There isn't pain, only a radio crackling, moving in her head, a pressure like a bad cold where she can't think can't move can't breathe. And with one small breath, she falls.
"I told you I would destroy you."
Everything's gone.
She loses almost all consciousness, all sense of the world around her. The last thing she hears is Mako calling her name, and she's bloodbent into a kneeling position. Her world is the pulsing inbetween her ears, her eyes. Her heart shoots up into her throat and she can't breathe.
"Finally, you are powerless."
She barely registers Amon's lieutenant storming in, crumples as Amon releases her from his bloodbending grip. Learning his past—she figured he'd be more human, more reasonable, a deeply hurt man instead of this untouchable figure.
But he's worse. A monster. The revolution—it's not an extreme movement for equality, at least not to their leader. It's a power grab. In an instant, he'll abandon it and leave his subordinates to rot. He'll bend others and torture them, even with his proficiency in nonbending fighting tactics. Even with his speeches about snuffing out fear, of stomping out the bending elite so people can walk the streets peacefully.
Despite herself, it's a disappointment. Can she really say that she expected more of Amon? After Tarrlok's systematic oppression of innocent civilians, a traitorous cloud of incertitude usurped her. Yes, he was a radical, but perhaps he could be reasoned with if she took the time to listen when the Council refused.
Amon's boots brush past her, and no no no. This loss of control, the crashing—if only she can scream, attack Amon. Save her friends. Mako—no no no, she can't save him.
By a sheer burst of will, her senses flood back, and it only renders her sick. Moving onto her elbows, lifting herself up—oh, it aches. It's not bloodbending. She can't support her own weight. All of the fire in her body, everything that made all of the energy move? Extinguished.
She hears something collapse, a faint breath, and she's slammed into the floor again. The pain sears her body; she's racking with dry sobs. Blackness mists over her vision as swiftly as the truncated flicker of time when she regained a modicum of power.
"Perhaps in another life, you would've seen reason," Amon murmurs. At the rally and when he just stole her bending, he was taunting her. Now, his words ring with resignation. He recedes into that mask of the mysterious Amon, not the sadistic man who enjoys manipulating others after corroding and crafting himself into a fine-tuned machine.
There's a pressing in her head, the world contorts—gets smaller and—
Body outstretched and limp, her existence shrinks, becoming lighter. She's picked up off of the ground, and it's as if she's been unconscious for hours, and oh please, let it be Mako.
But Mako wouldn't sling her over his shoulders so carelessly—in a grip so possessive. She's drifting away, and she mistakes it for dying. No, she doesn't want to die. Korra hasn't fixed anything; she's wasted so much time.
Maybe her period as the Avatar is revoked, and the loss of her ability to master the four elements kills her. The others aren't obligated to command their elements, but she's supposed to be the best. To protect.
Enshrouded, metallic hissing and clicking. An underground tunnel? Of course he won't parade her around. On the other hand, well, why not? He tied up children and left them out for display. Surely, he'd want to reveal his greatest victory.
The world is a shell, and Korra is trapped in it. Smothering. Like a chicken-pig in its egg.
No, a dragon. A spiteful, incensed serpent ready to strike.
She pushes, shoves, and it doesn't give. There's a blur of muffled colors and noises, but she can't reach through. She's the one who's cracking on the inside.
It's a prison that offers her its sanctuary, but Korra struggles. She's not one for cages.
Fresh air hits her face after awhile as Amon surfaces. Soon, he drops her into something that rocks as her weight falls upon it.
"Korra!"
That voice. Something to run toward, but her body won't yield to her needs.
(It's over.)
"You didn't."
"She's been equalized."
"Noatak, you've killed the Avatar."
"She appears to be alive to me."
"Without her bending, she can't—you've disrupted the balance."
"Because things were going along swimmingly for you and your tools on the Council. Balance is another word for stagnation, brother. Yes, she was performing a stunning job protecting the city," Noatak says sardonically, "and no doubt irrevocable changes will be made in her absence, since she was so active in rebuilding broken ties when she wasn't getting knocked out in a sports arena or harassing street protestors."
Hey, I won sometimes.
"What are you searching for, Noatak?"
"Something I hid under the floorboards after I found you. It should look familiar to you."
Geez, this guy sure likes to hear himself talk. Korra stands through the darkness, and she's not a dragon, but a worm. This isn't real. She'll wake up in that compound, ready to devise pranks and sneak a radio into her room for tonight's probending match. She inhales the must of someplace that doesn't receive much care. Pain shoots into her limbs as her pressure points are blocked with precision. Spread onto the floor in humiliating defeat, someone scoops her up.
