Author's Notes: 6/16/12. Two very important notes about my personal life timeline, (1) my last day of work is on Monday, which greatly opens up my weekly schedule (for everything, but especially writing!), and (2) I leave for Spain on July 5th (I'll be gone for over a month!), which means that I will have little to no time to write for the majority of the summer... which is a bummer, but hey, voy a España, so. ;)
This also means that I'm hoping to try to make the chapter updates occur at least 2-3 times a week instead of once a week because this has to be finished before I leave for Spain in two and a half weeks. Let's see if I can do it, yeah? :P Also. Grammar? What is grammar? (NOTE: Reading this story will not help you answer this question.)
MUSICAL INSPIRATION: "Somewhere In Between" by Lifehouse, "Pressure (Alesso Remix)" by Alex Kenji, Starkillers & Nadia Ali, and honestly, every reference to Tahno's earlier lifestyle should be accompanied by "In the City" by Kevin Rudolf. It's the perfect backdrop to those days, in my opinion.
Beta'd by the ever-patient, always honest, always thorough ebonyquill. :) Thank you, Alison!
daybreak
the art of the downfall
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Hey, he thinks.
Maybe this doesn't have to be so bad, after all.
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But it is not long before he is dealt an unpleasant reminder as to why he had started drinking in the first place.
What had passed over Tahno during those first nights after that night should never be considered sleep; once the first traces of reality had begun to crawl into his veins, he had been floating from one hour to the next in a haze of denial and delirium, and it was all he could do to keep from losing himself entirely. As the first of the soul-torn days passed on, the reach for the alcohol grew instinctual, the hope for sleep was deemed futile, and the hazy silence of his mind running blank became second nature.
The alcohol washed out everything—his blood, his mind, his vision.
His memories.
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His dreams.
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But without the sedative in his system, the alcohol-distorted blurs that had washed over his subconsciousness in the fruitless midnight hours for so many weeks have become all the more visible and all the more terrorizing. For over a week, his nightmares have replayed the scene in the stadium over and over with impressive precision—the victory, the mask, the fear, the loss—always the same, always inescapable, and he swore that there could be nothing worse.
And then he awakens tonight in a sheen of cold sweat, jack-knifing his naked torso upright into the dampness of the room's chilled air with wide eyes and a broken cry unable to escape his throat. His fingers shake and tremble with the weight of the nightmare being lifted from his soul, and he falls back onto his forearms, letting his head roll back as he tries to remember who he is and what that is supposed to mean. The sheets are hopelessly tangled and the pillow is damp with sweat, but he can focus on nothing but the ragged sound of his breathing against the city's nightly sounds outside and far below downstairs, and the ice that has laced his veins.
Tonight's nightmare is different.
Usually, it's the same old drill. Win the fight. Take the Championship. Stumble back. Lose your bending. Wake up. Repeat, repeat, repeat. But tonight is honored with a very special interruption; in a rather unexpected twist, the ending has become something else entirely.
Lose your bending.
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Take it back.
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Yet here he is, half-awake and half-dead and lying alone in his twisted bed at an ungodly hour, and he doesn't know the time, nor the point, and he—still can't bend—and he can't decide.
Would it have been better to have never gone to sleep last night in the first place, and to have suffered through the memories of the earlier nightmares over and over again?
Or would it have been better to have had the dream, and to have never woken up at all?
Tahno slides a palm over his face, biting his cheek as he falls back to the pillow and closes his eyes, and tries again.
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But it only gets worse.
The night bled into the following morning, and although he wasn't entirely sure where one ended and the other began, he knew that the day was off to a rocky start. After finally winning a grueling round against the damned insomnia—only to be beaten by yet another rendition of this newest nightmare—a very groggy, less-than-well-rested Tahno gracelessly rolls himself to the floor, where he lays for some minutes, trying not to think, trying not to move, but simply trying to sink into the hardwood. When he finally grows too uncomfortable with the slick layer of sweat coating his skin and the feel of his knotted hair catching on the slivers of the floor, he stands up, tearing his shirt over his head in one fluid movement and stalks into the bathroom towards the shower. But when he twists the faucet to open the floodgates, disbelief coats his blood, and he freezes.
There is no water.
