I was so delighted and pleased and overjoyed with all the feedback so I decided ~why not do a second update this weekend~. After all, I've now begun chapter ten, so I've got a good amount of chapters to update before I run out and catch up with my tumblr. I am also very flattered because to be honest guys, reading back chapter one I went "ooh erk this is a bit wobbly in places, it gets much better".
So here is your surprise weekend update, and then we will stick to my tried and tested schedule of every three days.
TWO
She managed to nearly claw his eyes out, determined that it wouldn't be easy. The vicious scratch marks down one of his cheeks gave her great satisfaction until he retaliated later with his own nails, trimmed obsessively all to the same length. The scrapes on her shoulders were more like gouges; some of them were so deep that the touch of the fabric of the sheets was enough to make her wince. He'd only taken off the mask afterwards. Those eyes staring out from underneath the mask that had haunted her dreams were hideous. She hadn't been able to look at him. She hadn't been able to look at much, her eyes tightly shut. Slowly, clearly savouring it, he'd stripped her down to something base and small and afraid in the middle of the windowless room.
Everything hurt. Her skin felt scraped raw, as if he'd peeled back all the outer walls of her personality to leave the child underneath them blinking in the sudden light. She felt dirty. She felt brutalised.
The naivety and resulting shock of the night before had faded to a deep, dull throb in her chest. This wasn't even about bending; it wasn't about the revolution or taking revenge. It was a creepy personal obsession. That stirred up the faintest traces of real anger, smothered by careful adaption to her new environment. It was about a sadistic, twisted man who wanted power. He'd hurt her purposely to make her cry. It brought him pleasure.
Korra had been unable to sleep the whole night. His arm around her middle rendered it impossible. Instead, she lay, so tensely it was physically painful, turning over anger and despair and anger and numbness in her head. He was too close to her, the smell of sweat still clinging to him, to even contemplate falling asleep. She drifted in and out of consciousness for mere moments, thoughts blurring together in a way that was beginning to become familiar. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the adrenaline burning off, or a mark of her slipping grip on reality. Every time she moved at all strongly, his grip on her would tighten. She couldn't tell whether he was asleep or not, or just so in control that he moved in his sleep.
Though she was sure that there was no way to tell what time it was in the room, Amon rose decisively all the same. His suddenly heavy inhale and exhale made her jump out of her stupor, one of her feet thudding against his shin in reflexive shock. Fearing retribution, she froze, but he only took another heavy breath in and removed his arm from around her waist. "Good morning," he drawled. He only sounded the slightest bit sleep clouded. "Did you sleep well?" Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose and stretched. The muscles in his back rippled and Korra watched with bile fascination, fear curling in her belly at a physical reminder of how strong he was.
"I asked you a question, Korra," he said levelly, turning back to her. She jumped. Was he… really going to do this? Was he going to pretend that they were an actual couple? Was it some kind of ploy to unsettle her?
"No," she said defiantly, lifting the covers over herself at his look. "I slept awfully."
He shrugged. "I asked you a polite question. Remember who suffers for your disobediences." Padding over to a door set in an alcove, he opened it and stepped through, leaving it ajar. The sound of running water filled the room and Korra looked around, for the first time genuinely taking it in. There wasn't much furniture and what there was present was spartan, old, well used. There was the desk, the chair with his shoes still next to it; one of the drawers was ever so slightly open, and none of them were locked. A tiny voice suggested filing that away for looking at later, and she quickly turned her gaze away in case Amon caught her looking.
The walls were draped in Equalist posters, some with Amon's own masked face on. What a messed up thing to have on your bedroom walls, she thought, scratching at her mussed hair and trying to comb it a little with her fingers. There was a chest of drawers as well, unusually tall. Did Amon even have that many clothes? He never seemed to change them. An uncomfortable thought occurred to Korra that in changing for the—the—last night, they'd finally taken away her old clothes. They had been ripped, dirtied and wrecked a thousand times over, but they'd been a memory of home, and Amon had ruined her dress; she could see it on the floor out of the corner of her eye, that hideous rip down the back making her own back pulse with for a second. She wouldn't wear Amon's clothes. She refused. But if it was a choice between that and nothing… her skin crawled. She'd take the clothes.
The rest of the room was largely space; the four poster bed, ridiculously ornate, was centre stage, and there was absolutely no mess. Even the piles of paper on the desk were neatly arranged in noticeable order. Korra guessed that Amon didn't spend that much time in here, but it didn't surprise her that he was compulsively well-ordered, somehow.