She tries to speak, tries to mouth the words, I hate you. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
"Why did you lie about your past?"
"I don't believe anti-benders would rally with the bloodbending son of a renowned criminal. Their sympathies would be short-lived."
"Why are we waiting for her to wake up? Can't we make the arrangements while she rests?"
"Yes, but I'd rather deal with her tantrum beforehand."
"She's the Avatar, Noatak. All she is—you've taken it."
"Hm, I warned her it would come to this, yet she persisted."
When Korra comes to, she expects the clink of chains. Instead, she's lying on top of a bed, her limbs numb. Strangely enough, it's a sensation worse than pain.
The room is humble, composed of a wooden desk, a bookshelf, and a small wardrobe on the side opposite of the bed. The dull browns, the rushing sound of water that calms her at night—she's at the air temple?
An orange light seeps through the window adjacent to the bed. How long was she out? Why hasn't she been found?
The numbness subsides, and the other two inhabitants in the room, both sitting next to the door in rickety chairs, shift their attentions to her. Suddenly, she's chilled to the core. Her eyebrows wrinkled, Korra returns the gaze of a stranger she's never seen before.
"Who are you—" His voice, his clothes, she swears it's Amon, and Tarrlok referred to him as Noatak, but she saw, but he's—he's not— "Your scar—"
"Supposedly, scars fade over time. Like what you see?" Noatak stands, and she's here on the bed. The way he's eying her, his eyes cold, did he just—
Ew. Ew. Ew.
She sits up and glowers, scooting as close as she can to the headboard.
"I'd like it better if you were really scarred. At least that'd mean you're honest."
Though fatigue consumes her frame, she lurches and punches the air, hoping to burn his face off, to make his story come true—like she almost hurt Tarrlok when fire scorched her reason and she was too driven by hate to retreat.
Noatak doesn't even flinch.
Korra lowers her hand, staring out into space with confusion. Then her memory floods back like a broken dam. Her voice cracks when she attempts to speak.
Swallowing painfully, she moves her lips once, twice.
"I-I can't bend."
She doesn't hear those words. Perhaps she never spoke. Her vision blurring, she forces back any tears. Korra rotates her attention to the man who hasn't bothered to address her.
"Tarrlok?"
Noatak takes a step toward her. She instinctually tries to throw herself back further, only to dig the headboard further into her Equalist guise.
"I don't trust you to comply, nor do I trust you enough to think you won't try to conspire with my brother to plot an escape attempt."
"I'm sorry, Avatar," Tarrlok finally says. Everything in him suggests weariness. He looks to Noatak. "I agreed to go with you, but I won't stand for you tormenting her."
Agreed to—that weasel-snake! What are they planning for her? In this cramped space with two older men, the two people who have hurt her the most, it's all too much.
The only way to heal everything—
"What kind of a monster do you think I am? I have no intentions of brutalizing her. I am not my father." (Ha, that's a joke. Who knew Amon could have a sense of humor?)
I need to die.
"Yes, Noatak."
The truth—no, she can't accept it, but that doesn't make it less valid. It will take years for the new Avatar to mature into their role; still, she can't fulfill her duty now. Everything's black and rainy, an abrupt end. She's supposed to win. She made it so far, even outwitted the Equalists when she could scarcely see straight.
Korra, calm down.
She suspects that with his brother able to disable the Avatar, Tarrlok resigns himself to complacency. He is, after all, driven to keep others pleased with him. Maybe if she threatens Tarrlok in some way—well, Noatak can just bloodbend her through a wall.
She can hardly move because of her exhaustion. "Please," Korra rasps, "what do you want with me? It's over. You've won. You've destroyed me, just like Yakone wanted. You're such a good son."
Now's the time for a great plan.
Yeah, I'll get back to you on that.
It's ludicrous, but perhaps it's better that she isn't separated from these two. If they escaped, nobody would have a tab on them. If she stays in the city she's failed, Korra won't know their whereabouts, their new plan. They'd get away free, but should she ever find a way to contact an ally, while not jeopardizing the lives of those around her, she will be watching them.
"All victors need their spoils," Noatak tells her, and all she sees in his eyes is the hunger of a wolf. An undercurrent of something she can't face.
Amon: charismatic leader of the revolution; tactician; terrorist; charlatan; nasty dude; creepy old guy.
She stiffens. "Don't touch me."
As if exasperated, Noatak sighs. "No, it's nothing like that." Korra lifts herself off of the bed.
You have some major issues, pal.
"Noatak," Tarrlok says, his voice containing a note of warning. Korra expects that Noatak won't react because, after all, it's not like his brother can wound him, but, like a bashful child, Noatak recoils slightly at the admonishment.
