She wakes up in the middle of the night, the edges of her vision still clouded with sleep. Inhales once, exhales again, slowly and softly. Stares up at the ceiling and tries to remember what it means to be Korra.

A breeze sneaks in through the slit of her open window and caresses the bare skin of her exposed arm, cold and impersonal. She should tug the blanket up, she thinks dully, or else close the window; she could catch a chill, and she needs her rest. But she does neither of these things, because truthfully, she can't feel the chill. She can't feel anything. Sometimes, she wonders if she ever has.

She used to have trouble sleeping, when she first came to Republic City. Her mind would whir with every brand new bit of information - and for a girl locked away in a compound her entire life, every little detail was new - and she would stare up at the ceiling, restless and breathless and impatient, ready to leap back into the confusing mess and reckless rush that was her new home.

Even on the nights where delight turned to fear (Amon's hand reaching for her in the dark, his hooded face lit by the sinister glow of a hundred Equalist weapons), or her heart was burdened with the weight of too much (Mako's arm wrapped easily around a slim waist, the public's jeers at the very mention of her name) she would lie here, teeth gnashing together in the dark, fingers pulling and tugging and fraying the fabric of her sheets, until the dawn would break through her windows, pink and gold and vibrant hue, a reminder that other days would come.

But where once thoughts should be, there is only silence. And she knows she's slipping away.

In her moments of deepest fear, the hours of greatest uncertainty – when she looked out on the world and wondered what help an Avatar with no powers was, an Avatar who had broken the line, an Avatar who had looked into the very face of evil and lose – she had found, deep within herself, the last bit of will, of resolve, of something she could never name but always tugged up at the last second. She could have her back pressed against the wall, all hope abandoned, but she would go out swinging, if she had to go at all.

Now, the battle is won, and she is alive; her bones knit themselves slowly together and the bruises that dance across her skin turn brilliant shades of blue and purple, green and brown, before they fade, slowly and surely. Cuts mend; soon, she'll be able to walk again.

And still, she slips away.

She's alone, in the cosmic sense: there is no being like her, no creature who can do what she must do. She is the Avatar, she's always been the Avatar. It weighs on her shoulders, saps the strength from her bones and the air from her lungs, reminds her, you are alone.

The world doesn't need you anymore.

The time of the Avatar is over.

Korra.

The Last Avatar.

She turns her face to the wall and closes her eyes. An ache presses down against her, one she cannot name.

She sleeps.