Where Words Fail
Book Six: It's All or Nothing
Chapter 2: Why, if only we were all wiener dogs...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:
sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-6-2-152806430
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
Sometimes, she caught herself wondering if it hurt to die.
Smellerbee imagined it had a lot to do with circumstances - and it did - because every time she tried to latch onto a single notion, the thought would break up into smaller, faster bits, like a self-replicating squirrel-ferret. No matter how much Smellerbee tried to chase one down, others would appear and throw her off her intended path, and she'd just wind up confused and empty-handed. So many possibilities, so many variables, it helped to just think of it on a case-by-case basis.
Jet's death had looked painful. (She hated using such a basic word for it, but she could never really think of a better one. The Duke had always been the one with all the big words.) She could remember the way his clothes were smattered with his own blood, how his abdomen looked shallow and flat. The way his mouth curled down into a shuddering frown, how his eyes squinched tight now and then. But that had been the wound talking, not the - not dying itself.
She'd taken plenty of life herself. Swords singing through the air, razor-edge metal parting flesh, drawing splashes of scarlet into the air. Sometimes she got sloppy, and slices meant to steal vitality away didn't always work. But mostly she didn't make those mistakes, because mistakes meant leaving yourself open for counter-attack. When a dagger to the belly expunged the spark of life in seconds, did it hurt then?
Smellerbee thumbed the reeds of Longshot's hat - edges frayed, the dirtied, off-white scraps of rough-hewn fabric the archer would secure into place beneath his chin dangling freely. He'd gotten this one in Ba Sing Se after losing his old one in Lake Laogai...Smellerbee could vaguely remember his disappointment at losing the hat at the moment, but time had been funny and stole away some of her memory from what followed directly after...dying, she supposed. Which was a hell of an irony, because it put her at the opposite end of what she'd wanted to know. She couldn't remember if drowning, if crossing the barrier, had actually been painful or not.
After losing the old hat and replacing it with the new one, the archer had come to love it; it possessed the same vintage appearance and quality that Longshot approved of in headwear, and following their escapades in Omashu, it sported a nice, long split from the brim to the pointed center. The archer had worked diligently in their free time to mend the damage, if only for the sake of longevity; tiny, immaculate stitches had been sewn in with black thread, exercised with the same calm and patience that the archer exhibited in his personality. Smellerbee loved that stitching, because it was just so, so him, just as every other part of this hat.
The only flaw she could find in the item was its smell; reedy, yes, but also of city and swamp and fire and mildew (from the water tower). No hint of Hong Ye's beautiful array of aromas that changed seasonally. No syrup, no honey, no cinnamon or hickory. The physical damage was fine, that was just wear and tear, adding to the worn-in love...but without the poignancy of home, it remained incomplete, a non-whole.
Well. That problem would soon resolve itself. The forest was only a few days away, if that. If they pushed themselves, they could make it in two days' time, and with the last two months' events at their backs, she yearned for a familiar sight and a friendly face. If not Sneers', then there were over a dozen other Freedom Fighters who would be glad to see them.
Rain splattered down around her, hissing like a spider-snake as it collided with the scarred, scorched earth at her knees. Her hair matted down to the sides of her head, and she only distantly perceived the throbbing pain in her wrists. This monsoon was the only thing that kept the fire that had sundered this place from spreading - trees and grass bore blackened splotches, branches eaten away by the ravenous tongues of flame. And behind Smellerbee, Surestance and Fletcher heaved concerned croaking noises, as if urging her to move.
But, no. There were more important things than moving right now, like...like Longshot. And his hat. Yeah, moving could wait, really...
SCENE DIVIDE
Then
A few minutes ago
Still - silent. Had to be, because - so many of them, all around, on all sides.
Smellerbee glanced at Longshot, and the archer's shoulders were hunched and tensed. But he kept his face passive, his eyes darting left, right, back, forth. He knew better than to draw his bow, for fear of revealing their position, secreted away in a thicket large enough to obscure them and their mounts, but thin enough for somebody to notice if they got too close. She felt the same way, only - not as calm. She could feel her lips peeling back from her teeth, and the ground trembled beneath her.
