Prompt: Illuminate (May 25)
Rating: T
Warning: none
Word Count: 4274
Notes: Follows "Notes".
Illuminate
Jet can't stand the stillness. Keeping in one place drives an itch through his limbs nothing short of a hard drink or a good fight will fix. But he's supposed to be responsible now, supposed to be a leader of men and girls and of this stupid not-moving convoy. He's already asked a bunch of times when the axle might be fixed, and by the look on the carpenter's face, he'd better not ask again.
So Jet sighs and kicks the wheel of the wagon he's been leaning on, and then he shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and casts a glance down the line. It's drawing on afternoon, and plenty of people seemed to have accepted the inevitable—unloading provisions, starting small cooking fires, spreading the wagon covers out. They're stopped on a curve, so he can't see all the way to the end. But that's what the Fighters are for.
He's got Sneers and the Duke up front, Pipsqueak at the end, with Longshot and Smellerbee running a watch in between. Jet himself keeps to the front, overseeing the whole venture, sending orders through Smellerbee.
They're just a couple days in, and it's not so bad—winter in the mountains is no party, but Jet just turns up his collar and hunches against the wind and waits for the sun to come out again. Snow falls on and off—just so happens to be on at the moment, and while Jet breathes into his cupped hands, he watches a fine white veil drop over the kneeling carpenter.
The tug at his elbow is early, but he doubts he's alone in hating the lack of movement.
"Look, tell everyone we're camping up here. Try to get them off the road, and tell 'em we'll get going tomorrow."
But Smellerbee shakes her head.
"There's a fight towards the back. You'd better come."
With a nod to Sneers, Jet follows Smellerbee back along the line, twisting between mothers and children, ducking outstretched arms. He can hear the ruckus at a distance, the shouts and calls of anger, a woman's scream, the impact of fist on body, and it sends a thrill down through to his bones.
Longshot's already there, arrow notched, not even bothering to shake the snow from his hat. Jet processes the scene in seconds, hunter's instinct already drawing his blades, widening his stance and filling his lungs with air.
"Raise another hand against me, and I'll take it from his flesh!"
A woman, in a thin white dress, sleeves torn and falling down one shoulder, hair a mess and blood on her lips—with one hand she holds a thin knife to one man's throat while the other wrenches his chin up, exposing the vulnerable expanse of skin. It takes Jet just a moment to recognize her, without the cloak-and-dagger.
"Now I'm sorry to interrupt," Jet says calmly. "But if there's one thing I can't abide, it's somebody starting a fight on my convoy without me around to throw the first punch."
The casual viewers start moving on at this, scattering back to wherever they belong, until all that's left is the woman and three men: one bleeding on the ground, one under the knife, and the other standing next to the ransacked wagon, holding tight to a length of ripped brown cloth. Pipsqueak is on the left, closest to the woman, no weapon raised except those massive fists.
"These three," he grunts at Jet, pointing to each man. "Pulled her out of the wagon. Started shouting. She just defended herself."
"We ain't traveling with Fire Nation filth," the bleeding man says, pushing away from them with the effort of just one arm. His other looks a bit torn up.
"Then you ain't traveling with us. This woman here more than paid her way, understand?"
"Ain't traveling with a whore, either," the man replies, as his friend reaches down to help him. "'Specially not with no halfbreed bastard."
In warning, Longshot aims just left of the man's feet and released, and the man flinches on impact.
"Now, you will keep a civil tongue or I will cut it out," Jet says with a charming smile, sliding his blades together and apart. "I understand you boys paid your way as well. So here's what we're gonna do: the woman's coming with me, and Pipsqueak here is gonna be your new best friend. He's gonna ride with you the rest of the way, and if you so much as step off that wagon to take a piss, you'd better ask his permission first."
He nods to Pipsqueak, who is happy to demonstrate, easily lifting the bleeder off his feet and growling the others in line.
The woman—Jet has never learned her name and still thinks of her as just White Lotus—drops her arm but doesn't let go of the knife. Her hostage stumbles away quickly, hands wrapped around his intact throat, looking vaguely ill.
"C'mon, White Lotus," Jet says, sheathing his blades. "You're with me now."
He meets her halfway, and she grabs tight to his arm.
"Thought we were rid of you after the crossing."
