Disclaimer:
Avatar: The last Airbender and all the characters therein are the intellectual property of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko and I, like all the other fans, only get to play with them every once in a while.
Summary:
Fate has taken a turn from bad to worse. Much worse….and yet he fights.
Author's note:
Anything in cursive script is a thought that's especially clear.
SPECIAL THANKS
Special thanks go to my beloved Sunshader, who did the dishes, the washing and lots of other stuff so I could write a bit. *HUGS*
Another special thanks goes to ArrayePL, faithful and fun beta-reader, whose questions, as always, have been invaluable. Thank you. Without you, some of the bits that lead depth to this story and make it better understandable would never have made it onto paper. *HUGS*
Thank you both for your help and your patience!
WARNINGS !
Things are about to get bad. Really, really bad.
Seriously, I won't be pulling my punches with this one.
But please, bear with me, there's a method to the following madness:
I've always like Ozai, because he has many qualities that are worthy of a stories' hero: he's strong, intelligent, resourceful and competent.
The one thing that makes him a villain though, is that he seriously lacks is compassion….oh, and the ability to acknowledge that any character traits besides strength and ruthlessness are worth anything.
Well, I always figured that the one thing that can teach us compassion towards others is our own suffering (sound's familiar, doesn't it?). So Ozai is going to see a fair share of that in the next chapters.
It won't be pretty. But he won't have to go through it alone either.
TORTURE, murder, NC-17.
other warnings: once more, reckless playing with grammatical tenses.
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His "audience" was getting restless.
The barely audible sounds of shuffling, of people trying to get comfortable in positions which were, by their nature, rather uncomfortable, was increasing ever so slightly from one breathing cycle to the next.
They couldn't be army then. At least not Fire Nation army.
HIS soldiers were able to hold their positions for more than a day. It showed off their endurance and discipline during parades and also served them well when scouting out enemy positions. Any soldier who disgraced his unit by fidgeting during a parade or, may the sun never shine on him again, even fainting, was in for months of ribbing by his comrades and at least a month of latrine duty. The penalty for those that betrayed their position by fidgeting on duty was a lot less pleasant than that.
Inwardly he grinned. Considering that the pain he was in was still far removed from being mind-addling, he couldn't have been hanging here more than half a day, and his watchers were already squirming like earthworms left to dry in the sun.
Lack of discipline was a bitch when it came to upholding authority. So nice of his enemies to show cracks in their defences when the game had barely even begun.
He exhaled slowly and carefully and blinked a few times in the darkness. Then, gently, so as not to make the chains holding him clink, he flexed his muscles, one by one. The manacles bit deeply into his wrists, sending a shower of pins and needles racing up his arms and shoulders, but he could feel the tug on bone and skin as his muscles moved exactly they way he wanted them to.
He was ready.
Time to get his first move in while his enemies' jing was still neutral.
He'd have to see if he could unsettle them a bit. A cornered cat would hiss and spit, hackles raised, often scaring off the attacking pack of stray dogs. In the rare cases where he and his units had faced enemies that by far outmatched them in numbers and equipment, the sheer ferocity he and his soldiers had shown had more than once tipped the scales in their favour. Ferocity and a show of strength might help tip the scales in his favour once more.
He chuckled. Quietly at first, but then he let the sound build, made it roll through the cave until it echoed from the walls. His laughter reverberated through the hushed quiet like a sudden rock-slide deep in mountains, shaking the silence asunder until only a few little snickers remained, bouncing through the hall like the last pebbles dropping after a ground-rending avalanche.
His audience definitely didn't like that.
There was a startled shuffling and rustling of clothes and the faint chink of light armour. By the soft, short thumps he heard, he even got a few of them to jump a bit at the sudden sign that their prey was awake, aware and ready. Nice.
