Post-Amon Drabble: LOK
Once upon a time, he would have swaggered down the street, conquering every inch of the city with each step he took. A flip of his hair, a flirtatious wink, and a smug smirk would have been all it took to have fan-girls swooning in his wake, leaving them lined up in wait for his famous "private lessons." A drop of a suggestive pick-up line or remark, and he would have a girl in his bed in no time. He was the narcissist. He was a god, and thought himself to be so.
He would give his fan-girls exactly what they wanted, and no more than that. He was caught up in the rush and excitement of fame; he had no time for love. He believed he did not need it; after all, he now had everything he could ever want.
Everywhere he walked, lustful eyes would be upon him, as mouths whispered and giggled, and cheeks blushed. He was desirable, and he knew it. He was well-known throughout the city, with all of his arrogance and famous winning streak. Everyone knew him, but not of his past. He was a runaway; he had come from a broken home, a broken family, and a broken life. All his life, he had been told by his father and many others that he would always be a failure, an embarrassment to the family, that he'd never be anything more than the underdog. He would always think to himself, stick and stones may break me, but words never will. I won't let it. He had always been stubborn and determined. As words and words piled up against him, breaking open wounds in his heart, he had decided right then and there, that he would never be brought down. He would never let himself be crushed beneath mere words, and if he ever got in a position of high success, he would never let it go. He was determined—to prove his father wrong, to make his mother proud, and to prove that he could do it—that he could be somebody. And he had succeeded, years later, as a new victorious pro-bending winner of Republic City. This was the beginning of his fame—his three years of life basking beneath the spotlight. He was the hero. He was the champion. He was the king. He was a god. He was Tahno, the Capitan of the reigning three-time Pro-Bending champions, the WolfBats.
However, behind closed doors, away from the adoring eyes of the public, the high expectations of the media, and from the sultry glances of the whores following him around, he was no longer simply the arrogant WolfBat captain, so full of himself that he couldn't see anyone else but him in the mirrors. He became the artist, the poet, the musician. Gone would be the seemingly permanent sly smirk on his lips, and the usual mischievous glint in his clear gray eyes. He was just Tahno, the country boy who ran away to the big city in pursuit of his dreams. However, that side of him wasn't what the world wanted to see. Nobody wanted the shy poet, the talented musician, and the visionary artist. It was demanded of him that he be who everyone expected him to be, so Tahno tucked away the boy-who-he-once-was away into a dark shadow of his mind, and hid beneath his alter-ego. After all, if he wasn't all they dreamed of—all they've hoped of, he would be rejected and ridiculed.
And he couldn't have that, could he?
And even if one got the chance—or given the opportunity—to truly know him—would she accept him, even after all the disgusting things he's done, in order to keep up his appearances? No—he would conclude—he'd get looked at with shame and disgust, and he didn't think he would be able to bear it if that ever happened to him—especially if he ever laid his heart and soul and past open for her, to look, in hopes of perhaps being forgiven—and not to get judged—but instead, get hated for the truth. No, he would decide. He wouldn't take the risk. He wasn't worth anything to anyone. The only reason why he was worth anything was because he could bend. Better to push away everyone around you; and keep these close who loved him because of his bending. He wouldn't be hurt again—not by anyone—not by their words—not by anything else, ever again.
To put it in another words—he was ashamed. He somehow knew, that in his pursuit of his dreams, he had denied a very important part of himself. He had turned to weaving masks for himself, for he knew—he thought—it was all what people wanted to see. He had taken to wearing it, day and night, in the company of other people, his fan-girls, his adorers—and that had helped lead him to do many things he secretly wasn't proud of, but was too proud to admit it. He loved Pro-Bending; it was one of his passions, and fame was a fun thing, but after all these years, the secret self-loathing accumulated, hating for what he'd become. A cheater, a liar, a whore, people would sometimes whisper. He knew that not everybody loved him—and that many people had many unkind things to say about him—but he'd think to himself, as long as I've got my fan-girls and my bending, who gives a damn? As always, he was proud, stubborn, and determined. Words wouldn't hurt him. Haters would hate, and he hadn't expected any less from them. However, only few people would remember that he didn't start out as a no-good cheater, nor a whore, not even in and out of the Pro-Bending ring, long before him and his team won their first championship. They would wonder—what happened to him. Alas, little does they know, that fame has a price. In order to remain in the spotlight, you has to sell a little bit of yourself. He swore he would stop—but it became an addiction, a drug. Once you got started, it was close to impossible to stop. He secretly hated himself for it—but he soon convinced himself, this is the way it's supposed to be. A twinge of doubt, of an eternally old guilt—and it'd get crushed beneath the heel of his foot.
Pretend. This was what all this was, and it was all he'd ever known. Make-believe. It was what he was the best at. Masks, masks, and more masks. The hiding of identities, the concealing of destinies. As he wove his first invisible mask, he thought it would protect him from his own downfall, and it did, for a while. But not forever. Little did he know, that it was the harbinger of doom, a beckoner of revenge, for all he'd done and said to other people he considered lesser than him, and a lure of fate. It became his own downfall, his downwards spiral into nothingness.