Surestance and Fletcher sat low to the ground behind them, even lowering their heads without so much as a word of encouragement from the Freedom Fighters. They made no sound, no whinnies or croaks or nickers; Smellerbee was no longer surprised at just how smart the beasts were. She was sure Fate had nudged the Freedom Fighters to stealing those two ostrich horses of the multitude they could have pilfered instead.
The clattering of armored boots resounded from all about the pair and their steeds, echoing, thunderous as if this were a cave and not a sparse wood. The sky had opened up and pissed rain down around them, the storm of all storms, so thick and heavy that, when Smellerbee caught a glance of herself in the reflection of a puddle, her water-resistant war paint had smeared and began running in crimson rivulets down her cheeks. The rain drops pelted the pair of Freedom Fighters in cold and hard spikes, even for a midsummer's storm, and her wrists burned, almost as if - as if they'd been lit on fire.
(Ironic, huh?)
The storm's rage reduced visibility to that of pea soup; she could see Longshot well enough and could make out the brown-gray lumps that were their steeds behind them, but anything farther than that had been swallowed up by a cloudy bog of swirling mist. Lying flat on her stomach with Fire Nation soldiers tromping past all around them, this served as a blessing in hiding their position from the enemy - and a curse, because she had to rely on her skewed hearing to try and pinpoint the proximity of anyone who wandered too close.
Between the hissing rain and the clatter of Fire Nation armor, she occasionally heard a low noise that was a mix between a snuffle and a grunt; she hadn't heard it often in her lifetime, but Jet had insisted on teaching them the sound anyway, as a precaution. The enemy marched with komodo rhinos, their footsteps heavier in the slick mud than their riders and owners. They clomped and sloughed and slurped their way through the muck, at least six of the monsters and more to come, and Smellerbee shivered as droplets of water squirmed down her neck, under her clothes.
She really, really wanted to be miserable, soaked to the bone, little branches jabbing her face, arms, sides, but the air was too thick with tension to afford that; trading that for being cheesed off would mean she'd let her guard down, and - and she couldn't do that. Even with visibility down and audibility hampered, they could be found out by one person, the wrong soldier, drawing too close and tripping over them.
At last, Longshot's eyes flickered over to his friend and leader; he couldn't see them any better than he suspected she could (and he was right in thinking that, because she couldn't make out even a darker patch of gray against the fog that swallowed them all up). What...what was she thinking? What should they do? What could they do? The rain wasn't so hard to endure, but they had no idea how long this marching order would be. What if the storm didn't outlast the Fire Nation? Skinny, thinly-spaced trees wouldn't provide enough cover for all four of them.
Smellerbee felt her brow furrow. "I know," she whispered, keeping her voice as low as she could without being inaudible. "I'm thinking."
He nodded, his eyebrows low over his eyes. He trusted her to get them both out of this. His hat protected rain from splattering his face directly, but when the drops hit the ground, they still reached up and splashed him, giving his porcelain cheeks and chin a glistening quality - as if he'd just emerged from a swim in the lake. Water trickled down the brim of his hat, slipping to the ground and the back of his tunic.
What's the plan, then...? With the enemy heading the opposite way the Freedom Fighters had been traveling, they could keep going forward and hope their little glade would continue to divide the Fire Nation troops and the marching order would come to an end - but that brought on a lot of risk. Smellerbee had no idea how much further the glade continued on, or how many troops there were; she wasn't the military buff Skillet or Sneers were, but this was at least a company's worth of soldiers, if not more. Moving that many troops in this weather could take days - and she, Longshot and the ostrich horses couldn't camp out here that long. Too many outlying factors to be a reliable solution.
What else...? A more dangerous option presented itself in sneaking closer to the enemy and dragging one of them back into the mists; kill them strip them of their armor, then blend in with the enemy to bide time, at least. But you'd need to cover their mouths to prevent them from shouting and pin their arms to keep them from Firebending, all the while hoping they didn't know how to use their feet to make the stuff - it didn't matter that the rain dampened their power, because even through this murk the flashes of sizzling orange would be visible to those nearby. Challenging, certainly, but doable if nothing better presented itself. Smellerbee blew a breath through her nose that was half-shiver. She'd rather try something else...and there had to be something else, didn't there? All she had to do was think of - of the right angle, and...
...Hmm.