Going by their jumpiness and the nervous shuffling, his audience was aware that his reputation as a dangerous opponent in any kind of fight was well-earned. Their nervous scuttling reminded him of a pack of hyena-rats: hungry and eager to attack, but at the same time wary and frightened of a prey that still might be able to strike back. He planned on feeding their anxiety until they choked on it.
Frightening your enemy was a two-edged sword. Even a mild-mannered scholar might attack with vicious savagery when backed into a corner hard enough. Given that his captors probably weren't a bunch of meek and humble book-worms, the backlash reaction he got was bound to be nasty.
However, fear also made an enemy prone to errors and easier to goad into rash actions that might play out to his advantage. And since torture was probably in the books anyway, striking fear in the hearts of his audience was not going to incur any major disadvantage.
Now, how best to string them along….
He'd have to get them to let down their guard first.
Scum like these turd-heaps tended to become sloppy and overconfident if they believed they were on the verge of looting a carcass….but he'd have to play it carefully.
If he gave in too fast, too easily, his opponents would smell rat too soon and they would remain cautious of him.
He'd better turn this whole thing into a major pissing contest first, so they'd have to work hard for their first "victory"…and just when they thought they'd won, they might grow careless enough and give him an opening where he could deal them a hard, vicious strike.
Right now, as far as grand-standing went, he was still in the lead, and he'd better start expanding that advantage, before his opponents found their footing again.
He shut his eyes tight, pressing the lids together, hard, and sneered.
"Well, well, well….look who's trying to play with the big boys."
The reaction he got was even better than he had hoped for.
A petulant hiss cut through the darkness and a series of torches placed around the room flared to life, painting the insides of his eyelids in vivid orange and warming his skin. Ahhh…..the heat of fire nearby. A definite improvement.
He relaxed the sneer into a condescending smile and, after a few heartbeats, when he was sure that his eyes had sufficiently adjusted, so he wouldn't blink like a cat-owl caught in broad daylight, he opened his eyes again.
Cave. About 600 feet wide, 100 deep from what he could see. Going by the acoustics, it was probably three times as deep in total. Dark rock, but not the basalt that was common along the coastline of the Fire Nation. Possible that he had been taken outside of the borders of his homeland.
Walls roughly hewn, with large torches set at about 10 feet intervals, of which only the nearest 30 or so were lit. The Ceiling was so far up it go lost in the shadows. A natural cave then, converted to serve a purpose other than housing mould and wolf-bats. To the right was a large gate, 35 feet high and about 20 wide, so it had been built to move large equipment in and out. It was currently open, but could be closed with a portcullis, going by the broad spikes jutting down from the top. No winch or chains for the opening mechanism visible from this side. No lighting within the gate, so he couldn't see where it led. Considering that he could smell the sea, it might be possible that this hall had served as a hangar for ship maintenance equipment or as a warehouse for cargo. If so, then this room was likely to be close to an exit from whatever kind of stronghold this was, and there'd be a harbour and ships near.
The floor of the cave was hewn from the same dark rock as the walls, the sole exception being the metal plates under his feet that extended about four feet to his left, his right, probably behind him too, and another 30 feet in front of him, running right up to the edge of a large wooden dais.
At either of the front corners of the dais stood one of those green-glowing crystal rocks from the earth kingdom. They were about half the height of a man. Rocks of that size were quite costly, but he'd never thought them worth it, given that the light they gave was weak and sickly.
His "audience" was spread out in a semi-circle in front of him, to the left and the right of the dais. Since the torches were up on the walls behind them, and the light coming from the glowing rocks at the dais did not reach very far, assessing his opponents was more difficult than it would have been in broad daylight, but a quick estimate told him they numbered about a hundred-and-twenty lightly armoured fighters. Almost a full squadron.