"So did I," she says, and he keeps his steps slow. "Turns out you were going my way."
Her voice is rough, ragged at the edges, and what skin he can see—too much, for the snow and the cold chattering through his bones—is raw and red, soon to bruise. They'd taken everything but her underclothes—he glances down the length of her and nearly swears.
"That your blood," he asks quietly, "or his?"
"I'm not sure," she says, nails digging into his sleeve. "I don't think I can go much farther."
"It's alright—I've got you."
He lifts her up, an arm around her back and the other hooked beneath her knees. Longshot brings a cloak to drape over her and then returns to the line, leaving just Smellerbee to walk them back.
"There's a midwife on the line somewhere," Jet says. "Find her."
"She won't come," Smellerbee sighs. "Not for Fire Nation."
"Then you give her a copper for listening, and tell her she'll get a silver for coming up front and listening to me."
She sighs again but digs in his pouch for the money and takes off at a sprint.
"How you doing, White Lotus?"
She doesn't answer, eyes closed, mouth pinched tight in pain. She's breathing hard, and she's far too light in his arms—Jet can't decide if he should slow down to keep from jarring her, or speed up and get her into some warmth.
"We're almost there," he says, and wishes he could pull the cloak up some.
Sneers and the Duke have already set up for the night—they've got soup waiting and lean over a small fire to warm their hands.
"Carpenter says by tomorrow," the Duke says, and his smile fades on seeing the woman. "Everything okay?"
"No. You're on caboose patrol," Jet says, sweeping past them right to the waiting wagon. "Sneers, I need you to bring me every spare blanket, cloak, cape, jacket, whatever you can beg up."
He almost loses his balance climbing up without hands, but he recovers enough to set her gently on his bedroll. She never let go of the knife—the blade digs into her fingers, and he gingerly extracts it from her grip, winding the cleanest bit of cloth he can find around the cuts. He tucks the cloak under her chin and then steps back.
"I'll be right back."
He finds a skein of water and is trying to figure out the soup when Smellerbee shows up, followed close by some old woman drowning in furs. The snow's getting thick, and they have to stand close to see each other.
"Found her," Smellerbee says, needlessly. "She's not much for listening—"
"But coin's always nice," the midwife cuts in, "and she said you'd provide."
"After," Jet says, but waves the silver beneath her nose for demonstration. "There's a woman inside for you."
"How far gone?"
"I dunno," Jet says. "That's part of your job."
With an eye-roll and a sigh, the midwife climbs up into the wagon. Jet doesn't follow—instead standing awkwardly at the canvas flap serving for a door, listening but not looking.
"Alright there, dearie. Let me a look. How many months gone, then?"
"F-four moons, maybe five."
She's shivering bad enough to stutter—more blankets needed and hopefully coming. Jet stalks back to the fire and kicks the log sticking out, coaxing a little more heat. Smellerbee's still around, using some coarse bread to sop up the last dregs of her soup.
"I need you and Longshot on constant watch tonight," he says, dropping down beside her, pulling gloves off with his teeth and struggling with the buckle to his blade sheathes. The metal's cold enough to bite and stick, too cold even to go numb—his fingers burn.
"Yeah, he's taking first," Smellerbee says, refilling her bowl and passing it over. "I'll go up in three hours. Jet, I gotta ask—"
"How's it gonna look to the White Lotus, we show with her corpse?" he snaps, stabbing at the soup with a bent spoon. "She was my contact. She's the one that gave me everything—the maps, the count, the routes. She never once steered me wrong. Never."
"She's Fire Nation, Jet."
"You really still think that matters? After everything?"
"I just don't think you should be so fast to trust."
"What would she even do, laid up like this?"
"I'm just sayin'," Smellerbee sighs, pushing to her feet. "I can't blame people for being jumpy."
She starts to walk away, but his hand snaps out and closes over her wrist.
"Jumpy doesn't pull a pregnant woman from a wagon and beat her," he says quietly. "That's not what we are. Not anymore."
That's his final word, and she doesn't challenge it—doesn't get the chance, as the midwife exits the wagon and approaches the fire, rifling through the bag slung beneath her cloak.
"Need water," she grunts, brushing snow aside to kneel. "Mortar and pestle if you can, but I'll take any substitute."
He brings her back a beaten metal bowl filled with fresh snow and two flat stones. She sets the bowl immediately near the fire and works at separating bundles of herbs from her bag.