"Staying around here is bad," She whispered to Longshot, casting a glance back to their poor, drenched ostrich horses. "We can't go forward and we can't go back. Our best bet is to hop on Surestance and Fletcher and haul ass out the sides. We'll diverge a little from our planned course, but if we keep our heads down and avoid eating a fireball sandwich, we'll be alright. The weather's gonna keep us concealed and weaken their Firebending enough for us to get through. It's blunt, but it'll work."
Longshot nodded and pointed to their left. He almost sure there were less troops on that side; the rain fudged even his acute hearing and made it hard to tell, but he'd rather chance it. (As if to prove his point, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky in the near distance, followed by a low roll of thunder.) She nodded in agreement before pushing away from the drenched, muddy ground and rising into a crouch. The front of her tunic and her leather chest piece were sopping wet and glistening with the stuff, and her skin felt like it had been set against a big block of ice. Scowling, she let a little anger in now that she had a plan - not too much, though, just enough so that she'd be able to endure the coming rush with a fire in her heart.
The pair of Freedom Fighters crouch-walked to their mounts. They moved slowly and cautiously, but if anybody saw them, no shouting or Firebending could be heard and the surprise would be on their heads instead. But that didn't matter. Once she reached Surestance, she lifted one leg and clambered onto his saddle, still keeping her body low; she reached for one of Jet's swords with her right hand, tightening her grip on the beast's reins with the left. She glanced over to Longshot, making sure he was ready to go; aside from Fletcher's reins, his hands were empty, and when she hiked a questioning eyebrow at him he shrugged. If they were going to do this right, he'd be better unarmed. Using a bow and arrow required both hands, and he wasn't confident enough in his ostrich horseback archery to attempt that stunt in weather like this.
That was fair enough, she figured, and nodded at him in return.
Okay.
Well, no better time to do it, really. Taking a deep breath, Smellerbee pressed her heels into Surestance's side, and the ostrich horse rose dutifully. With him and Fletcher at the ready, the swordswoman snapped the reins and expelled a sharp "YAH!" that urged the beast into motion.
SCENE DIVIDE
Rain tore at them relentlessly, the wind howling and the lightning increasing in intensity and frequency. The first line of soldiers marched not a few feet beyond the Freedom Fighters' hiding spot, and when their ostrich horses erupted from the brush and splattered water everywhere, so many heads turned in their direction - so many faces with wide eyes and mouths curled into circles of shock - that any doubts Smellerbee had of the element of surprise were vanquished. Fletcher pulled ahead of Surestance, and Smellerbee swung Jet's sword down and around, hooking one Fire Nation troop by the neck; pulled along by Surestance's momentum, it only took a swift tug to separate the man's head from his shoulders, a flickering spray of sparks jittering from his fingertips, and then - gone, swallowed up by his peers, moving too fast to tell anything else.
Longshot kept his head down and his elbows back, lashing Fletcher occasionally to squeeze more speed from her. Smellerbee cursed; she was falling too far behind. Maybe the temptation of inflicting any sort of damage had been too great in the end; mimicking Longshot's pose as best she could, she pressed her knees into Surestance's haunches and flicked his reins. She felt the wind raking its clawed fingers through her hair, the rain plastering her face, blurring her vision, but - couldn't look away, had to keep her eyes open, or else she'd get caught up by the throng of soldiers on both sides.
Fire struck the air ahead, behind, the bursts weak and dissolving, little more than thin flickers of orange in the storm, but it was enough to alert the troops' comrades of incoming trouble. In a matter of seconds, Smellerbee could see glaives and maces coming to bear nearby, threatening to strike her, to take Surestance out at the knees or impale his rider. Snarling, she wouldn't - couldn't - let it happen, that'd mean being swarmed, overtaken by ant-like soldiers with a hive-mind permanently set to 'destroy everything' mode. She lashed Surestance with the reins again, steering him beside, then around Longshot, the archer only casting a flittering gaze to her before returning his attention to the slurry of enemy troops and storms ahead of them.
Swinging Jet's sword in tight, circular arcs, the swordswoman deflected incoming blows; each connection sent the sound of metal colliding with metal ringing up into the gray sky, made her bones jostle and joints ache, her fingertips ringing and numb and her wrists on fire. A glaive broke past her defenses, nicked her shin - she yelped and grit her teeth and continued to charge onward. It was a small wound and it could be attended to later.