"Like your lieutenant?" Korra says, emboldened by the crack in his mask, "Is he proof of how amazing you are? I-I heard you—you killed him. Who's the bending oppressor now?"
Noatak waves it off. "No, no, he'll survive. He's fallen off of enough cliffs and buildings. I wasn't sure we'd fish out one piece after the scuffle on the arena dome. I'm sure he'll handle being flung around. It's not his physical wounds that will burden him the most." Noatak pauses, suddenly looking his age as the lines under his eyes deepen, and says, "If I killed him, it would've preserved my secret, but that would only maintain the cycle of deception." And if he killed the Avatar, her friend, and his brother, but he doesn't go into those details. If he'd exterminated Tarrlok from the start, nobody would be wise to the truth.
A change of heart? You've gotta be kidding me. Does this guy even know himself?
"You're a real class act, Noatak."
Has he won, though? His secret's out—or soon to be out. He'll be labeled a fraud; the entire nonbender population will suffer. In a way, that's a worse consequence than what happened to her. People who never had the chance to better themselves will now be vilified as crooks because of their one association with a terrorist group—the one trait that connects them to those who affiliated themselves with a trickster.
There's more bite in his typically unemotional voice. "I am not Noatak to you."
"You're also not supposed to be the most powerful bender alive."
"I was bringing peace to the city." His hands curl at his sides.
"And what good has that done? Peace. Yeah, uh huh, with your airships bombing the city all over the place with 'peace' written on them. Nice bit of irony, huh, Noatak?"
He advances, and Korra straightens her back, lifting her chin imperiously.
"She can't do us any harm." Tarrlok rises off of the chair, moving to grab his brother's arm. How weird it is: two brothers acting so familiar with each other when they were political enemies weeks ago. Tarrlok despised everything Amon represented, and Amon shared the sentiment, but now they're speaking, and Amon isn't this foreboding, almost inhuman being. Two men with completely opposing perspectives on peace and order.
Noatak argues, "She ruined you."
"Hey! I'm right here, Noawhatever."
"If it weren't for the Avatar, you wouldn't have lost your position."
"And," Tarrlok replies, "you would've captured me and my bending would've been stolen anyway. She's just a girl. You can't blame her for all of society's ills."
"But she provoked the bloodbending out of you—she had to have, didn't she? This never would've happened if the Avatar killed Yakone." For a scant moment, Noatak almost sounds like a vulnerable human being, and, despite her pure hatred for him, her heart squeezes. It must be awful to know the world would be better off if you never existed.
"If I knew how to chi-block, you'd so be on the floor right now." Such words come out stiffly. Korra wants to aggravate Amon, to make him regret every moment with her, but she's so tired, so ready to find comfort somewhere, anywhere.
With one heated glance from him, she's on the ground, writhing like a spider-flea, gasping in pain as everything gives out, her body out of her control as she lands on her side and spasms.
"S-Stop! Stop, p-please." Just like that, her muscles relax. She rolls onto her stomach, drool falling out of her mouth as she exhales quickly.
"If you don't misbehave, I won't have to punish you," Noatak says.
Tarrlok raises his voice. Even if his brother can toss him aside like the felt puppet he is, he won't go on speechlessly as he did when they were boys. "Brother, leave her alone. Now you're just doing this out of cruelty."
With that, Noatak deflates. "I'm sorry, brother. No matter what I do, I can't seem to escape my father's shadow."
Tarrlok steps over to Korra and bends down, extending his arm to her. She considers rebuking against his offered hand, but takes it anyway, slowly getting onto her knees and pressing herself upward.
"Did you plan for this to happen?" she whispers to Tarrlok.
"No," he says sadly. After she leans against him, Tarrlok loses all semblance to the composed, unctuous man she detested. "Yakone is dead! You call me weak, but at least I've tried to run away from his legacy! You use it as an excuse to hurt others, just after telling me that you're not him! I brought this upon myself, and you've brought everything upon yourself!" Tarrlok averts his gaze, his shoulders low. She feels his pulse accelerate. He smells awful, like sweat and musk. All of his fury dissipates, and he reverts back to the lessened man. "This has nothing to do with revenge?" The words offer a flicker of hope, though Tarrlok's furthered himself from foolish dreams.
Noatak shakes his head, not directing attention to his brother or the Avatar as he says, "A tool of revenge. Exactly like my father—no. This isn't for him. We've earned this."
"How?" Tarrlok says, a hint of desperation in his tone. Korra pushes herself off of him, settling on the wall, her shoulder against it. "She's—she's not a thing, Noatak." No matter his reservations, neither he nor Korra have the control to fight back. Korra might have the nerve, but not the capacity, and Tarrlok has neither.