"So what's wrong with her?"
"Not your trouble, I think," the midwife says. "Unless of course you're to blame for the condition."
"Just a friend," Jet replies, frowning. "What's wrong with her?"
"So far? Bit of belly fever, probably brought on by the cold. These Fire Nation women aren't good for bearing our mountains, or bearing children, for that matter."
"What are you making her, then?"
"Something simple."
"What's in something simple?"
"Certainly a lot of questions from you. Sure the bastard isn't yours?"
Jet sets the knife between them, point driven into the log she's leaning against. So happens it's White Lotus's knife—he might laugh, but focuses all his energy into the threat.
"You don't get paid for lying to me."
"Not lying, boy."
"I know what penny-royal looks like," he says in a low growl.
The midwife sits back on her heels, eyeing him carefully.
"Then you should know why a midwife might carry it," she sighs, but all the same, she stows the bundle away and makes a show of the ingredients she intends to use: a mild green tea, lemon balm, lavender, passion flower, each crushed and left to steep for a few minutes. Jet sits back but leaves the knife, just in case.
Up and down what Jet can see of the line, cooking fires have gone out and wagon flaps are being tied closed. The ostrich-horses stamp and snuffle into feedbags, and the snow finally slows down and then stops completely.
"Will she be alright?" Jet asks, kneading his gloves to keep the leather from freezing.
"She will," the midwife confirms, but there's something in the way she says it that gives him pause.
"And the baby?"
She pours the tea into a clean bowl and throws the dregs to the fire.
"I'm sorry," she says softly. "She's in labor pains, and it's too early for that. There's nothing to do but wait. Babe's beyond all but prayer now."
She glances up at the cloud-shielded sky, and then turns and climbs back up into the wagon with the tea. Cold numbs any response Jet can think of—he stands there, mute, until Sneers trundles up under a pile of blankets and furs.
"Everybody's feeling generous tonight," Sneers sighs, always with a smile. "I passed the carpenter—tomorrow morning, he said. It's just gotta sit there, but he says hopefully it won't freeze in the mud."
The midwife's coming back, as Jet takes the blankets and nods at Sneers's excited bouncing.
"Just go to your girl," he sighs, and Sneers practically sprints away.
"I've done what I can," the midwife announces, bag stowed once more beneath her cloak. "The rest is up to her, though I see no harm in begging for Yue's blessing. She might grant it. Keep the girl warm, and off her feet, with plenty of water..."
She trails off, shrugging.
"If there's blood, find me in the morning. We'll know by then."
It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Jet manages to dig out a pair of silver coins and hand them over. The midwife bites down each to be sure, and then, satisfied, turns and walks away into the night.
So he climbs back into the wagon and drops the blankets, taking his time in securing the canvas flaps. The lantern hanging above swings lazily with his motion.
"Still alive?"
"Leave me alone," she says savagely. "Go away."
The bedroll takes most of the space—she's pushed herself to the very edge, up against the wagon rim, on her side and turned away, face pressed to the pillow. Jet shakes out each blanket and tucks them around her carefully. She's still shivering, still in that torn dress, one hand fisted beneath her chin and the other—the wounded hand—hidden somewhere near her belly.
For a few minutes he complies with her request—the wagon holds no sound but her ragged breathing and stifled whimpers, but soon enough he breaks. Silence is almost worse than stillness.
"So," he says, scooting up beside the pillow, "exactly where were you headed? 'Cause this train stops at Yu Dao, and I hear Fire Nation's not too popular in those parts."
"I'm not Fire Nation anymore," she snarls around a sob. "And I wasn't heading for Yu Dao. I'm meeting someone outside the city."
"Yeah? The Blue Spirit?"
"He's not real."
Jet laughs.
"Alright then," he says. "How about the dead Fire Prince who plays him?"
"He's not real either," she whispers, more for herself than him.
"It's true, isn't it?" Jet says—he shouldn't be so surprised, with all those rumors for going on a year now, but the confirmation of it is all in her denial. She glances back at him, enough to see her eyes are red and wet, and then she buries her face away again.
"Not chewing your cud?"
"No grass in winter," Jet laughs. "Not that I'd expect Fire Nation to know that."