Thirteen minutes, twenty-seven curses, and one split-knuckle later, Tahno finally has enough semblance of mind to go find and question Narook. But before he even reaches his apartment door, he finds a note from the man in question on the floor, a note which must have been slipped through the crack sometime during the night. The messy scrawl details the water shortage that his flat has acquired due to his overload usage the previous week, but ensures him that the water supply will return to normal... in a matter of days. In the meantime, he can expect inconsistent service at best, and just as Tahno begins to fume—just as he starts to feel himself go just a little bit crazy—he notices that this month's bill slip, ever-so-conveniently clipped to the note, is somehow still no costlier than usual. He breathes deeply, trying to focus on the air as it slides in and out of his lungs, but it doesn't help, and neither does the crumpling and unfolding and re-crumpling of Narook's message in his clammy palm; he tosses it across the room at the wall just for good measure, but he knows full well that his real frustration does not lie with the old man, or the bill, or any of his mounting personal debts.
He runs a hand through his hair, but when his fingers come away they are oily to the touch, and he groans aloud as his fist connects with the mattress. It isn't nearly as satisfying as it should be, so he rips a pillow from the covers and propels it across the room, where it smacks against the wall in a woomf as all of the air rushes outward, spilling out into the open space of his apartment. His breathing is heavy and labored, his blood is bursting with the spinning coils of the aggravation and adrenaline that continue to surge through his veins without egress, and when the remaining pillows join their partner in a heap on the other side, he still feels no release. His skin feels too tight, like it is stretched taut over his bones, and there is a prickling at his neck that will not go away no matter how many times he slides his hand over the surface.
He needs to move. To get out of this apartment. It doesn't matter where, he realizes, it just has to be out, it just has to be anywhere but this tiny, suffocating set of rooms.
And then he is grabbing the first shirt he can find that feels like it might be somewhat clean. He haphazardly pulls a white undershirt on as he storms into the hallway, and it is only when he reaches the bottom of the steps that he finally manages to get the second arm through the short sleeve.
He does not know what time it is, but from the burgeoning rays of sunshine beyond the parted tapestry of the entryway and the darkness of the still-dimmed lights indoors, it looks like it's—too early—just around opening hours. It's not like he had any real reason for coming down other than the need to get out, but now that he's down here and the pungent smell of frying seal and stewing prunes hits his nose, he knows for sure that food is out of the question. There aren't any patrons, though Tahno doesn't know how long that will last, so he looks for his landlord to fix up something to drink—anything—just so he can get on with his miserable life, but Narook is nowhere to be found. He feels a strand of greasy hair fall into his eyes and he slaps it away impatiently with a scowl, but it only slides back into place a moment later, and by the time he is finally able to secure it behind his ear, he is glaring spitefully at the passersby beyond the glass.
They have no idea, he thinks suddenly.
Of course, he has no idea where the hell this stray thought has even come from, or what it might actually mean, but he feels this furious churning in his gut—a small, festering pit at the core of his being—that screams this truth into his blood. They have no fucking idea, the voice repeats in his mind as he watches the early risers take on the beginnings of their conventional days, and he decides that he hates every single one of them.
He collapses onto a stool at the bar and spreads his elbows wide along the counter, and the heaviness of his skull only makes it all the easier for his head to drop into his hands. He does not know how long he sits like this, waiting in the stillness for the fading darkness to finally disappear—or maybe the darkness is where he wants to stay, after all—but all too soon he feels a hand on his shoulder. It is soft and small and warm, and for a moment he allows himself to hope, but this only makes the disappointment of reality all the more bitter—and the shame all the more grating—when he turns his head and finds that—her eyes are the wrong color, and so is her hair, and—it's just what's-her-face from a few weeks back. He catches her gaze for a moment, but turns away without a beat of hesitation as soon as recognition hits, scoffing under his breath as another here we go again rolls across his brain and dammit, where the hell is Narook?
"Tahno?" she whispers, and there is enough exaggerated concern in her voice to drown a saber-tooth moose-lion. "I swore it was you through the window, but... baby, how are you?"
He bites his tongue and the taste of blood immediately lines his cheek. Tahno stares blankly at a pointless speck in the woodwork just to the left of his fingertips, and he tells her that he is positively swell. When he speaks, his voice slides into the air with blackened sarcasm, dripping with disdain with poorly-concealed acerbity.