Noatak acts as if he hasn't heard a word his brother said. "They'll never find us, but we have to hurry if we want to escape by nightfall. Hiroshi sent me a notification before the rally—he intercepted a message that called forth a new United Forces fleet, so he sent out some planes to greet them." Planes—those flying things? "By the slim chance that they fail, the ships were just departing, so they might not arrive until the morning."
"Won't it cause us more trouble if we bring her along? The world will be searching for her."
"If we're discovered, she'll grant us safe passage. I could easily kill her, and a threat to her will render us unstoppable. If she's stubborn and persists in fighting—" Noatak peers at her. "—I have the ability to rupture your friends' innards with one thought. Brother, don't look at me like that. I have no intentions of fulfilling that threat, unless she prompts me."
"You're a monster," Korra says. "What did you do to Mako?"
"Relax, Avatar. My followers have been trained not to kill."
Her friends need her—but she's not a good Avatar. She never was, but now she'll certainly never be.
"You took away his bending." Her hands curl up into fists. If only she'd . . .
"I've taken away the bending of almost every bender in the city. I don't see why he should be the exception, whether or not he is the Avatar's consort."
"W-What?"
Noatak laughs harshly. "Really, Avatar Korra, you have no sensibility, but I thought you'd have enough couth to not pine after the Sato girl's lover after she cut ties with her father." Well, when he puts it like that.
She worked herself past the crush, but he kept pushing things onto her—from nice gestures to accusations. Korra didn't want to flirt with him, but Mako gave too many mixed signals. He was with Asami, but he didn't want her with Bolin. He was saving her up, just in case.
Her stomach twists into knots. Asami's been nothing but helpful and sweet, and this whole thing makes Korra feel so stupid, so childish and inept. It's not all Mako's fault. She shouldn't have accepted anything that suggested more than friendship; she should've painted clear boundaries. Why couldn't they all have been friends?
Why couldn't she have focused on her training so she would've been more prepared?
It's too late for regrets, Korra.
She bares her teeth. "That's not any of your business."
I am not your Avatar, bub.
"It is rather trivial," Tarrlok says, returning to his seat.
"You seem to enjoy prying into my personal life."
"Like anyone would have a crush on you."
She turns to Tarrlok, who steadily looks at her without truly seeing. His expression is unreadable, one leg crossed over the other. He can't ward off his brother. Neither of them can bend, and while Korra doesn't want to concede, will never give Amon the satisfaction of "breaking" her, she also prefers not to experience the sensation of being bloodbent.
Ever since Tarrlok lifted her up out of the vehicle, dangled her in the air—it's just wrong. What did they have to endure to be so damaged?
Korra tells herself not to break down. Even if she doesn't believe it for a second, she thinks about how she's more than her bending, that the Avatar title was handed down to her, no matter what. No matter how capable she is, it's hers. Not something she earned, just handed over while others have to work for—well, that doesn't help.
Stripped of bending is like having her skin flayed, every concealed nook of herself exposed. And fighting her way through everything—there's nothing left but a gaping void.
Addressing his brother, Noatak asks, "You don't mind a boat trip, do you? If I recall correctly, you didn't like boats. They made you motion-sick."
"I'll endure it," Tarrlok says dryly. They were arguing, and then it's as if they never fought. Korra once thought the Fire Nation's royal family held the position of the world's most messed up family.
"Where are we going?" she asks. Tarrlok lifts his head up and shakes his head. Noatak ignores her words altogether.
Help me.
Noatak says, "We can leave Republic City to heal on its own." He steps closer to Korra. "It'll be better off without all of us."
Tarrlok's expression softens, but he doesn't move. If she hadn't learned his name, she probably would've regarded him as a completely different person from the smarmy politician with his stupid, smirk-y faces and gross cologne. That Tarrlok was particular about every aspect of himself. Restraint, getting dolled up to hide the decay from years of torment. Sokka once said, after returning home when he retired from the Council and his wife passed, that you can't turn a flying bison's leavings into orchids (seriously, don't try it), but you can roll it in the petals and call it a flower.
Still, the memory almost makes her smile, but the muscles in her jaw ache as if she's been beaming for awhile. Korra just took that line as Sokka being a bit eccentric. However, even if nobody can change something, they can powder it up and pass it off as something else. What did Tarrlok say at that cabin? He had to become someone else other than Yakone's son, but even with the expensive clothes and pungent colognes, he can't alter the contents of his own blood.
Korra pities him (them? no, no) to a certain extent, but not enough to condone what he did to the city and her friends. Yes, she's been sheltered; she's never endured abuse from a person she loves. But someone doesn't have to embrace all of the bad parts of their parents. Given how gaunt and broken Tarrlok appears, maybe she really is speaking out of inexperience.