"Stop calling me that," she says. "I'm not Fire Nation. Just...call me what you were calling me before."
"Alright, White Lotus. Didn't mean to offend."
"Yes, you did."
"You know I'm going to keep asking until you tell me."
"Your insistence doesn't create within me any sense of obligation."
"What?"
"Do what you want," she sighs. "It makes little difference to me."
The canvas is doing its job well enough—wind buffets the walls but stays outside. Jet peels his gloves off again and works the leather straps of his chest-plate until they're loose enough to pull.
"Alright," he says. "Then I'll work my way to it. You thirsty?"
"That's a detour," she says with a breathy laugh, which must mean yes because when he brings the skein to her lips, she tries to sit up a little and drinks deeply. "Don't offer food. I might throw up on you."
He takes a drink himself and then sets back to work on his armor. Her breathing evens out and slows, but she's still awake, fist clenching rhythmically at the top of the blanket.
"Talking takes your mind off pain, y'know."
"As though you could know this pain."
She takes a few more deep, slow breaths.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, inhaling sharply.
"Because I never once trusted you."
She glances back to him again, briefly.
"All that time you were my contact, I didn't trust you," Jet continues, shrugging. "Every good piece of information—every map, every count, every route schedule or smuggled manifest—I was always waiting for the knife in my back. You were never anything but honest and good to me, and I never once trusted you."
"Makes you smart, in my books."
"No," Jet says, shaking his head. "Makes me a slave to the rhetoric and blind to the cause."
"The cause?" she repeats.
"Yeah. The cause, White Lotus. What we're both fighting for."
"I take it back," she sighs. "You're a moron."
"What?" he laughs. "Why?"
"I have no cause," she says bitterly. "I'm not in it for Ba Sing Se or the Avatar or the world or even the thrill of the hunt—something was taken from me, and I can't have it back, so I intend to collect its equal."
She takes another sharp breath, licking her lips.
"Go ahead. Tell me you're different."
"I am," Jet replies quietly. "But I wasn't."
"Now you're going to tell me your tragic story," she sighs with an unkind little half-smile. "You'll talk and get softer and softer until one little tear escapes, and I'll say as expected. Oh, I'm so sorry. Men shouldn't have to feel things. Let me cry for you."
"C'mon, it's a sad story," he says with a chuckle, but she's not joking.
"I," she says, letting each word soak up some of the cold, "don't care. I'm miscarrying my first child, recently widowed, hundreds of miles from anyone who knows or loves me."
"Don't tell me you're sorry that old fruit's dead."
"He wasn't old. I didn't love him, but he was never cruel to me."
She takes another breath and speaks into the pillow.
"Which is more than I can say for some of the people I do love."
"Like the Blue Spirit?"
She shakes her head with a sigh.
"I suppose your deficit in cunning is made up for by arrogance."
"What?"
"I thought you were working your way to the subject."
"Blunt force can get you pretty far, White Lotus. You should try it sometime."
"No, thank you."
He fumbles for the lantern and blows it out, dropping them into darkness. It's not complete—the wind must have driven the clouds away, because the canvas glows blue with moonlight.
"His name was Zuko," she says softly. "I think I loved him my whole life."
Jet had seen an etching once: an old wanted poster, peeling from the wall of one of those crossroads taverns. Those drawings were never exactly kind or all that accurate—the scar stood out from the parchment in bright red, making it impossible to tell if the eye and ear were missing or just obscured. Maybe that's why he was never found.
"He was banished, disgraced, and they tried to kill him. But he went into the Earth Kingdom and became the Blue Spirit."
"If he's not dead, then what are you fighting for?"
"You don't have to stop breathing to be dead."
"Gettin' too deep for me, White Lotus."
"Keep kicking," she advises as airily as she can. "You'll reach the surface."
The wind is gone by now, and he lowers his voice to match hers, though it's almost certain no one's listening.
"There was this girl," he says, staring into the middle distance. "It must be five years now. Me and my Fighters, living out in the forest, knocking over the occasional cabbage shipment or old man wearing the wrong colors. Thought we were out there on the front lines, fighting the good fight for our burnt homes and our dead families."
"And were you?"
"I thought so. But I turned out wrong."
"In more ways than one, I think."
"Alright, look, it's cold, and I'm not trying to be a creep, but you've got the bedroll and most of the blankets..."
