The sun is directly overhead as Jet crosses the field on foot. His ears prickle with the sound of the cicada's buzzing song, rising with the day's heat from somewhere out in the brush. He tips his face upward to feel that pleasant warmth radiate over his closed eyes and the apples of his cheeks, enjoying the desolate quiet.
Jet hasn't spotted any sign of the fire nation on this patrol yet and there's a part of him that wants to enjoy that by cutting loose for the afternoon to fish, just laze about on the riverbank and pretend life's normal for a little while. It's tempting, but he won't even consider it before finishing his rounds. There's more to think about than just himself nowadays.
The wheat grass brushes against him as he walks, tickling at the bare skin of his ankles and his shins where the ragged hem of his pants end. He's got nothing against growing up, but it sure as hell makes it tough finding clothing that fits. Hand-me-downs are hard to come by for the tallest member of the group.
That's the trouble with being a kid, always outgrowing shoes and clothes. No wonder parents bitch.
He winces at that. Jet still tries not to think about things like parents too often. Even now, years after the fire nation raided his village the loss of his father feels like a fresh wound. It only helps to think about his father when he's fighting, remembered pain that gives him something to draw strength from, anguish that lends greater momentum to the swing of his hooked swords.
He doesn't like it when things get too quiet, leaves him alone in his head with memories that have nowhere to go except down. Sometimes though, he can think about his Dad and separate the good memories from the crushing loss of him.
His father's voice plays back in Jet's head when he least expects it, clipped pieces of conversation mostly. Sometimes it's a laugh, more often it's just a word or two in that deep timber Jet feels like a distant heartbeat. Those bits are brief and cutting, leaving him with an ache that no balm can soothe. Memories like that go deep, down into the bones. Still, it's a comfort, something good and pure that's survived even though the man himself is long gone.
Those are the times when Jet wonders if he'll be anything like him when he grows up – if he'll be the kind of man his father would have been proud to raise. But he was young when Dad was killed and so he clings to the precious few things he does remember - big, skilled hands, honey brown skin, deep-set eyes and a broad, kind face. Dad was all muscle and bulk where Jet was lean and wiry, something his father casually dismissed because of Jet's age. But Jet never saw enough of his father's likeness in his own reflection, no matter how hard he looks or tries to remember and the disappointment gets a little harder to take every time.
The thing is Jet will never really know if he compares to his dad and it gets more difficult to picture his features as time goes by. All the people that knew Jet and his father are either dead or gone, so it's not like he can even ask anyone.
He can't remember the good things without pain and it only ends up turning bitter and ugly, festering inside him like something putrid and rotten. He feels like it's getting worse too, fears if he's not careful he might lose control over it and that frightens him a little, though he hates like hell to admit it. All he can do it try to keep a lid on it, channel his energies with strategy and planning to stay ahead of the curve.
He controls the rage, it doesn't control him, but sometimes even he isn't a good enough liar.
Jet plucks a fresh stalk from the grass and chews it lightly, the taste of it earthy and green and alive as he draws air deep into his lungs. Jet loves this place. He belongs here, is connected to it the same way the cicada is and every other creature born to the valley.
Then the scent of smoke hits him and he's instantly reminded of other things that clearly have no business being here.
There's a dark column of ash lifting into the sky just over the next ridge. It's at least a mile away, but Jet is willing to bet it's another fire nation encampment. There are more of them springing up all the time. Earth Kingdom forces are spread too thin to be everywhere, especially out on the fringes of their territory. He knows this better than anyone, but he can't just sit back and watch the fire nation occupy his home - not if he has anything to say about it.
Well, so much for a lazy afternoon of fishing.
Part of him is sorry about that, but the part of him that is itching to bash some fire nation skulls isn't sorry at all. Day after day, it's what keeps him going.
After scouting, Jet checks his traps and pulls a small rabbit from a snare. He cleans and prepares the game, roasting his dinner over a tiny fire as the sky streaks a deep blue and the first stars peek out. He rotates the spit, listening to the hiss of rendered fat dripping into the fire, his mouth watering with the savory smell. Jet toys with the stalk of wheat between his jaws, turning the meat in simple, repetitive motions, his mind lazy and wandering while he waits.
Jet was told his mother died of fever while he was very young and so he has no memory of her at all. You can't miss someone you never knew. It was his father who raised him alone, keeping him at his side as he worked. It's why Jet remembers swords with the same fondness as the trees.
The trees have been a part of Jet's life from his earliest memories. They were the places where he used to play and his shelter from the elements. He used to think they could keep him safe, before he knew better. Jet is old enough now that he knows no one is really ever safe anywhere.