Noatak grips both of her shoulders, and she squirms, only to feel her muscles tighten and her body harden into stone.
You aren't, in fact, the Avatar. You are merely a half-baked Avatar-in-training.
Please, you're our Avatar too.
She chews on her lip. She's been nothing but neglectful. How can she mend everything now?
"With my lieutenant aware of my powers, my secret should be common knowledge fairly soon." Her body relaxes as he stops his psychic bloodbending, but she's still immovable under his touch.
"I hope you blow up and die," Korra says. Noatak snorts. She has to say she never expected something so undignified from Amon.
"In that order?" He grins in amusement before resorting back to his frosty nature. "I find that you'll appreciate a new start, Korra." What's with this guy? It's like he's six different people.
She murmurs to herself, "My friends . . ." She has them to live for, but what good is she? They—oh spirits, they'll be crushed if she ends it like this.
Asami. Asami does better than Bolin and Mako in battle. After she's endured so much, she's resilient and patient. She can't bend. Yeah, she's had training in that specific field, but if anyone has been handed enough reasons to give up, it'd be Asami Sato. Yet she walks forward. Korra had Mako so crammed up her butt that she never took anything else seriously for awhile, never tempered herself.
But Korra—she's not an average person. All of her life, her mission—to restore balance. All that composes her worth is her bending. Aang was more than his fighting skills, but his reluctance is why this is happening. She can't be him. Not out of reluctance or contempt for Aang's disposition, but because she's too far removed from his personality.
What sage-y thing would Aang say to her if she was spiritual enough to actually talk to him? Everything happens for a reason, Korra. It's too uncanny, the situation between these brothers, but fate's like an invisible set of marionette strings. She reserves no interest in something that'll make her sit a fight out because she thinks the outcome is already determined.
She wants to punch Noatak's face, to wipe the grin off, to make sure it's not unscathed. This liar, this cheater.
You're our Avatar too.
Well, that was—different? Bloodbending is an unnatural, evil thing. Katara mentioned that it can heal, but those who implement it change in some gruesome way. To bloodthirstiness to participation in politics, no good ever comes from it. The thirst of control overrides any goodwill.
"As I said, I've taught my followers to incapacitate, not to kill. Hiroshi is keeping watch over his daughter and your friends, and I doubt he'd harm his own daughter."
Maybe they got away, like Tenzin and the kids. They're safe, aren't they?
"You monster. You tied up children. Showed them off like trophies. You're insane. The bloodbending, it's changed you."
"I can be quite the braggart, though I'll wager that most of your assumptions about me are false. I kept the wife and newborn in safe custody. I don't particularly enjoy being blown off stages, so restraining them was a necessary precaution. As for my methods, you grew up with Katara at your side. Things do change, Avatar."
He releases her shoulders, and she plants her feet down harder to keep from stumbling.
She says, "Katara is one of the bravest people I know! Don't talk about her."
"Perhaps, but she's only seen one side of bloodbending."
"What other side is there? All you've done is use it to hurt people."
Deflecting her comment, he says, "Where is your room?"
Her nose crinkles. "Why?"
"I need to check to see if you have any suitable clothes. I can't have you masquerading around in Equalist gear."
Reluctantly, she replies, "It's on the girls' side." Duh.
Once Amon informed the rally of his power, she dreamed of him bursting in her room while she was asleep and stealing her bending. When they reach her room, it doesn't have a place where she can sit down and apply make-up or inspect her appearance. Korra has never been one to monitor every detail of herself. Most of the rooms have the same layout, but not every single one, so she settles in the room adjacent to her. It occurs to her that she never knew this acolyte's name.
The air between them grows thankfully quiet, but she surmises that it won't last. She stares into the mirror, sees the bags under her eyes, the hairs gone askew.
Now, she's an adult. Hollow, yet her eyes still glimmer with a hint of something. Her lips curling at that last observation, she thinks that it's more than she can say for Amon. If only she garnered any maturity alongside her growth.
She can see Tarrlok sitting in silence behind her—on the opposite side of the tiny room. All he does is dwell and wait, but never with the same aplomb as before. Never with his back straight.
There's some shuffling when Noatak plops a suitcase on the bed and begins filling it. "Brother, I've sifted through what remains of the living quarters, and I believe these might fit sufficiently enough." Minutes pass, and her insides twist as Noatak walks over to her and grabs a lock of her hair in his hands, inspecting it.
Amon—toying with her hair. Oh man, only she'd get enemies this creepy. Like Ozai would've touched Aang's ha—well, his head.