If she notices, or if she cares, she doesn't let on. Instead, the next thing he knows is the sharp sound of her voice cutting directly into his ears, and the shrillness of it fills his head with an awful piercing sensation that leaves him disoriented. The hand on his shoulder is joined by another, as if he'd ordered a matching set, and without warning they begin to knead the monstrous knots embedded deep within the muscles near his spine. He arches his back away from her touch, shrugging her off with a callous brush of his hand, but she is still talking in his ear. Even through the squinting and the gritting of his teeth, the shrillness is too much to ignore entirely; her very presence is crawling up his skin like a rash, and it is mere moments before he tells her to get lost. She doesn't quite seem to get it, assuring him that she'll be back in town in a week or so with a forlorn look tossed strategically over her shoulder, and the blood is only getting thicker in his mouth as she strides back out into the blossoming sunlight.
His eyes drift to the mirror directly in his line of vision, flush against the wall behind the bar, and at the sight of his sallow skin and haggard face and matted hair, he tries to remember a time when he—his life—might have more closely resembled hell, but he's got nothing—this is it—and it is only with the slightest pause of indecision that Tahno reaches over the space between the bar and the mirror and yanks one of the cheap liquor bottles clear out of its display holder. With a less-than-steady dismount of his stool, Tahno sets his bare feet on the cold, solid wooden floor, and slips back up the stairs to his apartment, bottle in hand.
He does not emerge again.
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When Korra arrives a few hours later, she is surprised by the sight of so many customers filling up the room, happily chatting away until the space becomes a dull roar of cheer, and she is immediately struck with worry; Bolin and Mako are supposedly regulars, after all, and though she's not sure what the hell it is that she and Tahno are doing, she knows that it is precarious enough already, and she doesn't want to mess it up with any further misunderstandings.
But she is even more surprised to find that Tahno is not already at their booth, waiting for her.
Korra goes to the counter to wish Narook a good morning and even dilly-dallies long enough to make polite small talk before she gets down to business. She knows that she's a little later than normal since she got caught up with Tenzin and training, so she asks if she's already missed him somehow... But Narook tells her that he hasn't seen Tahno all morning or early afternoon, and—like an electrical switch being flipped on—the worry she'd felt over running into her Fire Ferret boys evaporates in an instant, and instead she feels the creeping beginnings of a different kind of anxiety worming its way into her gut.
"You could take some food up to him, if you like," he says while passing off three or four full plates to another employee, and from the sounds of the kitchen beyond the tapestry, Korra can clearly see just how busy today's lunchtime is, despite the gloomy skies. She feels guilty for taking up Narook's time with her indecision, but she's already been on the receiving end of Tahno's foul-mood I-don't-need-your-charity wrath before, and she knows what little good it can do either of them. She's worried that maybe he's not awake yet. Or if he has yet to come down because he hasn't finished entertaining from the evening before, and although this rubs her the wrong way, it is nothing compared to the dread and curiosity she feels at the thought of him purposefully not coming down because he doesn't want to see her.
There are a million reasons why she doesn't think it's a good idea, but she's been going off of pure instinct for the entirety of this thing thus far and, with a strong nod that belies her inner turmoil, she decides to chance it. It will be worth the trip.
Right?
Waiting for their food to come is nerve-wracking; she sits at the bar, and instead of spreading herself out comfortably like usual, she spends her time rapping her fingernails along the woodgrain, trying to take up as little space as possible. The ascent up the stairs is filled with a quiet sense of anticipation that is too raw and edgy to be typical, and she huffs out an irritated breath. Stupid prima donna, she thinks, forcing a lightness into her mind's rambling, and feeling her shoulders relax. He probably just hasn't gotten enough beauty rest or whatever. She tells herself that this is just like any other visit, and when she knocks on his door and he doesn't immediately answer, she merely rolls her eyes and mutters, "Diva."
But the second knock sounds, and there is still no answer. Korra swallows, shifting her weight as she readjusts the handles of the to-go bag filled with food boxes, and just as thoughts about breaking routine begin to stir, she hears rustling inside, and the door opens part way.
Whoah.
"What?" he snaps, and she realizes that she'd said that aloud without meaning to.
"You're looking pretty rough," she says candidly, taking in his ruffled clothes and tousled hair. But then she notices that the stiffness of his spine only worsens, like trying to tighten something that is already wound too tight, and—has anyone ever told you that you need to relax a little?—she backpedals as his deadpan glare slides across the air. Korra squints out a sheepish apology through a crooked smile. "Sorry," she mutters. "Still no filter. I've been trying to work on that."