The storm had their foes more disorganized than Smellerbee had anticipated, and as Surestance hurtled against that which the typhoon threw at them, a thought occurred to the Freedom Fighter: caught off-guard, these troops had likely succumbed to the misery Smellerbee had worked so hard to stave off. The cold seeping under and between the chinks in their armor, the weary sensation resting under their eyes that would make them dry and heavy, their limbs refusing to cooperate. All things working to the Freedom Fighters' advantage, yes, but with so many troops in the way and no end in sight, the likelihood of the one soldier having their senses about them crossing paths with the pair increased the further in they delved.
It was really only a matter of time before -
- sudden flare from the side, Surestance heaved a hoarse croak of protest -
- Longshot and Fletcher beside them, pushing them -
- and from behind, an explosion that was not the thunder, a flash of light that was not lightning, a rush of hot air that plowed across her back and the nape of her neck, and her ears rung. What the hell - ?
"MOVE!" She shouted, even though it didn't really need saying; the ostrich horses, sensing her desperation, lowered their heads to reduce air resistance. That one person had found them, and -
- a glimmer of silver, barely perceivable through the thick coating of rain -
Smellerbee reacted instinctively, leaping free from Surestance's saddle and flipping in the air. The chain, with a barbell at the end, lashed out and collided with a nearby tree, so heavy and hard that it shattered the wood, making it erupt in a spray of splinters. She landed on the ground, rolling and pushed back up into a crouch; Jet's second sword was in her hand before she could register, the hand grips still too big but feeling more natural as time progressed.
Heavy, thundering footsteps drew nearer. Not those of the ostrich horses, she already couldn't see them, they had been swallowed by the storm and Longshot along with them, but a beast much heavier and with more feet. Komodo rhinos, at least four of the monsters if not more. She could make out a few of them through the murk, hulking, gray silhouettes lurking just out of sight, hiding behind their cover.
"Looks like we got ourselves a winner," one voice - gruff, haggard - called out from the depths of that swirling mist. "Crimson-Faced Smellerbee, wanted by her highness Princess Azula."
"Are you sure, Mongke? This scrawny little thing?" Another voice lilted, lacking the same battlefield-tried qualities of Mongke's. "Doesn't look too dangerous to me."
"Because you can't see her properly through that helmet of yours, smartass," came a third voice. As this one spoke, the chain that had impacted on the tree withdrew, slithering back into the fog like a scalded snake roach. "You're too far away to notice how she's poised. Like a pissed off wildcat, she is."
"That's right," Smellerbee agreed, hunching down and crossing Jet's swords in front of her. She felt her lips peeling away from her teeth to reveal something that felt like a smile, but lacked its affable qualities - instead replaced by fury that she hoped would intimidate these mystery assailants. She hated the thought of being separated from Longshot here, now, but - well, one fight at a time. If she could take on Mai by herself... "Now, which one of you clowns wants to go first?"
"Sorry, I'm really not in the mood for banter," said Mongke, and from the depths of the hissing gray void, a swirl of orange formed and rushed outward, his fire too strong to be dampened by the rain. Smellerbee rolled to the side and dove, the fire wall blistering and singeing her hair, her back; scrambling through the mud, hauling herself by her forearms and kicking her legs to accelerate, the Freedom Fighter saw another ball of flame incoming – but not aimed right at her. Mongke couldn't see her pressed into the ground –
Two smaller flares sparked to life from further back. As Mongke's attack soared past where Smellerbee had been, exploding in a splash of fire against a grove of trees, Smellerbee got a much more dire sense of dread from the two tinier ones. A bigger fire didn't necessarily make it more dangerous; smaller fire sometimes implied greater control, and whoever held the vertically aligned, glistening sparks could most likely see the swordswoman even in this horrendous visibility.