Noatak orders, "Do something with it."
"Um, it's only messy because you threw me and Mako around."
"Arrange it into something else," he elaborates in annoyance. Korra bites back a smile.
"She wears her hair like you used to," Tarrlok says with no discernible emotion in his voice. Really, is that what he sees when he looks at Korra—a female Amon?
Issues. Major issues.
"We must be soulmates," Noatak deadpans, and that only reminds her of the bad decisions she made with Mako. All that situation did was make her feel more incompetent—idiotic and little. Flustered over miniscule matters. "I also seem to recall you added a ponytail since our last meeting. An odd choice, given that Yakone had a similar styling."
For that, Tarrlok yields no answer.
Her stomach rumbles, but not out of hunger. Korra's body can't decide whether it wants to be hot or cold. Sweat forms in her armpits, and she swallows back the nausea as her head pounds and throbs. She touches her stomach, and then the cool wood of the simple vanity.
When we reach our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change.
"Don't flatter yourself, pal. Last I checked, bloodbending makes the wielder go coo-coo. Not that your a full set of chicken-goose feathers, but it'll catch up with you." Korra's eyelids lower, her body about to fold under her as a fuzziness enraptures her mind. "You already look kinda cruddy under the eyes, old man."
Noatak shifts his attention to Tarrlok. "Nobody will recognize me, but you might need to cut your hair—or change it somehow, though you're remarkably clean-shaven for someone who's spent awhile in a cell. Did my followers give you a chance to tend to your hygiene?"
"I undid my hair after I realized that you were my brother—after I'd been put in the attic."
"Ah yes, politicians always have a flare for the dramatic," Noatak says as he returns to the totally non-weird action of folding clothes. How strange it is to see Amon do human things in a familiar, mundane environment. This can't be the guy who boasted on a stage in the blistering reflection of intermingling red and gold lights.
"One of your guards commented on some new renovations added to Avatar Aang's statue," Tarrlok replies wryly, "so I'd say that trait isn't isolated."
As she pulls her hair free, Korra mutters to herself, "I'm not the Avatar anymore."
She doesn't expect either of them to hear or to answer her, but Noatak is nothing if not keen. "It's not as if you were doing anything beneficial with your title. Even if you learn patience and acceptance, it'll be far too late for you to be useful to the people of this city."
The past Avatars always mastered the elements. There's more to being the Avatar than brute force, but can she be formidable without her bending?
Just one sentence that taps into my insecurities, and I'm down.
"I'm not the Avatar anymore," she repeats. "I need to die." In the mirror's reflection, she sees Tarrlok wince in the corner. Korra always huffed when the stuffy White Lotus men talked about responsibility. What she'd give to return to those days of successful escapes into the tundra on Naga's back as they trotted through the landscape.
"I highly doubt the removal of your bending disrupted the cycle," Noatak says, ceasing his task to look at her.
"The world needs a real Avatar." Why her? She was never smart enough, understanding enough. She's failed.
No, Korra. No. This isn't over.
"It's a purely physical component," Noatak says. He's too close, too invasive. Right behind her. There are so many ways he can hurt her without bending, and now he's a bloodbender, and she only has what little innovative strategies she can make up on the spot. "It wasn't spiritbending."
Her masters never taught her specific nonbending strategies. Her only real victories when she didn't bend were when she knocked that guy out with Mako's scarf and kept herself from getting electrocuted inside of the metal box. But she had needed bending to complete the tasks handed to her.
"Please, leave me alone. Leave me alone." She's sad, pathetic. Reduced to dust so easily. Ground into tiny pieces. What happened to her courage, her excitement after she rode Naga through unfamiliar streets, breath taken away by the cultures twined together? First there was the threat of getting her bending taken away, of being nothing; then there was Tarrlok chipping away at her esteem. And how like the spirits to execute such a plan, that these people who worked to break her would share the same blood.
Yet she did nothing but aggravate the situation. It's too late for grievances, but if only she'd been patient, if only she'd listened.
No. She won't hear him, notice his smirk or the shadows under his brows.
"Leave her be, Noatak. She can't do anything to you."
All Amon wants is to make her suffer. It was never about her place amongst the bending elite, which prompted her to disregard social stratification; no, it was just the fact that she was branded with that title by the accident of birth, and that meant she had more influence than Amon.
Finally, you are powerless.
Noatak pulls something out of his uniform and hands it to Tarrlok. He speaks to her again.
"Pick a name."
"What?"
"You need a new name."
"Why? Korra's a nice name. Sounds better than 'Amon', anyway. Where'd you pick that one out?"
Unfortunately, nothing in him suggests her words bother him. "Pick, or I will pick for you."
