Title: Honor: The Ties That Bind
Author: XArienX
Rating: T(PG-13) for violence, blood and adult themes.
Summary: Almost twenty years have past since the Avatar and Fire Lord met in battle and since then radical changes have shaken the very foundations of the Avatar world. Aang and his friends have found themselves caught in this endless web of love, lust, politics and betrayal, whose end shall conclude the history books of a tumultuous era.
Disclaimer: This is the completely useless part of every fan-fiction. Obviously I don't own Avatar, otherwise I wouldn't have to write about it
A/n: I have a whole new appreciation for all fan-fiction writers. I must have read, re-read, checked and changed this chapter more times than I can count. I am so nervous about putting my work out that I am never truly satisfied with it. It's like bearing your heart and soul for the entire world to read and critique. It is really a nerve racking experience, especially for new writers such as myself.
Chapter 3: The Last Living Souls
Those who have power and no pity,
Who would avenge the right by sword,
And profit from justice,
And do well by doing good;
Those who would gain by others' grief
In the name of freedom,
And allocate the Earth's abundance to themselves,
And allow the marketplace to starve children;
And those who would see such things happen and do nothing:
The mark of Yen-Lo-Wang is on them,
And on their followers,
And on their generations.
They were the children of the flame, the sprites of the embers, the followers of the blaze. Like aborigines, they worshiped its heat and basked in its glow. It was their creator and would be their reaper. The same kindling which enflamed their hearts, consumed their souls. Passion, power, prestige and honor would once again be theirs.
Red robes covered dark faces and dark faces sung low hymns. The circle of members began to weave together, their pace quickening and movements elaborating. A room, which had previously drawn light from a lone candle, was suddenly illuminated by dozens of fiery orbs that appeared to combust spontaneously from thin air. The illusion would have remained if similar lights had not appeared at the gatherers opposite hands.
The militaristic-like dance was complicated when each person tossed their sphere across the room to be caught by another. This canopy of moving flame ignited the very walls into living beings, each shadow the puppet to many masters. Frolicking like little acrobats, the flames were happy to dance in the most daring and exquisite ways. It seemed as if they preformed for a hidden audience or unearthly power.
Above the spectacle, an emblazoned scepter of the flame drew life blood from the dazzling ritual. Imposing absolute supremacy over its idolizing minions, the brazen symbol bade them to continue with more vehemence. It answered to no other power but itself, with no friends or enemies to rule beside it.
The last of its kind, the tapestry wore its battle scars well, a fray here and a singe there, but nothing worse for the wear. The gold of its embroidered flame would again be admired by many faces, commanding their respect and servitude. Surviving the mass genocide of its companions, one day it would see glory and honor in a Great Hall once more. One day soon, very soon.
Second only to the incarnation of their people, another presence stood unabated against the ceremony around it. Centered, with its shadow cast upon the textile, this bender donned a rob black as the silhouettes it could have been mistaken. If the eyes behind its hood had not been near to glowing, their outline might have been lost all together.
Overcoming its previous inaction, a hand was raised from the ebony cloak and thrust towards the heavens, its palm open and flat. Nothing was produced from this action but the tide of the room had subtly changed. An ember floated down from the ceiling, drawn to the slender arm like a moth to the flame. Others began to follow in a likewise fashion, the hand soon receiving the mass migration of radiant particles. The red robes had stilled, allowing their flames to contribute to the exodus. If the ceremony hadn't suggested darker dealings, the true beauty of the shimmering light spiral might have been received with more reverence. None-the-less, the blossoming globe, which grew lager with every second, attracted not only the energy of flame but of soul as well.
A second hand was added to hold up the massive burden, but acted only to spin and construct what could be called 'shapeless clay'. Filled with endless potential but frightening consequences, in the hands of a careful master, anything could have been wrought from the massive flame. Good thing the master knew exactly what they were doing.
An ocher riptide spiraled down toward the granite floor, outstretching a single tendril for the impending contact; the result of their union created an explosion of white light. The earth beneath their feet was ripped open as if the very fabric of reality had snagged. Time, space and earth, all hewn from the stitches and foundations they had been born into. Some of the robed benders shifted uncomfortably, but none would show such weakness in any other form.
Their fiery tornado was now sucked down into the abysmal crevasse until its largest ring was all but devoured. With another flash of light and moving of the earth, what would have been an impossible reaction for matter-less fire to accomplish, took place; it froze. Half-way between burning and dying, the last of the orb hardened to a sheen, setting a large amber-like mirror into the cobblestones.
All the room dropped to its knees, with the exception of the black figure, their heads down and arms out in waiting submission. There was an unearthly silence as their presumed leader stepped upon the glassy mirror and the aura about the portal engulfed its passenger in a bright halo; its light becoming blazing white. The master's robes were seared off; this new energy spawn satisfied only after it had ate away the coverings of all present. Nothing but their flesh and hair was spared its hunger, so by the time the ravishing light was sated, they stood stripped of cloth. They looked as they did when born, as they had been when chosen by the element of fire. Baptized and blessed by flame, the revealed men and women present were cleansed again by a trusted power beyond their sight, one which branded them with a symbol power.