He sighs, but relents. "What do you want, Avatar?"
Korra's brows draw together, but she tries not to let her surprise show, and instead she holds up the bag for him to see. "Narook said he hadn't seen you all day, so he cooked up some food."
He eyes her suspiciously. "And what, asked you to be the new delivery girl?"
The surprise isn't so easy to hide this time, but she manages. "I offered," she shrugs, and dammit, this is not an appropriate time for her tone to sound so challenging.
"Whatever," he mutters, and Korra finds it strange that he still hasn't fully opened the door. "I don't need any looking after. If I was hungry, I would have come down and gotten it myself."
"Right," she says slowly, and her eyes fall back to his wrinkled clothes and mussed up hair. His eyes are a little hazy, like he's distracted, and it's obvious that the barely-open door is not an invitation inside, and that's when it occurs to her that maybe her earlier speculations about his hosting company might not have been so far off the mark after all. Oh.
"Right," he echoes uncertainly, and the rigid set to his shoulders suddenly brings Korra's discomfort to a new level. "So, what's the deal?"
She clears her throat and begins to dig through the boxes. "Right. Just give me a second to separate mine, and I'll be off."
His brows draw in confusion as she paws through the extra packages of chopsticks and before he can think twice, the words are out of his mouth. "You're not staying?"
Korra pauses, cautiously blinking back up at him as he blinks down at her. "I don't want to interrupt," she tells him honestly.
But he grinds out a bitter laugh and opens the door wide. "Yeah, because my life is packed with such full-speed action kicks these days. Go ahead. Knock yourself out."
Oh.
She follows him inside, discreetly checking over the admittedly cleaner apartment while sneaking glances at his turned back. It's odd, the way he carries himself; there is a tension in his shoulders that suggests the will of someone trying to act more at ease than they really are, and while the sight of skin and the tilt of his neck lances straight through the memories of someone she once shared a dance with, the reality is that there is a volcanic restlessness in his eyes, and that, there, is a bottle in his hand.
"Take a seat," he gestures to the couch in the small living area, and he steps into the kitchen as she settles into her cushion. Korra hears glasses clinking from around the corner, and she spends two seconds trying to figure out what she should be doing with her body—with her hands—when she decides that the safest course of action would be to start arranging the food that Narook made. The boxes are all open and she has already started to dig in when he appears around the bend and moves to offer her something.
"No, thanks," she says awkwardly, looking at the half-full glass held before her.
He gives her a look and extends his hand. "It's water."
Oh.
"So," he drawls, sagging into the chair seat adjacent to the couch. "How is the outside world faring, anyway?"
He looks at her while she speaks, but the only thing he hears is a distant chatter; he observes the shapes made by her mouth, the lines drawn by her brows, the tale told by her hands, but he probably couldn't tell you what she was talking about if his life depended on it. Everything around him is a dull blur, and the indistinct ringing of the mock-silence presses against his ears like a wall of fog. His mind is simply blank.
It takes him a few minutes to realize that during the course of his slip, he had at some point raised his glass, and is now idly twirling the remaining water in slow, gentle circles. It is at the third spiral that his attention becomes fixed on the mark left along the rim of her glass, on the impression made by the curve of her lips. His movements still, eyes glued to the lines of the patterns dotting the curve, and—because he is just that pathetic, after all—he remembers what it had felt like to kiss that mouth. He is struck by the rather ridiculous urge to reach out and touch the glass, to run his fingers across the cracks left by the moisture of her lips, and he thinks that if she had any idea just what kind of cracks were crawling through his mind, she would have left ages ago. The weight of the glass in his hand grows heavy again, and he sets it back on the table as he thinks back to all the other nameless faces that have come—and come and come—and gone. But while he'd had to all but drive the others away, he knew that Korra would be different. She's stayed this long. But it's only a matter of time until she realizes that there's nothing else she can do. And then she'll leave.
His eyes slowly tear themselves away from the lines left on the glass, dragging themselves upward until they come to rest on the lips that made the mark—lips that he remembers more clearly than any others, lips that he forgets just a little bit more with each passing day—and he wonders if she's yet come to realize just how many women he has kissed—bedded, touched, forgotten—before her.