A familiar sound from that direction - but lower, the twang of a longbow being released - twin whistling sounds - couldn't move, not enough time -
She saw a second pair of arrows launch through the air from an angle, intercepting the pair shot from the Fire Nation archer in mid-flight. The second set of arrows knocked the first - heads still glittering with flame - off their flight path, and Smellerbee saw Longshot land in a crouch a few yards away, barely visible in the mire. He glanced at her briefly, making sure she was okay, before nocking another arrow and firing it into the storm, yielding a snarling scream from beyond the veil. Smellerbee felt more than heard the charging, clawed feet of a righteously ticked off komodo rhino rampaging her way - the mud quivering beneath her hands and knees - and she scrambled up with her heart thundering in her chest, her breath tight, her pulse trembling in her throat -
Link Jet's swords together!
She hooked one of Jet's swords into the other and leapt, whirling them over her head; the hand guard of the extended blade caught into a branch hanging above, and using her momentum, Smellerbee swung up, around, grabbing the sword as she passed it, yanking it free. Flipping, she landed in a crouch on the tree branch, heard a scream from behind - instinctively, she back flipped away just as the komodo rhino plowed into the tree, shattering its trunk, sending its rider splattering into the mud. Smellerbee caught a glistening, sinewy strand laying about and around him as she landed - the chain with the weighted flail at the end. One down, at least three left to go -
Whirling around to face their assailants, Smellerbee crouched down low and charged straight at where she thought she could hear another one of the rhinos. Longshot swerved in the opposite direction behind her, nocking yet another arrow and releasing - this time, colliding with another one of the flame-lit arrows from the archer in the fog.
"Cover me!" She called, pinwheeling Jet's swords about her. Another fireball rushed at her, and she leapt, tucking her feet up; she landed, rolled, and found herself next to a massive, clawed foot, three-toed and grey-skinned six times the size of her own hand. A quick glance up yielded a mustachioed man in custom Fire Nation armor, bald save for a ratty topknot that drooped in the rain, a nose ring looped through his nostrils. With his arms and most of his chest exposed, it wasn't hard to see how his muscles rippled and skin gleamed, especially at this proximity - and the blue komodo rhino tattoo on his shoulder seemed to glow in the rain.
For a moment, Smellerbee felt as if time had paused - she had never met this man personally, his yellow, hateful gaze glaring down at her from his mounted position, his arm drawing back over his head with his fingers splayed. But she knew who he was, because - because Jet had spoken about him, about the superior band of Fire Nation soldiers calling themselves the Rough Rhinos, and how they had been the ones to raze his town - kill his family - leave him with nothing but a name that no longer applied. Typical to Jet's nature, he always mentioned them out of hatred - and only when he was drunk or infuriated (if not both), only when he lost the cool facade he kept up.
(Revenge at last)
Smellerbee had to quash her younger self, because this was not a time for exacting revenge, it was a moot point, Jet was dead, and the only reason Smellerbee had to hurt the Rough Rhinos was to ensure survival, self-defense, nothing more -
She delivered an upward slash with the left sword, time still moving in slow-motion. Fire licked the soldier's fingers (was this Mongke? Probably, she'd feel safe sticking to that assumption) but his eyes went wide as he saw the slash coming for his side; the fire dissipated as he brought his opposite hand up, blocking the sword slash with his gauntlet. A shower of sparks exploded into the air as metal clashed with metal, and time sped up again; Smellerbee darted Jet's second sword in, looped Mongke around his other gauntlet and pulled. He didn't come free from his stirrups as she'd hoped - but the blade slipped from the gauntlet and bit into his wrist, causing the man to howl in pain. He tried maneuvering his guarding hand around - maybe to grab the sword, or to gain an opening for attack, Smellerbee didn't know or much care. She twisted the blade caught in his wrist and pulled again, a healthy spray of blood erupting, like a geyser - she must have severed a vein, and at last Mongke freed the nearest foot from his stirrup in a weak attempt to kick Smellerbee off. She leapt back, freeing Jet's swords, and swung again, trying to hook Mongke's ankle -
An arrow whizzed past her nose, close enough for her to feel its slipstream - not on fire, heading away from Longshot - enough to surprise her, and she stumbled backwards, lost her balance, and fell back into the mud. She landed hard enough for Jet's swords to bounce out of her grip. But - but can't stop moving now, have to keep on keeping on or else the Rough Rhinos would find their opening, she didn't bother looking for Jet's swords in the storm, she just reached for her dagger and hurled herself at Mongke -