Finally the leader spoke, her gender now apparent but considered of no greater or lesser authority. She gazed at her companions with a stare so fierce and demanding that lesser men would have crumbled. Her people, her followers, however, never wavered or showed the potency of her glare or unspoken threats. The ceremony had been completed, and they all knew what would be asked of them.
Parting slender lips, her sultry, smooth voice enchanted and captured the room. "Brothers, Sisters, I ask you to release your mortal ties to this world! I ask you to seek a time many of us have wished to forget, a time that shall, try as we might, always be the burden of our hearts. Remember the ache and anguish we have endured—the loved ones we have lost…the sacrifices we have made!"
She backed off of the looking glass, allowing it the proper honor. "Remember what you then fought for and what you are still fighting for now!"
Taking the blatant hint, the portal sprang to life, flickering and moving as if a phantom processed it. The entire room reflected within its depths as if displaying a timeless society of stubborn and honorable people, lost to their own virtues. Images of the future and instants from the past swirled endlessly into view, a captivating sight flowing beyond anyone's control, dictating its own stream of consciousness. If it had not been a time where magic and spirits were still revered above reason and machine, such a display would have been beyond belief.
Then as suddenly as the show began, it halted, a single picture ingrained into the ruddy crystal. Every bender present remembered the picture with a chill in their heart and fire in their eyes, they would never forget that face. The screen was set, the audience ready, and when the movie began to play, its meaning was clear.
He stood at the top of the stairs, the blood of the fallen fresh on his hands. His eyes alight with the power to kill, he descended towards them. They wept, they cried, some screamed, while others wailed. Every step brought him closer, and their demise sooner.
The boy, who was no longer a child, threw up his arms and declared peace, for all nations and all benders. The years of war and bloodshed would come to an end, a guarantee of armistice set forth. Food for every mouth and shelter for every babe, the world would begin anew. All was forgiven and forgotten, the lines between the victorious and defeated erased. He promised equality, he promised recovery, safety and security. He promised…with empty words.
Blood. Everywhere blood. It ran down the streets, it pooled in the houses, it dried on the walls. Dead. Everyone dead. Bodies lay on the stairs, drowned in the river, hung from the trees. Fear. Never had they known a greater terror, a greater horror. No one was spared, no where was safe. Women and children, the old and the sick, suffered in the name of peace, at the hands of their people, at the mercy of cold steel.
A woman lay crumpled in the corner of a dark room. Glass littered the floor and blood spattered the sheets. Her silk dress was torn and wrinkled, the beautiful fabric sullied. Her painted features which had once pronounced ageless beauty, had withered and smeared in an instant; a china doll broken and left in the corner, no longer an elegant toy they wished to play with. The shattered face she wore betrayed her last moments in life as those of grief and tragedy. Paradise, faith, and love lost. She might have died with the valor famous of her kind, if she had not been worried about the bundle in her arms. Forced to watch the death of her son, tears smeared her porcelain face before her own candle was extinguished.
A man's head slumber upon his desk in a dark room. His graying beard and sagging eyes pronounced both a wisdom and age, which would never be shared for the world's betterment. Blood escaped his parted lips and mixed with the spilt ink, death's work written in a deep crimson. The feather he had used was cloven on the floor, its magnificent coloration caked in mud. He would never wake from his perpetual dream land, the letter on his desk left unfinished, eventually left to yellow with age. Somewhere a wife would weep, her husband's love never written, her fate left to solitude forever more.
Mobs swept the country side like wildfire, cutting down all in their path. The wealthy were found first, their birth-rite and beauty the object of murderous desire. The merchants were found second, their fortune and skill envied around the world. The workers were third, their competition and availability seen as a threat to others. The poor were last, their hopelessness and vulgarity easily expendable.
It was called the Terror, a name that would never fit the brutality. Connected to but overshadowed by the Great War, the events under its rule nearly exterminated a race, one almost lost to the genocide of peace and the oblivion of lost time. Nearly the things of legend, their stories were all but ripped out of history. None of the elements had ever been destroyed, air coming the closest and revived a bit longer by the avatar. The water-tribes were rebuilding, and the earth nations grew as large as ever. Fire had, however, brushed closer to death than any of the mindless murders could have imagined. The Fire Spirit had all but disappeared from existence; its blaze dwindled to a smoke.
Much that had been of the nation, was lost, for few now lived who could remember…
The serenity which shrouded the room became a mixture of memories. Inside the heads of all present, a deafening chorus of screams filled ears, while flames burned into minds.
"We fight for them!" The woman yelled, snapping the peeked looking men and women back into reality. "Those of us who dared ask for peace—were rewarded with death! Innocent babes seen as wicked devils and defenseless spouses hewn in their marriage beds! Who here has not seen such sights or escaped those catastrophes? No one! We all shared their pain!" Now her tone softened even if her eyes did not.
"You have proof of Yen-Lo-Wang's blessing! If we were not the select, would we still bare the mark? Pain and suffering have been our teachers and we are stronger because of it. The student and master walk as equals but we shall walk as their gods! We have earned the right! Through blood and sweat we have earned it!" Her pitch and tone grew louder again, as if fueled by kindling.