Now, he was here, standing on the flat ledge of a bridge over the angry, raging lake. The sky were shrouded by a thick, dull gray blanket, choking away all the remaining possible moonlight, as the acid rain exploded all around him. Clenched hands, whitened knuckles, the once-glossy tress of hair a wet, sopping mess.
A pale white mask, with a slit for a mouth. A enormous red dot, a two-dimensional sphere dominating the forehead—a third eye—staring at him, piercing through him, warning him, taunting him of his own impending doom, a vision that would forever chase him every step he took in life, and plague him in his nightmares.
Few punches and slashes of water—he knew how to fight but at that time, his mind was still stuck on the so-called rules of Pro-Bending—damn it—then in a flash, his arms were twisted behind his back, knees upon the ground, his spine bent forwards in a particularly uncomfortable position as his head was forced backwards, and he stared into the eyes of his own destroyer.
Begging, screaming, pleading. He wasn't one to plead—he never had been—but at that very moment, bending was the only thing that truly mattered to him. His title, his team, his throne, his trophies—he would've thrown it all away, if only he could keep his bending.
There was once a time when he would have said, bending isn't everything. But it was the only thing that kept him alive, kept him going—and helped send him on his path off the streets, onwards to success. He got noticed because of it. People adored him. The only way—he believed—that he could ever truly matter to anyone—was if he could bend. That was what the city wanted of him. That was what the fan-girls loved about him. Without it, he was—nothing.
Light, light, then darkness. His own life, shredded up and thrown away in little pieces. His bending—gone. Worthless. Insignificant. Unimportant. Sounds but whistles in the air—carried away by the chaos wreaking upon everything around him. Everything was crashing—falling down—as he was being drained, being gouged out on the inside-out. A slow ripping, clawing, tearing, choking the scream that built up in his lungs and struggled to crawl out of his throat, leaving only a choked gasping sound. The entire world had ended in a bang and a whisper for him—as he was tossed into the deep, dark water, and discovered, to his dismay, it just refused to hold him up anymore. Amon had left him for the dead.
Thus, he was now screaming out at the rainy sorrow of the skies—as the clouds repeatedly got slashed into half by lightning, constantly threatening to shatter the world apart in a series of sporadic, blinding flashes. He hated it—this unfairness—this injustice—as much as he knew deep inside, that he had deserved it, the torture and the contempt Amon had hurled upon him—he refused to believe it. He tried so desperately, to pretend, to tell himself this wasn't real, all to no success. The healers, medics, and psychologists had told him to confide in a friend or visit his family—it was a part of the healing process—but what friend? Ming and Shaozu were gone, they had been long gone ever since the incident, to visit their families. He could visit his family, but it wasn't like his father would even help him—and Amon's announcement and scorn on the radio had surely reached his family—and he couldn't, wouldn't, bear to see the look of disappointment on his mother's face, and know that he was the same boy who she had helped to run away to the city, all these years ago. He doubted his mother would want to see him, or accept him, after all the things he had committed.
For a couple of weeks after that disastrous event, he had locked himself in his home, his heart broken and weeping beyond measure. Newspapers, strewn all across the floor, empty bottles of alcohol littering the table, accumulating slowly after each failed bending attempt; and sleepless nights plagued with nightmares, forcing him into insomnia.
Then did he begin to slowly pick up the pieces—the eyeliner came back, so did his hair, although not as glossy or drenched in hairspray as before—but in a natural, wavy style that he used to wear, before he became a Pro-Bending champion. Everybody thought he was recovering—and that was exactly what he wanted them to believe, including the uh-vatar.
Make-believe. It always came down to that, didn't it?
But even as with his 'recovering' façade, there was no longer any eager flocks of fan-girls. No autographs. No words of hope for a brighter future. Whispers, whispers. Funny, he would think, just because I can't bend anymore doesn't mean I'm deaf. However, that was all the confirmation he needed; he was worthless without his bending-just like he'd always believed.
He stared out across the ocean, looking at the bright horizon of all the things-that-might-have-been, has-beens, and once-were. The water betrayed him even now—flowing and ebbing, beckoning and shunning, teasing and taunting. Push and pull, Tui and La, where was it? He could see it, he could, but he couldn't feel it. He could smell the salty tears of the ocean, the shattered hope, and the broken dreams that resided at the bottom, and the wailing, whistling, and the mourning of the wind. He knows the water is there, the cold, dark water, forever hungering, ready to suck him in, pull him under, and mercilessly crush the air and life out of him.
He has made his decision. Nobody would care—he deserved it—but at least, this would be his choice. He steps off the bridge, and falls. As he plunges towards the cold sea, he hopes to himself, that his sister who's currently living in the Fire Nation, did not hear the radio, did not hear Amon's message to all benders, did not hear of his fate, and is not on her way to the city, because all she will find is a body carried to shore, a broken shell, crushed by its very own former element, former ally—now turned enemy, and betrayer.