They were armed in a haphazard fashion, each man apparently bearing his preferred weapons. He could see daggers, cudgels, swords and whips. Benders only rarely relied on weaponry like that, so these fighters, by and large, were probably not benders. Also, not having the same standard weapons issued to everybody made cooperation and coordination difficult in a fight. Not that this was a weakness that he'd get to exploit in the near future. With Fire at his beck and call? He would have beaten them, no question. Without it? He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. With his bending gone, he'd have to wait, bide his time….and hope that some opportunity would open where the odds were more in his favour.
Their armour was mainly hard-boiled leather, reinforced with bits of metal plating, steel armguards, greaves and a helm that covered the eyes, but left the mouth and the jaw free. Fairly standard equipment for guards. And only the guards and soldiers in the Fire Nation routinely covered their faces or at least part thereof. Earth Kingdom military and guards left their faces bare and the Watertribe Barbarians resorted to face-paint, and that only in combat.
It had been Sozin who had started adding face-shields to the helmets of his elite troops in order to make them appear more sinister and threatening. Azulon had introduced the eye-shields to the helmets of the Fire Nation prison guards. It had proved to be a subtle, but effective tactic.
People rarely thought about how much they relied on reading facial expressions while talking to their fellows, so most never understood the unease they felt when confronted by someone whose face was obscured by a face-shield.
He remembered his first tour as a soldier. He had been a member of the elite troops, but his rank had been that of a private. When they had docked at the harbour of one of the colony towns, his lieutenant had rounded up all the new recruits and had recommended that if they went shopping in town, they should wear the full armour, including the face shields, since it made merchants less likely to cheat them. It also cut down the time needed to haggle the merchant down to a reasonable price to almost nothing.
Did his foes really think he could be scared with something that his grandfather had invented and that he himself had grown up with? If they didn't realize that he was so used to people wearing face-shields that he was able gauge a soldier's mood by voice and body language alone, and that it made no difference whatsoever to him whether he could see a mans' face or not, then they were fools. Inwardly he grinned. Things looked grim, but he certainly appreciated Nishimas' little blunders.
Apart from their armour and their weapons, the guards spread out before him were also wearing cloaks. Knee-length. Thick, brown wool. Most guards hadn't even bothered closing them, despite the chill.
Those were good cloaks. Warm cloaks.
Another shiver ran down his body and he cursed inwardly. The rush of heat as the torches flared to life had dissipated in the moist chill and the cold was once more settling on his exposed skin.
He'd love to have a cloak like that now…but he'd even settle for the tattered shirt and pants he had worn at Yun Mah prison. Anything that would even remotely help conserve his bodyheat.
Not that he'd get either.
His audience weren't the kind of people to overflow with the milk of human kindness. More likely the kind that would knife a drunk in the back in a dark alley so they could filch a few coppers.
There were plenty of men like these populating the gutters of the shanty towns that were the first new settlements to spring up in newly conquered territories. Maybe some of them were indeed recruited from the ranks of those drunkards and hired blades that sought to make their fortune in the chaos right after the battle, but who usually ended up pecking each others' eyes out like a bunch of crows.
He could spot stubble on a few chins. A bit of flab poking out here and there. Stains and worn patches on the mottled brown leather of the armour.
Soft. Undisciplined. Disgusting. Just like their leader.
It was indeed Nishima sitting on the dais, six well-dressed courtier-types at his back and a naked, half-starved slave-girl holding a silver tray loaded high with sugared pastries kneeling before him. His skin looked slightly waxy in the wan greenish light coming from the crystal rocks at the corners of the dais.
Unlike the clothes of his fighters, Nishimas' robes were spotless and made of costly silk, but with his pudgy form, the slightly dishevelled hair and the wide, vaguely insane grin, he looked like a little girls' naughty, over-bred puppy.
All that was missing was a wide, pink bow.
At that thought, he snickered. Audibly. The sound carried rather nicely in the large cave.
"Nishima. It has been a while since our last meeting. It was most gracious of you to invite me to your humble abode…..and as expected, your hospitality is….exceptional. I will have to make sure to repay your kindness appropriately."