"We have been tested many a times, and had much lost to folly! We mistook the prophecy and caused many of our kin died in vain—But these tragedies have only prepared us, and now we posses the power! We are the children of the superior element, the ones that shall rule all others! Let the blood of our fallen comrades empower our swords and fell our enemies. We are the chosen and our destiny shall be fulfilled!" Her words commanded and rallied, amplified by the inner light which seemed to emit from her body.
"Death to the one who opposes us, and we shall reign again!" Instead of ending with a triumphant resolve of silence and repose, the leader burst into a maniacal grin followed by and equally iniquitous laugh. "Death to the Avatar!"
A paltry flame spanned the distance between them, barely illuminating enough to see past each other's outline. Its weak shafts produced the only source of light for miles of endless dark and gloom, where any number of forces could have been hidden in shadow.
But it mattered not to the ill-fated companions, who seemed to push all the world aside for a few lingering moments together. To them, the room was nothing more than the empty void which sought to rip apart lovers' embraces.
"Everyday that passes…you grow more and more beautiful." He stood apart from her, across the flame. "While I grow old and bitter."
"But you remain the same, my love. Age does not taint you..." She cooed with a tenderness that seemed unbefitting of her voice.
"My form remains young, but my spirit ages more with everyday." He cut her off. Unsaid regrets and unsettled business vivid upon his face
"I must spend an eternity it this hell, haunted by my failures forever!" He paused, but bristled with the anxiety to continue.
'I was taken in my prime, my peak of success! I was so close to having it all!" He reached out with a passion that displayed the true torture his soul had endured over these thoughts. "If only…." He twisted and contorted around the idea with a furious passion, the same fervor that had drawn her to him.
It had been he who had shown her the ways of secrecy, the power of malice, and the subtlety of fear. His unholy communion had left her open to the realities of the world and betrayals of men. She had been a child before him with ribbons of white in her hair and purity twinkling in her eyes. He had taught her to fear none while striking others into obedience, to use her powers for their advancement, and to fight with the same ferocity as she loved.
She became prodigy thanks to him; all her power spiraling around the wish to have him notice her and one she had it, he selfishly took her innocence and impregnated her with fire. For that she would always love him with fanatical hatred and respect.
And he had grown to love her in a similar fashion; at first for their evening trysts, and later for her passionate deviancy. He watched her grow in form, mocking him with every flirtatious gesture. She tease him with the uncertainty of her temper and excited him with the lust in her glancing eyes. It was an obsession that demanded he have her at his bed night after night, when such an act would mean his demise. She drove him to success as well as to insanity.
Thus the two had a dangerous relationship, spawned by lust and fueled by ambition. They used each other and abused their love, all for the sake of power. They had everything to lose but everything to gain. Two personalities wrought from the same metal, but cast into an eternal struggle, they loved and lost like everyday was their last.
Even with their profane lifestyle, she never true believed it would come to an end. He left her arms that morning for a land of ice. How could those, somewhere so cold, truly love in the heat of passion? How could a land so barbarous, lynch her of a man worthy to royalty? When she had received the letter weeks later from a weather beaten bird, the young woman felt truly cold for the first time in her life, crying the only tear she would ever shed.
"If only…" She whispered, powerful feelings on an expressionless face.
He looked at her hallowed and wearied eyes. There was no rest for the living or dead. That simple fragment opened the gates to so many emotions and so many haunting memories.
"If only I…could touch you again…" Longing and pain glazed his eyes with more sincerity than he had ever shown in life. He yearned for her now, but not in the way as he had once. He reached toward her with trepidation and she to him the same.
Fingers reached, distances lessened, hopes rose…
"Milady Zula?" There was a knock at her chamber door. Instantly her world dissolved into anonymity, his face vanishing as if it had never existed. Such a cruel alarm denied them once again.
Her eyes tore towards the intruder, ready to rip out the jugular which had disturbed her meditation.
A young boy entered with a tray, his hands shaking violently at the simple task. The two glasses of red wine his mistress always ordered, chimed crisply together, grading on an already deteriorating patience.
Ever aware of the eyes upon him, the boy needed only to make it to the mahogany dresser before he could retreat. Only a couple of steps…only…a trip, a fall, a glass of crimson staining the carpet. For a moment it was blood, then it was fire, and last it was wine—all of which the boy would taste.
A/N: Sorry, still no Zuko. My cliffhanger is a killer, but I promise you will find out very soon the fate he meets. I also want to take this opportunity to stress the ambiguities of my pairings. I don't even want to name a category for Katara in this story so farbecause it is currently irrelevant. This may change, but for right now, as I stressed before, expect the unexpected.The only stated pairing has been Sokka/Suki. Otherwise, please keep and open mind.
Major major internet brownies for the person who can name the story and author from which the 'ribbon's in her hair' came from. To make it easier, since I changedthe descriptionup a bit, the ribbons in the questioned story were pink, pink ribbons.
Thank you again to all my reviewers and even hitters! You honestly don't know how much you brighten up my day by just reading my story.
Read, review and enjoy!
Arien