He spreads his arms wide, and the cheers erupt in his ears, a deafening chorus, screaming his name. He hollers along with them, throwing his fists into the air. And he stands there, head tossed back, ice-coloured eyes roaming the stands, and he looks for all the world the arrogant youth. The stands roar his name, again and again, chanting for him, and him alone. He'll win this competition, and the one after that, and the one after that. And afterwards, he'll go home to some new, nameless girl and drink and drink and strut through the streets with that aura, that regal aura, and he'll know that tomorrow, he'll win again, and again, the crowds will sing his name like a people possessed.
Then he wakes up.
It's cold, and it's dark, and he wants to go home. But you don't have a home, do you? Oh no, that disappeared along with your bending, which Amon so graciously cleansed you of he reminds himself bitterly as he pulls himself to his aching feet. He flops through the wet and silent streets, alone, barely illuminated by the lights of the dying streetlamps. He hums a quiet tune to himself, tapping his fingers along to the beat, a song from long ago. When the fans still chanted his name, when girls threw themselves at him, when he was the king and pro bending was his kingdom, when he was Tahno. But Tahno didn't exist anymore. Tahno was a pretty, silken-hair boy who had the world at his fingertips. Tahno was someone who scoffed at the avatar and never walked alone; who laughed in the face of anyone who tried to tell him he couldn't cheat. Most importantly, Tahno could bend. This man, this wretch, skulking in the forgotten alleyways, wasn't Tahno. He was a broken skeleton, a jaunty, empty-eyed skull who spent his time in the lost backstreets of the city, facedown in a puddle.
He doesn't even flinch as he limps down the damp concrete and buckets of rain blanket his shaggy mop of what might once have been hair. Hands shoved deep in empty pockets, he wanders aimlessly with nowhere to go. Footsteps echoing, he is alone, and totally alone in his little back alley. Families are shut in at home, away from the rain, tourists are locked up, safe and dry, in their hotels, and even the most miserable hobos are tucked away in some makeshift hideaway. But he's past caring. He drops his head back against a dilapidated brick wall, reliving former glory. Eyes closed, his lips move in a soft whisper, repeating long-ago words, chants of a name forgotten to the public. Like a feather-light kiss, they float in the air, a silent version of what was once screamed in arenas across the country. "Tahno, Tahno, Tahno, Tahno." The words linger for a moment, a bittersweet fruit, then they, like his kingdom, disappear with the wind. He laughs to himself, staggering around a corner, stinking of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. To any passerby, he would look like a hopeless, homeless drunk. And maybe you would take pity on him, tossing him a coin or something to eat. And he would laugh, a haunting, ghostly laugh; he'd toss your gift of sympathy back at you with a quickness you don't expect from a whiskey-guzzling hobo. Then he'd grin at you with empty eyes and yellowed teeth, sauntering away as if to say, I don't need your leftovers.
Suddenly, he comes to a halt, pausing in his aimless meandering. He draws in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut, half in concentration, half so he won't have to see what he knows is coming. And he reaches out with long, paper-white fingers, bending and twisting them with the wind. His eyes shoot open and he prepares himself for the worst. Just like he thought. The water pouring on his head hasn't budged an inch. If only the uh-vatar could see you now, he reprimands himself, wandering, like an idiot, and pathetically trying to waterbend; it's over, why can't you accept that? He's in an endless battle with himself, Tahno vs. Tahno, and there seems to be no clear winner. He scolds himself, beating himself down, reminding himself how pathetic, how worthless he is without is bending. You're nothing, nothing, he tells himself. But nothing ever changes, and he'll be in this rotting alley until the day he dies. The man the world forgot.
"Tahno?" A familiar voice calls, and he whips his head around. It's her, God, it's her! The avatar's wide blue eyes stare back at his own hollow ones, and he finds himself running towards her, feet slapping in the mud. Then she's gone. He falls back and draws his knees up to his chest, head in hands. It was a mirage, a trick of the brain. This is what he's reduced to, imagining Korra in some stinking alley in Republic City. He cries, for the first time since Amon took his bending, he really cries. Big heaving sobs, wracking his body and send tears pouring down his grimy cheeks. He's not crying for Korra, or for the lack thereof, but for himself. He cries for himself sleeping in the streets, he cries for himself walking around with tattered hair, he cries for himself hallucinating the people of his past, he cries for himself stinking of whiskey and living off whatever scraps he can salvage. He cries for what he's become.
Gasping, he leans back so that his bedraggled rat's nest of hair falls gracelessly down the nape of his neck and what little weight he has is rested on his skeletal arms. He's shaking, lips trembling as the last remnants of tears slither down frozen cheeks, mixing with icy droplets of rain. So this is what he's come to, shivering and sobbing in a filthy backway. Well, if that's what life is now, he wants nothing to do with. He lets his head drop to the ground, not caring that muck and rainwater smashes all over his porcelain skin, and he curls up in a quivering ball. His eyes drop closed, and he gives in to the wet and the cold, letting the darkness overwhelm him, pulling him, at long last, into the warmth.
"Tahno! Tahno! Tahno! Tahno!" The crowd roars as he stands, pumping his fists into the air. He turns in a circle, drinking in the screams of adorement and admiration from the surrounding stadium. He's warm and clean, and is drenched in his most expensive cologne. His hair is perfectly styled, courtesy of his own waterbending, and his eyeliner is pristine. He flips his hands with all the grace of a dancer, and a burst of water turns a flip in the middle of the arena. The crowd goes wild, and so does Tahno. Gleefully, he twists and turns and manipulates the water, which has for so long been alien to him. He's vaguely aware that his teammates are beside him, and he pretends not to notice them, but God, he's so happy to finally not be alone. A pretty girl from a nearby stand blows him a kiss, and he winks back at her. After all this time, Tahno is finally where he belongs. In the spotlight.
A thousand miles away, back in reality, an elegantly dressed businessman passes by a twitching hobo, lying in the street. He barely passes the wretch a second glance as he glances at his gilded watch. But if he had, he would have noticed long, thin nose and sharp bone structure of a former star. He would have noticed the ragged clothes, which suited the man like snow suits the desert. And most of all, he would have noticed him stop his twitching and muttering and fall limp.
On a rare sunny morning in February, the avatar sips coffee and flips through the paper. As her eyes roam tidbits of articles here and there, a miniscule photograph on a small article on the back catches her eye. Former pro bending champion Tahno found dead last week in an alley in Republic City, believed to have died of hypothermia. An image of a smirking boy stares at her. It's Tahno, young and beautiful, back when they first met. He's fashionable dressed and his eyes portray a haughty indifference, boring right through her. He's laughing at her, taunting her, saying, "Hey, uh-vatar, told you I'd see you around. Bet you didn't expect to see me here, did you?" Suddenly, Korra feels sick and pushes the paper away. She's tries to forget him just like everyone else did a long, long time ago.