Apparently, Nishima didn't particularly appreciate being laughed at or having his efforts at intimidation brushed off with cold disdain, for he hissed like as a peacock that had its' tail trodden on and abruptly rose from his seat, pushing aside the slave-girl kneeling in front of him, who lost her grip on the tray of sweet delicacies which she had been offering to her master.
The tray clattered to the ground, spilling its' mouth-watering load all over the ground.
For a moment, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, Nishima stared at him.
He gave Nishima his most insolent, feral grin in return.
Like storm clouds racing across the sky, rage flitted over Nishima's face for a brief moment, but then his features settled into a sickly sweet smile. The little bastard tittered like a moonstruck maidservant, hiding his mouth behind his sleeves and then, with some effete arm-waving beforehand, had the audacity to bow to his Lord, against whom he had been stupid enough to raise a hand.
Slowly and with some fussing over the folds of his robes, Nishima settled back into his seat. He didn't pay any obvious attention to the slave-girl, which was now cringing and cowering at the corner of the dais, trying to get as far away from her master without doing anything as outright disobedient as trying to make a run for it, but he did snap his fingers twice and vaguely waved his fingers at the direction of the tray on the floor.
The slave-girl on the dais started sobbing, taking big gulping breaths that were interrupted by warbling sounds that might have been words. Cut tongue probably. Vocal cords intact, but no way left to shape the sound.
One of the guards stepped away from the group beside the dais and marched up to where the slave-girl was trying to merge her emaciated frame with the floor-boards of the dais. The guard reached up and janked her down by her hair, while another slave scuttled forth from behind the dais and hurriedly started cleaning up the crumpled heap of pastries from the floor.
The aromas of caramel, roasted almonds and cocoa wafting up from the mess on the floor were mouth-watering.
Even though Nishima hadn't actually spoken, it seemed that his followers knew him well enough to discern his will alone from the scant gestures he had made. Or maybe this kind or "accident" was so common that Nishimas' followers had developed a routine. Probably a combination of both.
The girl lay half-prostrate on the floor, one leg curled underneath her, the other stretched out and the guard, grinning and chuckling, drew forth a long, braided whip from his belt, wrapped it tightly around her throat and pulled it tight. The girl started kicking, scrabbling on the ground as she tried to find enough purchase to right herself, but the guard above her just kept kicking the legs away from under her any time she made progress and pushed her back down again. Her fingers were digging at the rope squeezing her windpipe, the motion as frantic as the dying dance of a moth that had seared its' wings in a candle-flame. The room was mostly quiet, except for the muffled sound of her bare feet beating at the floor and the wheezing little gasps she was making. The guard was drawing things out, repeatedly loosening his grip for a moment so she could catch a small, desperate breath, then pulling the whip taut around her neck again. She was turning blue in the face, her eyes bulging unnaturally from their sockets and spit dribbling from her lips.
From the "audience" there now were some small appreciative laughs and guffaws and going by the whispering in the ranks, bets were being made how long the girl would last.
It was a thoroughly disgusting spectacle. A slave might deserve punishment for being clumsy and slow, but it was not an offence worth a death-sentence. Killing her was an appallingly needless waste of resources.
Also, it was one thing to take pleasure in the defeat of ones' enemies; to either give them a quick death or make them yield to your superior strength. It was quite another to torture and murder for the thrill of watching your defenceless victim beg and suffer. Violence was a tool, a weapon. A warrior respected it and used it with purpose, but Nishima was like a feeble-minded village idiot, cutting off the tails of trapped meadow voles and thinking himself a fearsome hunter. There was no glory to be had in violence without a purpose.
Like Nishima and his men, there had been others of his subordinates that had killed for the sake of entertainment alone and most of these he had had punished accordingly.