- he kicked at her again, but this time fire erupted from his heel, she couldn't dodge, there wasn't enough time -
Her armor took the brunt of the hit but it was hot hot hot her chin and arms and waist seethed, and the world flip-flopped around her and there were leaves and trees and Longshot so close so suddenly her ears ringing his eyes wide and mouth working, he - he was calling her name, she could see it but there wasn't any sound -
(hadn't said her name out loud since he gave it to her)
And she wanted to shout, No, you dummy, don't worry about me, protect your own ass, but she couldn't, the words fizzled and died somewhere between her brain and her mouth. She wasn't hurt, she didn't think, just - just stunned, she'd be okay -
He was so concerned for her - running to her side now - that he didn't pay attention to the archer in the fog, and as suddenly as Smellerbee's world had inverted itself, so had Longshot; his face and body contorted, his mouth curling into that - that big, round "O", just like the girl in the mines. One of the arrows - one of the enemy arrows! - stuck out from his side, the clothes around the shaft sparking and flaring, but the rain put the fire out for the most part -
Smellerbee felt herself becoming right again, and she yelled - she could, she even heard herself a bit - she scrambled, clawed her way to her feet. "LONGSHOT!" But the archer began to fall and spin, and another arrow took him in the gut - and he impacted flat in the mud, shock already on his face, his hat knocked clear off his head, his eyes wide and distant -
oh no oh no oh no
She howled, screaming his name again - they had faced off against the Fire Princess and her friends together, they had survived Lake Laogai together, they couldn't be separated here, now, so close to home! -
She saw something pierce the fog, but it wasn't an arrow - it was big and red and lumpy and almost sorta shaped like a brick...a wick at one end, arcing through the air, and the wick had been cut so short - giving off a spray of sparks as it soared -
It landed between herself and Longshot, half-buried in the mud - and for a second, Smellerbee hesitated, glaring at it, as if it had done her a personal injustice. She felt herself moving again, legs slow and heavy, arms aching, stomach twisted in on itself - she grabbed the bomb, because that's what it was, it was a bomb, and she hurled it with as much strength as she could muster back at the Rough Rhinos
wasn't enough
it exploded, too close, and the world erupted in a spray of colors, a cacophony of ringing sounds deeply rooted in her ears, and trees and leaves and ground and and and Longshot -
- nothingness -
SCENE DIVIDE
Croaking. She felt a - something hard pushing against her cheek - nudging her head. Groaning, Smellerbee gradually opened her eyes; she could still feel the rain smattering her body, hear it hissing through the woods, but much lighter. Her cheeks had gone numb from cold, and Surestance's head occupied most of her vision, his great, wide eyes glittering - concerned? The beasts were remarkably smart, after all...
Sitting up, Smellerbee reached for her knife - but the sheath was empty, she'd lost it when blasted by Mongke's fire ball. Maybe it was still on the battlefield, maybe it could be salvaged -
- how far had she been thrown? She clambered to her feet and began stumbling the way her feet had been pointing. Must'a been that way, right? Head buzzing, she felt urgency tugging at her from behind the navel. Mud caked her entire body, front, back, legs, arms, stuck in her hair, even the rain couldn't wash it out, why was - why was it so important to get back to the scene of the fight? Longshot would be able to fend for himself -
- Longshot -
- and she ran, eyes stinging, nausea mingling with disorientation, she remembered seeing Longshot's face in her mind - (no, no, no, no, can't be left alone) - falling, hurt, because of - of her -
She emerged in a clearing and felt herself slow to a gradual stop. Visibility had improved drastically since - since before, so she cold see the exact damage from the fight. Because this was where the fight had to have happened, hadn't it? Blood spattered what green was apparent, several trees had been twisted and distorted from collisions and explosions, more had been burnt from Mongke's fireball, and -
- a smear of tan amongst the brown -
Smellerbee wandered over to Longshot's hat and picked it up.
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
No bodies.
Smellerbee couldn't - that didn't help - didn't help anything. The Fire Nation rarely bothered to take enemy corpses with them, due to rules of military conduct. But - but the Rough Rhinos operated outside standard procedure, and with the Fire Lord's blessing at that because they were good at what they did. Of course they would have taken Longshot, because of the bounties on their heads. They'd collect.
