had passed all the tests, and that I would now be able to join the ranks of the Yuu Yan archers. He led me inside, and handed me a uniform, telling me to try it on—it fit perfectly. He then took out a brush and that beautiful shade of red paint, and dipped it carefully into the pot, letting the bristles glide across my face, letting me feel the paint covering my eyelids and cooling and drying over my face; he dabbed a few drops of paint onto my fingers, as well. Finally, he handed me the bandanna with the lone triangle on it—the triangle, the most stable shape of all.

That night, the Yuu Yan archers came back—they had captured the Avatar for Zhao, but another group of people had come and rescued the Avatar in the nick of time. They didn't say much when Kou introduced me to them—not that I expected them to, anyway; they were always quiet and taciturn. Then, they retreated into the depths of the building, falling asleep in their bunks, the paint still on their faces and fingers.

It was thus that I began to lose my identity. Even though I was a twenty-minute walk away from home, I stopped visiting my mother. I only felt myself melting and blending into the Yuu Yan archers, more and more, losing myself in them as we began to go on missions together, sometimes just as guard duty. I gradually began to be blind to the differences in them—one was taller than the other; another had a mole on his cheek—and I began to see them as one and the same, as they undoubtedly began to see me. I began to move with them, breathe with them; whenever we went anywhere as a group, our steps would always fall into perfect rhythm, and, on cold days, our breath would come up as little tendrils of vapor, at exactly the same time.

And, even though I loved every moment of being rewarded for my hard work… it began to scare me.

I found myself with none of the glory that I had imagined. The feeling of being one of them filled me with pride and joy, yes—but the Yuu Yan archers know no pride and joy, only existence. It was true that we were valued and respected, but in a group where there is no such thing as respect and disrespect, why did it matter? I longed to know my companions, feel the warmth of being together with twelve other souls, but they rarely talked—it was as if they were all inside the others' minds, leaving me out…

I began to find myself waking up to see only a sea of faces, a swirl of the red paint and the skin. And it wasn't really that I felt alone—but …

I was even beginning to lose my name…

Then, it was Sunday. I had woken up to the sound of rain pitter-pattering on the ceiling, and I had looked out the window. The rain had beaten the petals off the cherry blossoms, and a river of soft, pink petals was washing down the sidewalk, into the city. I had walked outside—left my comrades still sleeping in their bunks—and stood, gazing up into the heavens, the rain dropping onto my face, like hundreds of little lips kissing away my pain. I closed my eyes, feeling their gentle touch, and I felt the rain cascading off of me, as if it were washing me… When I opened my eyes again and looked down at my hands, I saw the red paint dripping off of my face and into my outstretched palms, pooling up like a lake of blood. And slowly, as I breathed faster and faster, I let my hands part, and the red paint fell with a splash to the sidewalk below, landing with a splat.

"Jian."

I heard my name said, and turned around quickly, coming face-to-face with Kou. He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, as if he were roaming in my soul, leaving no corner untouched. I suddenly found myself shaking, and I fell to my knees, holding my face in my hands, the red still streaming out from my fingers, only this time, it wasn't from the rain…

"I hate this…" I breathed, shocked at my own words.

"It happens," Kou replied, quietly, understanding.

"But I worked so hard… and…"

"It's not for everyone, you realize," Kou said, kneeling down next to me, his warm hand on my back.

And all I could do was sob.

Author's Notes: I get the nagging feeling that this is way too short… Grr, I hope I developed Jian's character enough. Anywho, this'd be the first time that I've written a fic entirely centered on male OC's, so any and all feedback is appreciated—just keep it diplomatic, and tell me what you thought worked, and what you thought didn't work. :) Also, I wrote this all in a two- or three-hour sitting, so please point out any inconsistencies, plot holes, etc. Thanks!