He sets a hand on top, near her shoulder, but waits.
"Were you in love with this girl?" she asks.
"What? No. I don't know."
Jet laughs.
"Maybe a little. It was only a few days that I knew her. I think she liked me. Thought I was cute."
"Until."
"Until," he agrees with a sigh.
"Just be quick about it."
"I'll keep a blanket between, I promise."
"And clothes on."
"Of course. What kind of pervert do you think I am?"
"That kind of pervert."
He slides under the blankets as fast and gentle as he can, and she doesn't even wince at the cold. It probably hurts too much to move, so he makes sure to keep a hand's distance between their bodies.
"Tell me about her, then."
"Well, her name's Katara."
"Not an Earth Kingdom name."
"Nope. She's water tribe. A bender."
"And you're so sure she's still alive?"
"You know, I am. She had pluck."
"Why is it that men are brave or resourceful, but women just have pluck?"
"Because you're too delicate to be brave."
She laughs a little.
"And what did you do to her?"
He stares up at the ceiling, chewing his lip in place of straw.
"I couldn't trick her. She saw me for what I really was."
"And what was that?"
"Sorry, White Lotus. You want that story, you gotta hold up your end."
"And I'm just not that interested."
"You know, I met him once. Much as you can meet a guy in a mask."
She doesn't reply.
"I did something. To make that girl hate me. Something I—well, I don't talk about it. After she left, the whole little life I'd built for myself came crumbling down. Fighters started leaving me left and right, and I realized that hiding up in trees and stealing from travelers wasn't exactly the way to end the war."
He calls the memory up and lets it soak through to his bones. High summer, three years ago, another empty graveled patch of empty graveled road leading them slowly onwards to Ba Sing Se. It was an ambush—one he'd been too tired to notice, too sick and confused and angry at himself. The worst of it though was that the thugs were really no different from what the Fighters had always been—knocking over travelers, laughing, claiming allegiance to country and not king.
"He saved us from an ambush. Just came down out of the trees, blades everywhere. I'd never seen someone move like that. After, he didn't stop, didn't say a word. Just sort of nodded and disappeared back into the trees."
"He has that knack. For disappearing."
"How's the pain, White Lotus?"
"It's fine. And my name—"
She takes a slow breath.
"My real name. It's Mai."
"I'm Jet. Nice to meet you."
"And you as well."
Mai sighs and shifts a little, both hands below the blanket now, while Jet shifts opposite, bringing his hands up under his head.
"I was going to marry him," she whispers. "Fall in love, have his children, become the vapid little queen my parents always dreamt of. And now I'm..."
"Sharing a bedroll with a peasant?"
"I suppose I can grateful that you bathe."
"Only when I have to."
They fall asleep, separately—it's hard to tell who goes first, but Jet wakes up a little before dawn and finds Mai still asleep. They both shifted during the night: Jet on his side, facing towards the opposite wall, while Mai turned right over and curls now around his back. He can feel her arms resting against his shoulders.
"Should've asked what kind of pervert you are," he sighs, but doesn't move, fighting down the urge to stretch.
The wind is back, gently batting the canvas walls, and outside Jet can hear the crunch of someone's trudging feet—hopefully the carpenter gone to work with a lantern. The first thready strands of winter morning sunlight are just hitting the wagon's east wall when he feels it.
More than a flutter but less than a thump, right on his spine. It happens again, a little higher, like the dulled tap of a finger, and then he realizes it's not coming from him—it's Mai's belly, pressed up against his back.
Pulling in a breath, Jet waits, not even daring to hope, but then it happens again and he jolts up, pushing off the blankets and twisting around. The slice of cold air wakes Mai, who jerks and draws inward.
"What?" she asks, too sleepy to be alarmed.
"Shh," Jet replies, kneeling and pressing his ear to her belly.
"Jet, I don't—"
"Quiet! Let me see if—"
There's no blood, but still he closes his eyes, concentrating, putting a hand over his other ear. Mai seems to be holding her breath, and he pushes away the slow thrum of her pulse, then the quiet gurgle of her stomach and the whistling wind.
And it's there: faint, muted, but steady. Jet reaches up and taps the rhythm on the back of her hand.
She seems too afraid to ask, but as the wagon fills with the soft pink glow of morning, Jet looks up and meets her eyes and smiles.