A faint cry barely reaches his ears, just as he is sucked into the sea. The very chill of it seeps into his very being, engulfing him, filling his eyes and nostrils and ears, sucking every bit of warmth from him, as if he still had any. He doesn't struggle, he doesn't fight. He is broken, and has no will left to. He feels tired, oh so tired of living, he's weaker than he ever was, and he knows the sea wants him, it needs him, and he decides it shall have him. So he ventures deeper into the waters, and there is no longer any push to the pull, it's disappeared, it's gone, and the only thing that's left is pulling him down. He lets it crush his lungs, lets himself suffocate on the element he once was a part of.
A watery grave, indeed. How very fitting. A silent chuckle escapes, and bubbles escape from his mouth as water travels in. Sinking lower into the sea's embrace, there is no light, no light at all—
Everything goes completely black, stagnant, and still. He is nonexistent now; completely void of all—he is a something that is now unseen and unspoken and untouched—wasted of all heartbeat, breath, and life.
All of sudden, there is breath, flickering around him, warmth seeping into him, warmth and love, pressing air back into his lungs, speaking to his still heart, and a gentle purring, a humming, and a light as bright as the moon, and even though he knows he's gone, he still fights the urge to weep…
Cold, hard surface beneath him. Someone was kneeling besides him, hands on his diadem, thrusting in a sharp rhythm, forcing blood to flow back in and out of his heart—a cool mouth over his, sustaining him the gift of breath, causing his chest to rise and fall in a consistent pattern. The person leaned back once she realized he was alive again and awake—he rolled over on his side, coughing out murky salt-water, and flopped back onto his back. His vision was blurry, and he was still weak, so weak—but he could make out a pair of eyes, bluer than the ocean could ever have managed, and as bright as the morning sky.
"Korra…" he chokes out. This is the first time he's ever called her by her name—and it will be the last. Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears, as she half-whispers, "Why?" He tries to manage a smirk—and painfully fails. "I fell." Korra looks at him disbelievingly.
He's so tired—so tired of pretending. "My bending—gone—" He gasps out. "Me—not worth it—" He swallows the frozen lump in his throat, and reaches out, cupping her face in his cold, clammy palms. "I-I'm not worth it…" He repeats, weakly. He's fading—he's not sure if this is reality or a dream—a nightmare or a hallucination—but it sure didn't feel like he was dead. Spirits, why couldn't he havedied? He had said it, he wasn't worth it—
There's moist trails of tears running down her stricken face, as she looks at him with a look that could have stopped his heart again. "Don't you ever say that again. You are. You're not nobody without your bending—" She wipes a teardrop off her cheek—"You're still Tahno. You're still the same arrogant guy who I first met at Narook's, who offered me private lessons—" She sniffled. "You're still the same guy who weren't afraid to come at me face to face even though I'm a girl— and you knew that I was the Avatar, You're Tahno, the three-time probending champion," She added, and gripped his shoulders just as when he was about to close his eyes out of utter exhaustion. "Don't give up—please! I can't… I can't bear to have anyone else die on me… or lose their bending because of me…" A crack in her voice.
Huh. He didn't know that she blamed herself for the loss of his bending; he had never blamed her for it, rational thought told him that he should, but his long-neglected conscience told him otherwise.
"I know I haven't been the best Avatar there is, but I'll get better at this, I'll get Amon for you, just like I promised you that day—Tahno! Please…" She's sobbing more than ever, close to hysterics. There are hands on her shoulders, wrapping around her arms, pulling her away—please don't leave me here alone… A unspoken thought, but it seemed that was enough, as Korra jerked her arms free.
Tahno shakes his head, "It wasn't your fault, uh-vatar…" He whispers, desperately wanting Korra to understand that it wasn't her who he blamed—it was him, it was his entire fault—
She swallows. "It wasn't your fault either, Tahno… I want to help—I don't know how! But I really want to—I'm so sorry…" This time she does not wipe away the tears. It meets his chilled skin, as she pulls him into a fierce hug, completely paralyzing him into shock. "I care about you, I don't want you to die." She says that with such finality, as though as no denial, or begging or pleading could sway her mind.
His still-ragged breathing halts. I care about you. I don't want you to die. With those significant, precious words resonating in his mind—he can't hold it in anymore—as his body begins to shudder with unwanted permission, and silent tears roll down his pale, gaunt face, unchecked. He realizes the Fire Ferret brothers and the Sato heiress are there too—he connects that fact to the hands that had previously been trying to take Korra away—but it didn't fully register in his mind, because just this once, he doesn't care, he doesn't give a damn. Strong hands are wrapped around him, hoisting him up into a sitting position, and as Korra places her head in the crook of his neck and begins rubbing his back in the same way his mother used to do whenever he, as a little boy, got upset. Tahno returns the hug, and buries his nose into her hair, inhaling the light salty scent that was her, as if it was the only thing left in the world. With this, he thinks, maybe, just maybe, he wasn't that horrible of a person after all, if someone could still bring herself to care about him.