Tahno hasn't the slightest clue about her own level of experience, and he's not sure what he would make of it either way. He certainly hasn't ever kept his lifestyle a secret—the booze, the sex, the life and nightlife of a Wolfbat—and when it came to the morning afters, it's not like the women he's been with were ever in for a shock. Not if they were smart, anyway.
Speaking diplomatically, there were many in the city who frowned upon his choices. Press reporters and scorned women alike openly accused him of debauchery on many fronts—guilty as charged, your honor—and endless deceit; but if they would only take a moment to really think, they would realize that he has been nothing but clear and upfront about his motives from the very beginning. His reputable prowess had often preceded him, but it's not like he hadn't made it a point from the very beginning to make known all of the other ways—commitment, trust, fidelity, the usual—in which he would inevitably disappoint.
And it's not like they didn't come with their own disappointments either.
He takes a sip from his water, but the liquid has grown stale, and it leaves a dissatisfying taste in his mouth. As Korra takes a quiet bite of her noodles, he pretends not to notice her watchful eyes. His mind has been sent back in time, filing through stored-away pairs of eyes and lashes and mouths that had faded away through his burning wanderlust, suddenly remembering the feeling of getting lost in the dark hours of his seedy apartment under the sheets, or staying hidden in the shadows of some back hallway of some club with a name he couldn't care for, wasting away time in the showers of the training arena with a steady stream of water at his chest and a girl on her knees... Of course, it'd only taken him about a year after his first championship to realize that being even the top pro-bender in the city, and having all that came with it, amounted to absolutely nothing.
He'd been disillusioned at first, but by the year's end, he'd concluded that there was no point in being disappointed, because if this was supposed to be the top and he still wasn't feeling it, then what else was there? And it had its perks. Such fame and fortune hardly called for having to chase after women, which was something he certainly couldn't bring himself to complain about, but on the other hand, the prospect of finding a challenge had all but vanished overnight. And while he usually displayed at least two or three beautiful women hanging off of his arms each night, many of which were lucky enough to see it through to the end—and usually beyond— he was never one to outwardly boast; the truth of the matter was that he was not the conqueror here, and when women are thoughtlessly throwing themselves at you from every angle, there is little pride in pretending as much. It hadn't taken him long to realize this, but once he did, it took him even less time to realize that his favor was the true conquest; his prize money, his body, his attention, but never him.
And frankly?
He didn't give a fuck.
But this morning's freak run-in downstairs with the girl whose name he still can't remember had drudged up such vivid memories of the good old days and everything he thought he missed, and once again reality hit him square in the face. In many ways, nothing has changed for his hoards of followers. Even after being stripped of all that had defined his character for these last few years, he was still theirs, and they'd flocked to him without hesitation; that night at the stadium saw no decline in women rushing to his side, nor did the night after that, and it was only on the fifth night of pity fucks and blackouts and waking up feeling no less damned than the night before that he realized that this is just another trophy, isn't it? To be the one he calls on for aid, to be his pillar of strength, to be the fixer, it's all just another step up in their schemes, another notch on their proverbial belts, and perhaps now, he and his suffering are found even more valuable on their little hellish totem poles.
The thought sends a terrible itch down his spine, and just as he feels his teeth begin to grind, he can hear Korra's voice cutting through. "Man, are you even with me here?"
He sends her a sharp glare, daring her to question him, but she just looks confused, and maybe a little defiant, and maybe a little wary. He tries to imagine her aiming for any of the tactical advancement that he knows all too well in the lips of his followers, and the thought makes him sick, but almost at once he feels foolish, because he knows that the Avatar would never be capable of devising anything of the sort.
This must be paranoia, he thinks darkly. The calculation he envisions in her eyes is swept aside by the shining concern he sees instead, which might only be worse, and he breathes, swallowing thickly against the dryness of his throat. He knows that Korra is not like the others, and that there is only misplaced kindness and useless noble intentions coursing through her blood this morning; and just like that, before Tahno is even fully aware of it, a burning question has entered his mind, and he has to know the answer.
"Your bloodbending," he says suddenly.
Korra's heart stops because they have been skirting the topic of bending since that night in the shower and isn't this breaking the rules? "What about it?" she asks hesitantly.
"You've mastered your training?"
"Well... it's complicated," she starts slowly, almost positive that she doesn't actually want to have this conversation. "I'd been taught that it was a forbidden technique even before I really knew what it was. I'd always imagined that I'd need to beg Sifu Katara to teach me."