His voice is like a deep rumble. Korra clasps the stool she's sitting on, pressing hard. Kya? Katara? Senna? No, the name of her grandmother. Her Uncle Unarock almost named her cousin after her.
"Palartok," she whispers.
She anticipates mockery. Noatak curls his hand under his chin pensively for a moment. "It doesn't suit you."
"We're not supposed to choose our names," she says, "Just everything else."
"Luckily, my brother and I have the necessary papers should we have ever decided to flee under new identities. I had enough sense to confiscate his forms from his cabin when my followers and I located where he was hiding. Even with our differences, we still think alike." Tarrlok's silence is palpable, and Korra is reminded that he planned to do something along these lines with her. He caught her, and then what?
"I don't have anything like that." Her words descend below a whisper, her eyelids heavy.
"And you are especially lucky that my brother thinks such things out. We both have remarkable insight." Korra rolls her eyes. Yeah, like he expected that Tarrlok wouldn't try to rat him out. "He forged such documents prior to being found out and returning to where you were imprisoned."
"Yeah, great."
To Tarrlok, Noatak says, "One of us will have to pose as her husband."
"Husband?" she blurts out, wavering. He tucks the papers into the suitcase.
"I don't believe my brother and I are particularly well-suited for the fatherly role, unless there's something my brother hasn't told me." He stands between her and the mirror. Almost whimsically, he adds, "I've always wanted a family."
Ew. Eww.
"No, no, no! I won't—"
Noatak rolls his eyes, a response that imitates her own action a minute ago. "Please, don't flatter yourself. We'll fill out the details later. We won't be taking any formal transportation for awhile, and the villages past the coast of the Earth Kingdom aren't known for their sophistication."
She lowers her head. Unbidden, a few fat tears roll down her cheeks. To be with her friends, to sleep and escape all of this—if only. "Why are you doing this to me?"
He kneels to her level. With uncharacteristic softness, he says, "It's not the end of the world." Usually when he speaks lowly, there's an underlying danger, but this is much worse. She won't let him see her defeated.
"Uh, if I can't save the world, it kinda is." Korra laughs through her tears, and Noatak doesn't move. "Amon the Bloodbender just told me that I can live without bending. Me, the Avatar."
"I lived for many years without bending. Your bending is like a spider's web hovering over darkness. You've always been a nobody, but you have bending as an excuse to lord over others. Without it to stand between the shadows, you're lost, but there are other ways to supply light."
"You're full of surprises. First you're a liar, and then you're a poet. Take your own bending, buddy." Korra snarls and looks away. "Hypocrite."
He smirks. "Is that coming from—"
She meets his gaze, her eyes shining. "Coward! You say I'm a prize, but you've lost this one. You were crazy enough to bloodbend your own lieutenant. Someone who trusted you to help people in trouble. And you're running away. You're worse than Tarrlok ever was; you're worse than Ya—"
He grabs her under the chin, leaning to where she can feel his breath tickling her nose. It takes her back to that night of their proposed "duel." She could glance beneath the mask, past the barrier between the man and the icon, and his eyes radiated with gold because of a misdirection of light. His real eyes are unanimated, devoid of spirit.
"You will regret finishing that sentence."
"If you bloodbend me," Korra says, smirking, "you're only proving me right." The thing about assisting people in need—she's failed in that regard too. Oops.
"Now there's a thought. You do bring out the worst in me."
"And you did just say you can't escape his shadow, didn't you?"
When he steps away and releases her, his body resting against the dresser, she lifts off of the stool shortly and spits in his face.
"The difference between you and me is that people will miss me once I'm gone."
The anger diminishes in his expression as he wipes it away from his cheek. He's cold again. Now bereft of any satisfaction, her muscles act against her will. More subtly than the sharp twisting of her limbs, he holds her in place without so much as a tilt of her head.
"Besides your hair, you'll need to apply cosmetics to your face."
"I don't wear make-up."
"You'll learn."
Korra lifts one corner of her mouth. "I guess I do look a little young for you. People might think that you're a dirty old man."
Noatak leaves her, and says, "Brother, do you know how to use such things?" Tarrlok chuckles.
"I can touch my own face, thanks!"
"The first weeks after your disappearance, I helped my mother in any way I could. Growing up with a tyrannical husband, I thought she couldn't handle herself, though I was joyfully proven wrong on numerous occasions. However, she did not teach me to do her make-up."
Yeah, well, you are pretty girly though, Tarrlok.
On that note, Korra decides that she'd like to do her hair like her mother's, and she gets the unpleasant, hilarious image of the two brothers braiding both sides of her hair. She bites her lip to stifle the laughter as she opens a drawer and peruses it.