And yet, even when the illusion of safety had been burned away, the trees still managed to be comforting somehow.
There was an ancient cypress in his village that he can still see in his mind. It had low, twisted limbs that were easy for most kids to reach, full of knots and bumps that made neat footholds, a perfect tree for learning to climb.
Jet's father used to mark his height on that old tree using the hooked ends of his shang gou, scoring the bark from the time Jet could stand on his own. Back then Jet was a lot smaller than other kids his age, which wouldn't have been so bad except it meant he had to wait to begin formal sword training.
Jet hated waiting. Not as much as he hated the fire nation, but it drove him crazy.
Dad had been a master sword smith. His reputation had begun to spread across the Earth kingdom and beyond. Jet remembers how big his arms had been, corded with muscle from working his craft, forging and shaping steel into pieces of deadly art as he watched in awe.
Jet's dreams had been made of steel and the fiery glow of the forge. He had thought it was beautiful then.
Jet has vague memories of the time spent with his dad, climbing trees, fishing on the river banks, and play sword fighting. That was something he wanted to do for real someday.
His father wanted him to apprentice as a smith, so he'd learn his trade, but Jet had other ideas. Jet could appreciate the beauty of a good sword, but being its artisan just wasn't in him. Put one in his hands and that's when things got interesting. Dad said you couldn't fight what was in a man's blood, whatever that meant and so he began making plans to bring Jet to the man he trained with as a boy.
Jet thinks he was supposed to have been some kind of a big shot, a master, but he lived somewhere very far away and Jet had still been too young. He would have ventured off to find him after the raid on his village because surely a friend of his father's would have taken him in, but Jet didn't even know the guy's name or where to start looking.
And then the fire nation came and raided his village. He remembers wanting to be small, so small no one would ever see him. Jet got his wish, but sometimes he wishes he didn't.
During the attack his father hid him in a shallow root cellar at the back of the house. It was a tight fit, even for a short eight-year-old boy. Jet had to cram himself between jugs of berry wine, sacks of grain and cabbages. He pleaded with his father not to be separated, that it would be safer at his side, but his tone of voice left no room for argument. He was told to stay quiet and still until Dad came back to get him.
So Jet stayed hidden under that bamboo floor, listening to the screams and the shouting and the pounding violence of human and animal feet. The uncertainty that came with being alone coupled with his fear of the dark, amplifying every sound, every vibration, fueling his imagination where it least needed it.
The scent of smoke filled his nostrils and his muscles twitched uncontrollably from the tension. Still, he did his best obey, waiting as long as he could, but there was no way to tell how much time had really passed down there and eventually it wouldn't matter. The heat became oppressive and the roar of the flames grew too close, forcing him out of hiding.
When he emerged, the entire village and surrounding wood was burning, a curtain of flame that rose to the top of the tree line. Ash and cinders fell like snowflakes. People were terrified, scattering in all directions, streaking past Jet just as if he really were invisible. And his father was still nowhere to be found.
But he'd gotten a good look at the cause of the whole mess. Soldiers, mercenaries maybe, they trampled anything in sight on their komodo rhinos. Jet had never seen animals like that before and they terrified him. The men were fierce, savage in their destruction and the image of the fire nation emblem on their mounts and flags were as good as branded into his memory.
The really ironic thing is, Jet's father did everything in his power to keep him hidden from those men, but when they finally catch sight of Jet they barely gave him a second look. To them he was just some frightened kid, too small to be a threat to anyone.
He was small enough to pass for invisible. Wish granted.
The air was hot and smoky, which made it almost impossible to breathe and difficult to know which direction to run. Under his bare feet the earth was unnaturally warm, which meant the tree roots had caught fire, smoldering under the ground, soon to overtake the trees at the surface along with everything else Jet ever knew or loved.
Jet found his father's body lying under the old cypress tree.
He'd nearly stumbled over him trying to get away. The fire was already licking at his clothing, putting off just enough light for Jet to see that one side of his head had been caved in. The eyes were sunken, staring outward, dull and lifeless.
The fire was taking him right before his very eyes and there wasn't anything he could do about it. His father was too heavy to move by himself. He wouldn't even be able to salvage his body for a proper burial.
But in his horror the firelight caught something reflective. It was his father's shang gou, abandoned in the dirt. Jet's father would not be coming back for those any more than he would be coming back for him. He gathered the swords up, locking his hands around the hilts, running before the fire caught up with him.
The world as he knew it had ended. Jet ran until his feet bled, until the billowing smoke and orange light in the sky was somewhere far behind him.