His eyes narrow in confusion, and his half-shrug is scornful. "So, did you learn it or not?"
"I did," she says with with quiet strain, and her eyes are tight with memory. "My training started about a year or two ago, when I was fifteen. Lady Katara had been forced into learning it when she was twelve, and she said that she wanted to protect me from it as long as she could, but... anyway, on the night of a full moon, she told me the story of the woman who'd created it while imprisoned by the Fire Nation during the war, and how she'd used it against innocent people, before finally using it to turn Avatar Aang and his friends against one another." Korra bites the inside of her cheek, staring into his eyes in a careful way that only fuels the fire. "She made me promise that I would never use it. Not unless there wasn't any other choice."
"And have you?"
"There hasn't been a need," she says tightly.
His eyes narrow and then he scoffs. "Indeed."
A deep frown sets into the line of her mouth, and a ball of heat swells within her. Rising to her mentor's defense, she leans over her place at the table, resting heavily on her elbows, and with surging heat, she says, "Katara believes strongly in her ideals, and I stand by them." She leans closer, and her gaze is cold when she tells him, "Bloodbending is a forbidden technique for a reason."
But what she doesn't tell him is how much it still secretly thrills her.
While Katara had done all that she could to shield her from the terrors of her own element, there were some things that simply could not be avoided forever; before even considering the aspects of physical training, Katara tried to prepare Korra for the emotional toil that could arise from such power. After the story of Hama, Katara explained the aftermath of using the technique while chasing after her mother's murderer, and she spared no unpleasant detail: the primal feelings of loss and rage and vengeance that overtook her, the grim satisfaction, the pure fulfillment of controlling such power and, of course, the terrible guilt that had washed over her once the war was over. A strong, proud and righteous warrior, Katara may be, but it still took her many years to grapple with her young and rash decisions.
It's okay to want to get lost in it, she had quietly admitted under the light of the full moon. It's in our nature. But you are stronger than that, Korra; do not forget. You are in control of your bending. But do not be greedy, and do not take your gift for granted. Water is the element of change and, like everything else in life, it is a matter of push and pull.
Korra heard these words—she believed them, she held them in her heart, she breathed them—but even still, it is not so easy to reconcile the warnings that Katara had offered with the urges she feels in her soul, and she imagined that it might even prove more challenging for her than it did for her mentor. To feel such a direct connection with physical life itself, the feeling of understanding and experiencing the sensation of another body across time and space, the sensation of having two minds, two joined forces—two souls?—directing one body... How can I not be drawn to that?
But these thoughts would no doubt make Katara—sweet and fierce and understanding Katara—look at her with disappointment and regret, no doubt seeing all of her own mistakes replayed in this new life, and Korra would never want such a thing for her. So Korra has kept this a dirty little secret for years; she doesn't tell anyone, trying hard to play the good and committed Avatar, doing all she genuinely can to bring balance and peace to the world, and all the while she thinks that there must be something just a little wicked within her.
"Why bother teaching something that you will only forbid later?" he scoffs again. She is broken from her reverie to find him grimacing over another sip of water, sucking his teeth with furious disapproval as he stares down into the shallow glass.
"She taught me out of necessity," Korra insists, feeling her voice drop low and strained. "The only reason I ever learned at all was because she and Avatar Aang always believed that when such evils exist in the world, the only thing worse than perpetuating them would be to leave the young unprepared for them."
"Yeah... That's a lovely sentiment and all, but look at it straight, Uh-vatar," he drawls, and dammit, that is such a stupid nickname that it shouldn't even be in the realm of capable of evoking emotion, but it suddenly grates straight down her spine like barbed wire. "You're seriously telling me that you've learned it, you've practiced it, but you've never used it?"
"Not since my last training session with Katara," she says staunchly, tilting her chin a little higher as she crosses her arms.
"That is hardly using it in the first place."
"Oh, yeah? And what about you?" she demands, and she can practically feel the sparks exploding in her eyes. "You talk an awful lot of talk for someone who isn't even capable of it anymore."
He doesn't answer her. She keeps her gaze steady, but Korra feels her misstep all too fully. She wonders how she might be able to take it back, but then wonders if that's something she's really even responsible for. Tahno finishes off the last gulp of his drink, and Korra still has no solution when he sets the empty glass between them.