Taking out two ribbons, her hands shaking, she focuses on her hair. She fumbles, and it's a struggle to maneuver her fingers. Spirits, with the impending battle in her head the day before, and her nightmares, when's the last time she's slept well? When she was battered after running away from Amon at Tarrlok's cabin?
Which reminds me, how is your airbending going?
This is your last warning: stay out of my way.
So sad to see your little Team Avatar broken up. You had a good run.
That's what I admire about you Korra: your willingness to go to extremes in order to get what you want. It is a quality we both share.
Wood creaks, and Tarrlok moves beside her. A hand lands lightly on her shoulder. "Do you need help?"
"No, I'm fine," she says tersely. Perfect, now she's the one with ambivalent moods. A stab of homesickness barrages her. "My mom never wore stuff on her face."
Tarrlok says, "Neither did mine." He retreats, giving her the space she needs.
Not that it's bad to have make-up; for girls like Asami, it accentuates their best features. But in the compound, looking nice wasn't a concern. Yes, she needed to be presentable, but any powders or creams she wore would just slough off or crack and get all itchy when she began firebending.
"Don't I need a betrothal necklace?" Both brothers stare at her, neither one saying a word. The mirror doesn't distort their images, but Korra figures that they're grotesque enough. "I mean, if we're married . . ." She doesn't care about some dumb trinket, but she wants to delay the inevitable. She guesses that Noatak will "claim" her. That sicko.
She halts. No, she doesn't mean that. Just the title. He won't—they're repulsed by each other.
"That's only a Northern Water Tribe tradition, isn't it?" Noatak raises an eyebrow at his brother before handing him an object she can't discern.
Tarrlok shrugs, frowning. "Mother never wore one. Then again, I suppose Yakone never bothered to craft her one."
When they approach the dock, Noatak sets the suitcases down behind her, and Tarrlok relinquishes his clutch on her arm, not that it was particularly rough. Her heart sinks when she sees motorboats lining the water. With the onset of nightfall, a blurry smudge of purple lines the horizon.
She finally realizes what Tarrlok carries in his other hand, but why will they need it if they're finding a new start? Part of her says her ire is mostly directed at Amon, but if she reveals their location, Tarrlok will be punished too.
Once a weasel-snake, always a weasel-snake. I'll find help once I'm there, and then it'll be payback time.
Great, a boat ride with a crazy waterbender and his crestfallen brother. Sounds like the plot line for a bad romance inside of a radio play. Or a horror script. Time for Nini the Ghost to arrive.
Before Korra notices his next move, Noatak paralyzes her with his chi-blocking. Falling to the side, Tarrlok catches her, supporting her weight by wrapping his arms under hers. Looking past the uncomfortable nature of her position, Korra shouts for help. Her voice rings out, but the island is abandoned. Tarrlok makes no move to silence her.
It's not as if you were doing anything beneficial with your title.
Noatak inspects the boat. Noting the chi-blocking gloves and the weapons similar to the ones his former lieutenant utilized, he frowns and begins dumping them into the water. He won't need these to incapacitate his brother and the Avatar, but they would've surely found some use in them.
Korra registers his intent, and her heart falls even further. She doesn't understand why he's even letting her live (besides needing a creepy reminder of his "victory"), much less letting the Avatar go with him in his escape. Despite his explanations, she thinks he's just as lost about this as she is. Does he even feel any love for his own brother if he can just discard his ardent followers on a whim? The faltering, the changes, she can't predict him.
All of her life, it seems like old dudes decide her purpose. Excluding Sifu Katara, all of her mentors have been men; they subject her to their expectations, and the city unwrapped this pattern of her falling into their machinations.
Noatak climbs out of the boat. "She's not a sack of potatoes, brother," he says, amused, though he's carried her with much less consideration than his brother.
"Tarrlok." Noatak extends a hand, and it's the first time Korra's heard him refer to his brother by his name. Tarrlok hands him his mask. His back to them, Noatak drops it on the ground, lowering a foot and smashing into into several pieces. They scatter, falling into the sea like petals spread by the wind, and he catches his reflection in the thick water.
The fragments will wash away. Even if anyone finds evidence within the temple or inquires about a boat missing in the line-up, they'll be gone. He doesn't wait for long, and he hears Tarrlok grunt.
He faces his brother and the Avatar as the girl attempts stable herself. She wonders why he chose not to knock her out. She can barely feel her feet, can't move most of her other joints. She grimaces. Wobbling on her numb limbs, Korra bends down with her eyes widened and vomits on his shoes. Indeed, she'll ensure that this is his greatest victory.