Nishima had been an exception, for the wide net of contacts and underground operations that Nishima had owned had been too useful to discard lightly, and the man got the tasks assigned to him done with a speed and level of flexibility that would have been hard to get by otherwise. Not even his personal network of spies and assassins had been able to work quite as efficiently, since it was smaller and had fewer connections outside of the Fire Nation. His people were handpicked for their loyalty and trustworthiness as well as for their skills, and subordinates like that were far harder to come by than the seemingly unending supply of minions, culled from the dregs of humanity that made up Nishima's followers.
Handling Nishima had been like handling a savage, vicious guard-dog. One that would maul any trespasser and joyfully tear the throat out of any interloper when ordered to do so….but you wouldn't want to set such an animal loose amongst your chicken-pigs.
If he had won the fight against the Avatar at Wulong Forest, it would have been easy to curb Nishima's cruel little games to an acceptable level, since the crime-lords' usefulness would have been much diminished…as things stood though, Nishima would have to be ended.
Preferably by his hand.
Spirits forbid that the spineless, poisonous worm fall into the hands of Zuko or the Avatar. They'd only stick the murderous madman into a cell and lecture him on universal harmony and love.
The slave-girls' body had finally gone limp and the guard unwrapped his whip from her neck, letting the corpse drop to the ground. There were some appreciative whistles and jeers from the audience and he could hear the clinking of coins exchanging hands.
Nishima had watched the whole display with the wide-eyed delight of a five-year old watching the fire-works during the Midsummer Festival. A new slave had appeared by his side, another naked girl, barely out of her teens, kneeling and trembling before him, and Nishima absentmindedly munched on a fruit-dripping jam tart taken from the plate which she held out to him.
The guard bowed to his master and Nishima erupted into a barrage of "bravos" and "well-dones", all accentuated by a maniacal clapping of hands, then tossed the guard a gold coin that glinted brightly in the semi-dark as it fell. The guard bowed deeply and then returned to the ranks of his comrades.
Still feverishly bright-eyed and flushed, Nishima returned his gaze to his captive.
"Wasn't that a wonderful bit of entertainment? Didn't she squeal like a mouse? Should we do another one? That would be so exiting, no?"
He sneered at the little viper-rat and then gave a hard, short laugh that was as rough as the barking of an armadillo wolf.
"The only thing that would entertain me now, Nishima, would be to see you grovelling on the floor and then…", he yanked at his chains, "…providing a bit of hospitability that actually deserves to be called such. If you're lucky, I might be lenient and let you live."
Nishima tsked and tutted and then clapped his hands. Another guard stepped up to the dais. One wearing no coat, no weapons…but a malicious grin. Firebender. One good enough to keep himself warm by bending the Fire within himself. Nishima shot his captive a glance from beneath hooded eyelids, a self-satisfied smile playing around his lips that would have fit a cat that had just cornered a particularly fat mouse.
"My, my….I have been remiss in my hospitality indeed, have I not? I heard you lost your firebending, so you might be a bit cold, yes? You certainly would enjoy a bit or warmth, no?"
The guard stepped forth, knelt down on one knee and reached out to touch the metal plating on the floor that ran from close to the dais to right under Ozai's feet. Almost instantly, the metal took on a deep orange glow, bordering on a bright gold, and a wave of heat crashed through the room, hot enough to make the other guards flinch backwards and hastily discard their cloaks.
Even though he knew that the blistering surge of hot air was the herald of gruesome pain yet to come, he briefly closed his eyes, utterly blissed-out at the heat that flared across his skin and warmed his flesh down to his bones.
When he opened his eyes again, the intensity of the metals' glow had dulled to a dark red that was creeping slowly and inexorably towards him. The guards' smile had broadened, and he was showing his yellowed, rotten teeth.
That such a lowly thug should be able to bend Fire, while he couldn't anymore….
And they were going to use Fire, his very own element, which no longer heeded his call, to try and break him?
Ahhh….they were definitely attempting to add insult to injury.
It was working too.
