Title: Do Not Go Gently
Summary: All according to the plan.
Pairings: Amon/Korra, one-sided Tarrlok/Korra
Rating: T
Word count: 1,992
The chant is an uncredited poem sometimes said as part of the vows in Inuit weddings.
Of course, everything went according to plan, except for the part where the Avatar fell and died on the probending platform when her lithe body cracked against the ungiving surface. That should amuse Amon more than it does; he found himself somewhat agitated when the Lieutenant gave him the news with a mirthless grin, turning the knob on the radio so that they heard the repeated announcement of the Avatar's demise. Her airbending master talks in stilted, uneven segments while the police chief drones on, so different from her vigorous ire.
So, it can either go two ways now: Republic City, crippled in grief, listens to the demands of the Equalists; or they unite with a shared, all-encompassing hatred against the Equalists, just as he'd surmised.
After learning of her death—her "untimely demise"—his muscles tense as he sits, not saying a word.
She died brave, fighting; he'd wanted her to die as nothing.
Luckily, the Council concedes and grants the Equalists a voice. As honorable as always, given the debilitation of the city's metalbending force, he has his chi-blockers incapacitate the Council member as he placidly observes.
Composed, he stands in front of Councilman Tenzin, who is prostrated in front of him. The airbending master looks up, his eyelids swollen and his eyes ablaze. And suddenly, Amon's cloak and mask feel as if they're nothing but a child's costume, thin and penetrable.
"So, you're going to be rid of us? Coward."
Amon replies steadily to the fallen man, "It is not my intention to kill you."
"She was just a girl! A girl with too much on her hands." Tenzin bows his head. In all honesty, Amon doesn't enjoy the pain.
Nonetheless, that doesn't prevent him from taking away what is theirs.
When Amon awakes into a new, vivid dream, he expects a jade grove or a barren wasteland with an intricate sky and wondrous animals. Ever since his mother told him fables about the spirit world, he's been able to connect to it, to feel its energy vibrating under his fingertips.
His first impression is the biting cold, the blinding whiteness, primitive and harsh, juxtaposed with the more modern establishments made of a sturdy metal in the wintry, barren setting. He looks down, and sees himself wearing a thick parka, though it doesn't stop him from experiencing a cold he hasn't been made familiar with. He touches his cheek, testing the tough roves in his skin, and realizes that this is the first dream he's had since his old life ended where he isn't wearing his mask.
Without it, Amon feels as if he can die.
"I'm not doing it!" He turns to face the noise, and finds himself watching a heated argument.
The Avatar stands stiffly in front of two adults, a man and a woman, with her hands balled into fists. She glares at them with such a fury that it's a shock that the land doesn't melt underneath them.
"Honey," the woman says tenderly, "he's a good, hardworking man, and he's asked for you to hear him o—"
"He's old and arrogant and creepy and—old!" Korra retorts, stubborn tears in her eyes. "Mom, we don't need the money. I'm too young. This isn't eighty years ago. I won't be in some stupid arranged marriage. It's not even a marriage at all!" She turns and kicks over a vat of healing salve, the contents splattering against the ice, before she turns away, leaving her parents distraught.
Amon tenses when she approaches him huffing and taut, but she only brushes past him without a word.
And so his dreams grow more vivid. When he drifts into sleep, he awakens to find himself observing a Water Tribe wedding. Music twists into the air like a loose flag, and Amon doesn't recognize what type of instrument it is. He stands near the couple, able to see Korra's dead stare.
Forever in life, until the spirits bind you in eternity.
He cannot see her betrothed, but he notices the differences in height and stature. Even with no expression, he detects a defiance in Korra's obstinate inability to move, her chin held upward. She's wearing a traditional Water Tribe dress, her hair perfectly settled into an elaborate hairstyle.
It's a neatness that almost looks strangling on such a headstrong young woman. Amon tries to focus on the environment, on the faces of the other guests and spectators, but his vision blurs. It reminds him of a phantom dream he had as a boy: he was in his bed, and he looked out his window. A woman stood. He knew it was a woman with an oval face, adorned in extravagant garments, in this dress of sheer gold and violet—but no matter his efforts, he couldn't define her form. Even though it was in the dead of night, the numinous lady stood in the onset of dawn, the stalks in the field outside of his home bedazzled by an unearthly light.
Amon swears that he hears weeping. The crowd begins chanting an old Water Tribe poem about the union of two people.
You are my husband; you are my wife.
My feet shall run because of you.
Korra's eyes light up at that last spoken verse.
My feet shall run because of you.
And with one swift movement, at the height of the music and jubilation, she bowls over Tarrlok, darting past him while his arms are restrained by cuffs of ice. Her steps pound harshly, cracking the snow lined before a gray horizon. A woman runs out of the crowd; Korra's mother calls to her, follows her. Her daughter's tresses fall free as the girl tears her fingers through her hair. The woman's husband goes after them both as others in the crowd go over to check on the groom.