"Will you use it against Amon?"
She falters again, and this time it flickers across her face. It occurs to her how wrong this is, how they shouldn't be discussing this, but more disturbingly, how she could have expected in the first place not to have to deal with this part of her life on these mornings with him, over delicious breakfast noodles and mediocre tea. He is not a shield, and this building is not her fortress—she knows what a fortress is, knows it like the cold, lonely wisps of her breath on a freezing, arctic day—and she would do well to remember that her troubles still exist outside of this room. Just because she allows herself to get caught up in his problems—and they're hers too, in a way, but perhaps that is stretching it, and maybe what she is really doing is getting the two confused, but—it doesn't mean that she can forget about her own. Whether she has been hiding from them or intertwining them with his, or both, it is inexcusable, and it isn't safe. It's not what she's supposed to do, and she is so sick and tired suddenly, because she is so aware of all the things that she is not supposed to do, but knows close to nothing about what she is supposed to do.
"It... hasn't been discussed as an option," she manages, still reeling with the uncertainty of how to respond.
His eyes are critical, and her defenses rebuild. "Are the others not aware that you can do it? Your airbending master? The Council?"
"Not everyone."
"But some are."
"Yes," she sighs heavily, already tired of this conversation and growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment.
"So the decision to not utilize it, even for the benefit and safety of with those fighting with you—against him—is solely yours."
"I will find another way to take him down," she repeats, voice solid. "I promised Katara."
"And what good will that promise do you when you are held captive and tortured?"
She feels the air fill her lungs, but it is a meager, trickling thing, and her heart hammers in her chest as she stares him down. The crease between her brows deepens with aggravation, and still, her blood pounds in her ears because—she isn't ready, she isn't—this is not what she wants to be thinking about, and this is the last thing she wants to hear. Especially when he's right.
Especially when she already knows.
"Face it, Avatar. You're not prepared."
"I'm not stupid," she spits, and the glasses rattle over his table from the force of her fist into the wood. "You think I don't know what I'm getting myself into?"
"I think your short-sightedness has made you blind," he hisses, and she can feel the harshness of his breath in her face. She doesn't remember standing, couldn't say who it was that moved upward first, but her fists are tight and shaking, and if anyone's going to throw the first hit, it will sure as hell be her. "You have the power you need, and you refuse to consider it. Without that option, you haven't the slightest clue as to how to deal with what you're up against," his eyes narrow, and his words twist in her gut like a knife. "You're going to walk straight into his trap, and then what?"
They are less than inches apart, ire clashing with ire, and as she sees the fury and the resentment flood Tahno's eyes, she remembers how she did exactly just that; she can still feel the firm hold of rough fingers on her face. They are scarred and calloused and strong, and the mere thought of them sends fierce tremor all down her spine. A puff of air brushes across her face, and for a disorienting moment, the memory is real, and it is his breath reaching across her cheeks once more. She blinks, and the mask vanishes before her eyes. When she regains her senses, she sees Tahno's eyes watching her carefully, but she can still feel her skin crawling.
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And then what?
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In a flash of movement, the contact is broken, and Korra is bustling about, readying her things. For a stunned moment, Tahno can only watch her—try to collect herself—but then the rigidity of his spine worsens and his blood pours hot through his veins.
"Where are you going?" he asks when she has reached the door, and he hates the sudden rasp of his voice. It's the alcohol. She pauses in the frame, fingers lingering on the handle, and he is caught off guard once more because Korra, the fighter is back in place and he'd had no idea that he'd even been looking for any other until this moment.
"Thanks for the input, pretty boy," she says evenly, and the small hairs on his arms raise because her eyes are dark and blank and cold. "But I think I've got it covered from here."
The door offers only a soft click as it closes behind her.
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Narook glances his way not long after, eyeing the bottle in his hand as he reaches for the door to the stairs that lead up.
"Satisfied yet?" he calls out quietly from the bar, and in this moment, Tahno could care less for his patronly tone.
Never.
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That night Tahno is haunted by dreams from dusk 'til dawn. It seems that he has nowhere left to hide, for even the alcohol can't save him now.
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And for the first time in many weeks,
a wall shifts and falls, and his nights are plagued by blue eyes once more.
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NEXT INSTALLMENT:
Arc II : letting go – giving in