Even though his main concern was that once the metal underneath him started heating up, his feet would blister and then char to a crisp, the knowledge that he could no longer ward off the heat of someone else's flame left a foul taste in his mouth.
He should have gotten used to it by now, hardened by months of taunting from the guards at Yun-Mah prison….but the knowledge still ached.
When he had tried to reach for the Fire within himself for the first time after the fight at Wulong Forest, and the spark had slipped through his fingers, he had reacted with disbelief, trying again and again, forgoing sleep and food in those first days, unwilling to accept that he had been robbed of his most powerful weapon.
He'd been so obsessed with rekindling the Fire that he KNEW should burn at the centre of his Self, that he had only stopped when he'd been too weak to stand and unable to tell whether the dark shapes in the corners of his cell were shadows or gaping holes that lead to the netherworld.
Finally, he had consoled himself that he was still stronger and more cunning than almost anybody else.
After all, Firebending was just one of the weapons at his disposal, and in the end, it would be his relentless determination that would allow him to prevail over the lily-livered, soft-hearted attitude of the Avatar and his allies.
He was still more than others.
…And yet so much less than he had been.
It had taken a few days more to realize that he had lost more than just one of his best weapons.
For the first time in decades, the cold bothered him.
He could still feel the sun rise…but it no longer filled him with that spark, that restless energy that drove him from bed in the mornings and into the training hall.
Especially at night, he would feel listless and shaky….the dim feeling that something was missing was constantly there at the back of his mind, gnawing at him like a bug-rat might gnaw at a month-old corpse.
Without meaning to, he'd focus on the gaping, suppurating mess left at his centre, and he'd poke at it, even though doing so often left him nauseous and dizzy.
After a while, he started berating himself for returning to the ugly and most insidious reminder of his defeat again and again, stupid like a lovesick maiden waiting for her beloved to return home, even when she knew very well that he lay dead on the battlefield, with buzzard wasps laying their eggs in his spread-out entrails.
It hadn't made sense.
But not returning, not looking, at least every once in a while….was unbearable.
In then end, he no longer tried to channel his Chi, to make the Fire within himself burn. All that was left was the staccato beating of his heart each time he reached for his centre…and the acrid jab of disappointment that pierced his chest when he found things unchanged.
Crippled. Maimed. Weakened.
For an instant, he pictured the young monk who had taken his bending, pictured killing the boy, slowly, blackening an eye here, fracturing a bone there, until the pulpy, bloody mass that was left was no longer recognizable as human. No, there was no glory in violence for its' own sake…but Agni, he would take pleasure in destroying the boy for what he had done to him.
It would have to wait though.
Here and now, the plating under his feet was getting warm, rapidly, and he snarled, the sound low and dark like the call of one of the great sabre-panthers that prowled the forests deep in the earth-kingdom.
What should he do?
If he lifted his feet from the ground, pulled up his legs up to his chest, then he would be able to keep his feet from getting seriously burned….for a while at least. But where would be the point? It might take two hours or three, but sooner or later, the strength of his muscles would weaken….and slowly and inexorably, his legs would droop until his feet touched the ground and he would get burned anyway…right under the mocking eyes of the guards who would have watched him try and ultimately fail.
Better to bear the torture now, on his own terms, while he still had most of his strength.
The temperature of the floor beneath his feet had changed from pleasantly warm to unpleasantly hot and soon, it would heat to a degree where it would truly scorch and burn flesh.
Eyes narrowed to slits, he looked at Nishima, who was nibbling on yet another sweet pastry, sugary syrup running down his chin, and spat out. Then, slowly, he strained, chains rattling, and in an almost lazy, deliberate movement, he planted his feet as firmly on the ground as the too short chains would allow him. He didn't say anything, but his eyes promised Nishima a slow and gruesome death if Ozai ever caught hold of him.
Nishima snickered, his eyes fixed on the spectacle before him, like a greedy child eying a display of tart and sweet candy.