It didn't tell Smellerbee if Longshot had survived or not. He wouldn't have been able to struggle with an arrow in the belly and - and -
- and she'd overflow if she didn't find some way to contain it -
(Enough! Just move on, don't stand here like a lost little girl!)
"But without Longshot why should - " Smellerbee heard herself asking. Her head had not stopped buzzing, and - and she couldn't figure out what to do next, her chest just hurt, there was so much pressure building up inside -
(There's still a chance he's alive! All you can do is find out!)
"He'll be so angry that I let myself get hurt - that I got him hurt!" She protested, though she wasn't sure to who.
(You're supposed to be different! You're a go-getter and a leader! Don't get all weepy, because you're still a Freedom Fighter!)
She felt like crying. It was so tempting to deny her rampant thoughts, the ferocious voice clawing away inside her, to say - to say, no! Not without Longshot, without Longshot I'm nothing!, but her mind struggled - because it wasn't true and she knew it, and...and there were things she could be without Longshot. And if she couldn't be a whole with him - captured, or - or, dead -
- on her hands and knees suddenly, heaving - sobbing and vomiting all at once, no, not Longshot! Longshot couldn't be gone, not after everything they had gone through together! She hiccupped, stopped retching, sniveled, and felt another wave of nausea washing over her. Revile took her, and and and there was nothing without Longshot -
(Liar. There's always something.)
"No," she moaned. She knew she was being pathetic but - after Jet, how could she take this? She was - she was overflowing, she was overflowing and there wasn't anything that'd be able to stop her, she'd just keep flowing and flowing and wouldn't stop because she'd become a boiling pot of nothing but emotions and she'd wither up and die before -
(The hat. The hat, you idiot! Do with the hat that you do with the swords!)
(If you don't have Longshot, you have to rely on something that was there before Longshot. What were you before you met him?)
"A - a miner brat. A slave." She hiccupped again, her mouth tasting foul, her sinuses burning from the acid. "Nothing. Nameless."
(What were you?)
Smellerbee's breath hitched. "A - a fighter."
(That's right. You strove, no matter what the circumstances. You would always rise up in the face of adversity and spit in its face. You are ferocious, you are bestial, and you are a killer! You are a warrior, and you're alone in the middle of a war. You have to continue on. A world is depending on you! Do what you gotta do until the planet is safe. Then, and only then, can you overflow.)
"...A warrior." Smellerbee glanced down to the hat clutched in her left hand, feeling the reeds beneath her fingertips. "Yeah. That's right."
Clambering to her feet, Smellerbee evaluated the empty battlefield, scoping it out - looking for the telltale glimmers in the mud that would expose the position of her weapons. It took some time - she found Jet's swords first, hidden by a small grove, and then the knife some minutes later half-obscured by a bush. Re-equipping herself, she returned to Surestance's saddle and burrowed into her belongings; plunging her hand into the depths of her possessions, she reached for the familiar satchel containing her crimson war-paint, feeling for the leather with her fingertips. Hiding in the center of her bedroll, she withdrew it, opened it, and dipped the first two fingers of her left hand in, smearing her fingertips with the stuff.
She had done this so often within her lifetime that she needed no mirror to know where the stripes went; her hand moved automatically, with ritualistic familiarity, starting at her cheekbones and pulled down to her jaw line. She dipped her fingers in again and repeated the motion on the opposite side of her face - refreshing the lines that had been rubbed out by the rain. Her signature, her nickname. The Fire Nation had done so much to her in her lifetime - they had taken her family, her voice, the Freedom Fighters, the Avatar...Jet, Longshot. They would come to know and fear Crimson-Faced Smellerbee, because she was a warrior if nothing else.
One last thing, then.
She had set Longshot's hat on Surestance's saddle horn. Pulling the drawstring on her face paint pouch tight, she buried it back into her bedroll and rubbed her fingertips on her pants leg - unceremonious and unladylike, yes, but she didn't care. She reached over for the hat, lifted it up above her - stared at it against the backdrop of gray branches, green leaves and dark sky. Yes...they would come to know Smellerbee's name.
She put the hat on and tied the cloth strings beneath her chin, as she had seen Longshot do so many times. Glaring up at the sky, she said, "Yes. I am a warrior...let the battle be joined."