He's facing a bog, his feet secure in the dark, damp soil. He's surrounded by hanging trees like decrepit men, and the water in front of him is so thick that it's a stark black against the verdant mosses coupled along the bank. Somebody settles beside him, sitting on the dirt without a care about tidiness. Amon soon follows suit.
She harrumphs. "I'm the Avatar. I shouldn't have to be forced to do this. No, nobody should be forced to do this. I'm—I'm only eighteen. I'm not old enough to marry and have kids. I mean, that's not a bad thing to do, but I'm not ready yet. There's so much left to do." Then the quiet, but it's as if the silence is a bellowing, beckoning them into the maws of the environment.
After awhile, he says, "So, don't do it. Run away." He doesn't turn to look at her, afraid—for once—that she'll blur before him, fall away like she did after the battle, after Bei Fong reached out to her and caught nothing but air.
Tentatively, Korra replies, her voice muffled by the quiet, "I don't want to make my parents worry. I love them." Amon sees her nod from the corner of his right eye. She's wearing a startling red, which no doubt, if he dares to look, illuminates her eyes with the sharp contrast. Certainly, it's not an outfit she ever wore at her home. "But you're right. The world comes first, right? I need to go someplace where I can actually do my duty. Not stuck at home."
My feet dance because of you.
Suddenly she places her hand on his arm, her grip sturdy. Amon strengthens his resolve, not returning the touch, keeping to his task of watching for any movement in the bog, any sign that the water will swallow him whole.
My heart shall beat because of you.
"I could take the next blimp, but ugh—I don't really like heights." At that, Amon laughs, though she will never guess what he finds to be funny.
My eyes see because of you.
My mind thinks because of you.
Amon finds himself with his back on the ground, his body bare, clothes discarded on the ground beside him. The ground is covered with soft grass, and his body is weighed down by an inexplicable exhaustion, as if the world drains life from him, steals his very spirit.
The clearing is lined with an array of phantasmagorical lotuses. In the treetops, birds he'd never even dreamed of in his most fevered state of mind flutter alongside small, winged lizards with bulbous eyes and songs like fatal humming-wasps.
A shadow trails over him, and he turns his head to meet a pair of glimmering blue eyes.
"I can't believe we just did that." She laughs, her tousled hair falling around her lurid eyes. Unlike with Tarrlok, everything is in a peaceful disarray, all of her passions sated. Her shirt is twisted and turned inside-out, and she sweating and panting profusely as she pushes the strands of hair from her beaming face. Playfully, she reaches over him and grabs the clump of dark clothes, laying the items over his exposed body.
Korra yawns loudly, leaning back beside him and not bothering to cover her mouth. Then, she leaps to her feet. "I don't mean to play and run, but I don't have much time left." Her face crumples then, just for a second. "I can't even get into the spirit world yet."
"We're in the spirit world," he murmurs. She stifles laughter.
"Real funny, Mister Stoic." Korra crouches down. The Avatar punches his arm lightly and shifts to sit with her legs underneath her body. Her smile crinkles the skin under her eyes, making her seem hopelessly wizened. "I hope this place has some rue," she states, almost wryly. It's just then at that proclamation that Amon notices that she's wearing a necklace with a strange pattern etched into the beautiful, round surface. Light glints off of it in many hues. Responding to his gaze, her eyebrows scrunch down and she clutches the large, circular pendant, then pulls until the ribbon snaps and falls useless onto the skin of her hand.
She dangles it above him by the length of the blue ribbon. "Guess I don't need this anymore." It plops down onto his chest.
"You're dead," he tells her. Korra leans down, grasps his hair with one hand and kisses him, her lips a ghostly caress. Amon doesn't kiss her back. Fingers roam against his scars, and then she breaks way.
Standing, her stunning eyes plagued with shadow, she whispers with an unsaid lament, "Sorry, but I have to go." And she strolls into the brush and disappears.
The final dream Amon has about the Avatar returns him to the foreboding bog, except that Korra no longer sits beside him. He peers into the water, and finds what he's been searching for.
Strewn amidst red and white petals, the Avatar floats naked atop the black water, motionless, her eyes eternally closed. What he first mistakes as another set of petals makes him lean forward further. It's his mask, shattered into several pieces.
And I shall love because of you.
In the waking world, he has everything, and she is dead. In the lonely duty Amon has, in the darkest depths of night, he smiles to himself as he takes off and inspects his mask as if it'll change before him. As if dawn will approach. Still, it's as whole as always, not the slightest crack. All he wanted was for the Avatar to die with nothing. A mandate of the spirits, his chosen duty. Soon, he knows that he'll forget about his sordid meanderings.
Forever in life, until the spirits bind you in eternity.
(In the end, adamant and unyielding, it is she who leaves him as nothing.)