The guards in the background were whispering and laughing, pointing at him and nudging each other and he caught fragments of murmurs:
"…will dance on the burning steel like a cheap whore hustling her wares…"
"…bet he'll scream so loud, they'll hear him all the way to the South Pole…"
"…5 copper he'll beg…"
He just closed his eyes; let his breath flow, slow and steady like the waves breaking on the black, volcanic cliffs near the capital.
The rhythm is as old and as familiar to him as his own name.
He let his mind sink into the depths of his self, focused on the knowledge that, above all else, he had a duty he could not fail. Without him, the Fire Nation, the Empire his people had built….it would all fall into oblivion.
His Nation. His people. His responsibility.
Now, more than ever, he must live up to the obligations he has towards his homeland.
That Zuko and Iroh were bringing his people low was bad enough, but their bumbling, faint-hearted approach, for all that it would reduce the achievements and victories of the last hundred years to ashes, would taint, but not destroy his peoples' spirit. Nishima, unchecked, would tear into the soft underbelly of the world like a Lion-Shark in a feeding frenzy, gutting and corrupting the Fire Nation in the process.
Withstanding this trial by fire that Nishima has set up is the first step towards reclaiming his role as protector and leader of his Nation.
Anybody who seeks to rule others must master himself first, before all else.
Harsh experience has taught him discipline and self-control and he has learned his lessons well.
In the cold Fire of the Lightning he learned to wield, where the tiniest hesitation, the smallest weakness can be deadly.
On the battlefield, where pain and fear must be forgotten if victory is to be won.
Within the harbour of his home, where personal wishes and feelings are forsaken in the face of the demands that are made of a son, a prince, a Lord of the Fire Nation.
Pain is nothing. Duty is everything.
Under his feet, the fiery heat starts to chew at his flesh.
Pain is empty.
Within just a few heartbeats, it feels like a thousand fishing hooks, sinking into the tender flesh of his soles, rending the flesh apart and he breaks out in a sweat.
Pain is meaningless.
He can feel his skin separating from his flesh as large blisters form beneath his toes and the balls of his feet. The sweat is running down his skin in little rivulets, a few drops falling from his nose, his chin, sizzling as they hit the red-hot steel beneath his feet.
The quality of the sensation is different, but as far as unpleasant, bordering on excruciating experiences go, it's right on par with having his jaw and his leg broken within seconds of each other. He remembers slipping on that patch of ice, losing his footing and the sickening crunch as the Watertribe Warriors' whalebone club first hit his leg, and then made him see stars seconds later, as his jaw snapped like a turtle-duck's neck.
He grits his teeth.
Pain is nothing. Breath is everything.
Focus.
Don't cry out.
He can hear small snapping sounds as his foot-nails crack from the heat. The small bones in his feet feel as if they might crack too, bursting from the inside out, turned brittle by the fire.
The scorching heat licks at his flesh, searing his skin until it feels like it is about to melt like candle wax. The pain is like a raging beast, clawing its' way up his legs, scratching and scraping the meat of his bones in the hollow of his knees, his thighs, his belly, sinking its' teeth in his spine, stealing his breath.
Begging won't help. Nishima will only laugh and grin…and order his thug to increase the temperature.
Keep breathing.
In.
Out.
Deep breaths.
Don't beg.
When had duelled that one Earth Kingdom General, forgoing the advantage of his bending, and the earthbender had hurled that rock at him, in a curve, so fast, so unexpected….He hadn't given in then, even though the ripping, bursting, rending pressure in his lower back, when the stone hit and his kidney split under the impact, had been rival to the agony in his feet and legs here and now.
Keeping the pain at bay had been easier then though. The heady rush of battle, the knowledge that if he managed to dodge the next stone, he could slide into a forward roll, slightly to the right, and he'd be close enough to strike a crippling blow at his enemies left knee, the weak one….it had been enough to keep him going. Just a few moments longer.
Pain is empty.