She climbed onto Surestance and whistled for Fletcher to fall into stride beside her. Regaining her bearings, Smellerbee led the ostrich horses towards Hong Ye Forest.
SCENE DIVIDE
Some time later
"Here you go, you motherless son of a goat weasel." The guard said, his voice deep and sneering and egocentric – that of a man who had power over those he had been tasked in containing and knew it. "One custom-tailored cell, complete with all the furnishings a rebellious loser could desire. One cot, one bedpan, and one cellmate."
And then, the hands holding Longshot upright vanished, and his stomach howled in screaming protest – he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He stumbled forward, balance already compromised – and then the heel of the guard's boot found his back, sending him careening into the cold metal floor of his new home. He curled up instinctively, wrapping his arms around his abdomen and pulling his legs up to his chest.
The guard laughed, a derisive, scathing sound that scraped Longshot's ears. "So, this is what the infamous Hawkeye has been reduced to. You're fortunate Princess Azula is going to be occupied in the coming month, or else she'd come to take care of you personally. She's developed something of a fascination for you, if what the rumors say are true."
The archer squinched his eyes shut. He wished the guard would just shut up. He prided himself on being such a good listener, especially to his friends, but the guard was not a friend, nor were his words doing anybody any sort of good. It was taking all his willpower to keep the flaring pain in his side and belly from eating away at him, gnawing with little, poison-coated fangs.
The floor was cold against his shoulder and leg, even through the orange prison clothes they had given him. His blue tunic, his mantle, his hat – all gone, stripped of him by his captors. He hated it. Felt like his identity had been torn right from his fingers, leaving him with – with nothing, really. Not even his bow or arrows.
The trip to this prison had been wrought with fever dreams and hallucinations; Longshot couldn't remember most of it, just little fractions of parts – lost to blurred colors and muffled noises that didn't make any kind of coherent sense. He didn't know how he'd survived being gut-shot by a flaming arrow (he remembered that much), but the wooden shafts had been removed, leaving him with just screaming agony and a teeth-clenching desire to rip open his skin just to let the pain bleed out.
The guard must have finished taunting the archer, because the next sound he recognized was that of a heavy, metal door slamming shut in its frame, the hinges squealing; he winced, scowled, and gradually opened his eyes. He had not seen Smellerbee since waking up, and because of his memory being funny with sickness, he didn't know if she had been – been taken like he had. And it her gender wasn't a mystery anymore – she could take care of herself, certainly, but her specialty didn't lie in unarmed combat. She could throw a good punch and a solid kick where needed, but without a weapon at hand…
No, it's easier to just not worry about it. Smellerbee would be okay, wherever she was. She'd teach any guard with wandering hands how the world worked.
"Hey, you okay, guy?" A voice lilted from behind the archer. "Looks like you seen better days."
Longshot drew a shuddering breath. A cellmate – the guard had mentioned something along those lines, hadn't he? A dozen stereotypes flickered through his mind at once, and he felt an icy, slick sensation slither down his throat (because stereotypes existed for a reason). For one moment – and later, he would admit to himself how utterly silly it was to think this thought in particular - he doubted his new friend would be kind enough to let slide the old press-your-hand-to-your-throat-and-fake-mute technique.
Still – he grunted, worked, struggled – tried to get into a sitting position, to look at his bunkmate, only for the pain to flare up again, and he collapsed back to the ground, hissing and snarling.
"Whoa, easy," the voice said, and Longshot could make out the sound of shuffling footsteps over the wicked agony in his belly. "You really are bad off, aren'tcha? Just hang tight, pal. Rec time is coming up in a couple hours, and I know a Waterbender who can heal you right up."
Longshot felt a hand on his shoulder, saw the face of his cellmate swim into view – and their eyes went wide at the same time.
He knew that face.
"Longshot?" Spatula whispered, color draining from his cheeks. They used to be – so much rounder, Longshot remembered, from so long ago. He wasn't so cherubic anymore, he looked more – angular, lean, toughened. "Longshot, what are you doing here?"
Spatula. One of the Freedom Fighters' cooks, one hell of a nice guy…Fire Nation, a Firebender, and a man who was supposed to have died almost three years ago for that deception.