Feel the air rushing into your lungs as you inhale.
Feel it flowing over your lips as you exhale.
Keep your feet on the floor and your spine straight.
The stench of burnt meat invades his nose and the pungent, foul tang clings to the back of his throat like a leech. He can feel blisters popping up on his calves. The skin on his thighs, his genitals and his buttocks is starting to feel agonizingly tight, like the worst sun-burn ever.
Maybe Nishima will call the guard off if he tells him something.
Anything.
Just a small thing. Losing just one treasure won't be so bad, if only it will stop the pain, will it?
No.
Pain is meaningless.
Duty is everything.
Can't let them win.
The murmurs of his audience are getting louder, but he can't make out what they're saying over the sound of his pulse, pounding and rushing in his ears. The voices are harsh though, the words rushed, the tone vacillating between high-pitched and low growls.
Frightened.
Awed.
Blessed Sun…Thank you.
He snaps his head back, lets his breathing dissolve into ragged gasps for air that wheeze and whistle and almost sound like sobs; his back arches as far back as the chains will allow, then he lets himself abruptly sag in his bonds, as if all life had left his body.
The sudden pull of his body-weight on his arms feels as if his upper limbs are about to be torn from his much abused shoulder-sockets and for a heartbeat he almost blacks out for real.
The incandescent heat emanating from beneath is still roasting him alive and the urge to scream, to yank at his chains like a madman, to pull up his feet and get them away from the pitilessly smouldering steel-plated floor is almost overpowering.
Must not move. Must NOT move….or it was all for nothing…..
It is the hardest thing he has ever done.
.
.
.
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Soundtrack:
Band: Eisbrecher
Song: Polarstern
For the non-german speakers: Basically, the song is the recital for the technical data for an icebreaker. Since Ozai was one for building LOTS of really big, really powerful ships, I thought it kinda fit. What nailed it for me though were the last two words: "Special feature: unsinkable."
I can really recommend this song (and this band.) The singer's voice is rough, dark, velvety….incredible. ^_~
Here's the original text plus the translation:
POLARSTERN
Länge (Length)
236 m
Breite auf Spanten (molded breadth)
max. 48 m
Seitenhöhe bis Hauptdeck (molded depth to the main deck)
27,9 m
Tiefgang (depth of flotation)
max. 14,21 m
Verdrängung bei max. Tiefgang (displacement at maximum depth of flotation)
24.300 t
Leergewicht (lightweight tonnage)
19.820 t
Motorleistung (12 Maschinen) (Power output (12 engines))
ca. 75.000 PS
Höchstgeschwindigkeit (Maximum speed)
unwahrscheinlich (incredible)
Besonderheit (Special feature)
unsinkbar (unsinkable)
.
.
Comments
For Arraye:
There are a lot of things that will change. Maybe that one too ^_^
It's going to take a while though….o_O
For sakurazukamori8
I'm mighty glad that you liked the story and "my" version of Ozai. I've always been fascinated by villains. My sweetheart, Sunshader, once summed part of the reason for that up as follows: "NO ONE gets out of bed in the morning, gleefully rubbing their hands together, and asking themselves "How can I do EVIL today?"". I think that most villains think of themselves as good, since it's human nature to generate a somewhat positive self-image of yourself.
I try to find out what makes Ozai tick, what motivates him…and, by extension, the Fire Nation….including younger Iroh and Zuko in season 1 and 2.
Where "we're the best" ideologies are concerned: I live in Germany, so basically, our past has some passing resemblance to the history of the Fire Nation. At the same time, I'm aware of the Milgram Experiments and the "The Third Wave" experiment conducted by Ron Jones at the Cubberley High School in Palo Alto (immortalized in Morton Rhue's book "The Wave"), so I'm pretty much aware that within certain kinds of social setups, most normal people are capable of committing great evil, without ever planning or wanting to do so…or even without being entirely aware of how evil their acts are.