"Come here," he called from the bathroom, and Korra froze, startled out of her thoughts. Come here? Why? She didn't want to be anywhere near him ever again. Somewhere, the idea that she might have to deal with this for the rest of her life surfaced painfully and she shoved it away as fast as possible. "That was not a request. Come here." Blinking very quickly, she tumbled between stubborn resistance and fear, until he added, "If I must threaten you, remember that I have yet to decide the punishments for your loved ones. I don't tolerate insolence."
Digging her nails into her palms, she rose, her mouth set in a hard line. She took the sheet with her, trailing it across the floor with a soft, dull swishing noise. He was in the shower, the water still running, his hair trailing down the sides of his face. His unburned face. It was a mark of the revolting lies he'd told to the city that he had no burns at all; that tragic backstory had turned out to be a complete fabrication. She looked up. For a moment, she managed to hold his gaze. Without even registering his expression, anything at all, she dropped it as if she had been burned.
"You need to wash," he said. "Put that sheet back on the bed. You look absurd dragging it around with you."
"Which first?" she muttered, her fingers tapping against her side nervously.
"Impudence is not an attractive trait. I thought perhaps solitary confinement had removed your astonishing ability for it. I see I thought wrong." She stared woodenly at the floor, all her effort going into not grinding her teeth until they shattered. "If you're really so incapable of deciding for yourself, put the sheet back on the bed, and then wash yourself."
"Whatever you say," she said mutinously, trailing back out again. For all her momentary bravado, it was a wrench to put the sheet down on the bed. It took a few moments of deep breathing to dump it in an unceremonious pile and walk back to the bathroom. It felt like worse than being naked… nakedness wasn't anything unpleasant, but here it made her feel… unclean. Small. Insignificant and dirty.
"Good," he said with evident satisfaction. She held onto Mako and Bolin, Tenzin and Pema, the children, Lin, all her people, and waited for him to move aside. No matter what, she wasn't stepping into that shower until he stepped out of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a lazy, cruel smile spread across his face. His movements languorous, he exited the shower and reached for a towel, eyes never leaving her.
Showering felt surprisingly good for the first few seconds. The water was refreshing on her skin, but she felt the ache of the absence of her bending return for a moment, sharp and insistent. To answer it, she turned up the heat of the spray until it burned her, taking some solace in the pain. Moving out of habit, she tried to sort out her hair, combing it through with her fingers some more until it was vaguely unknotted. The rest of her was a different matter. She found some soap, a lumpy, horrible bar of it, and a flannel which felt like it was made of sandpaper. At first, she rubbed tentatively, wincing at how rough it was; after a while she sank into lethargic thought, her hand moving automatically. When she became aware of the stinging it was causing, she didn't stop. She pressed harder, biting her lip, a well of grief spilling up out of her chest into a pained hiccup of a sob that she couldn't take back.
Aghast, Korra pressed a hand against her mouth, looking wide-eyed towards the door. To her dismay, Amon stood there, leaning against the door frame. He'd donned a pair of loose trousers identical to his usual attire but nothing else, and his gaze was directed levelly at her. The expression on his face was utterly unreadable. Uncomfortably, her arms crossed across her chest, she looked back.
All he was said was, "As long as you don't scar, scrub as much as you wish. I'm in your skin." He said no more and simply remained in the doorway. Korra, with what was becoming the ease of practice, swallowed a sob and summoned up her courage. She stepped out, unwilling to stand there for his amusement. A tiny seed of rebellion cracked open in the heat of her determination.
She grasped a towel and folded it around herself as quickly as possible, carefully avoiding the gouges on her back. Though she knew it was ridiculous, the scrap of fabric made her feel safer. When she had brought forth the bravery to look at him again, he had gone. Korra glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Cautiously, she settled her expression into something neutral, twisting her lips until she could rest her mouth in something other than a grimace.
As she'd feared, a pair of Amon's own clothes lay on the bed, set out just as neatly as everything else in the damn room. Thoughtfully, she stared at them, and with reluctance decided to pick her battles. Where were her underclothes, though? Surely he wasn't expecting her to go without them, but they weren't on the floor. She couldn't remember what had happened to them… then, that time, and she didn't want to try and remember either. She sure as hell wasn't going to be asking Amon where they were. It would be giving in. She wanted as little direct contact with him as possible.
Unable to suppress a scowl, she lifted the dark shirt first, pulling it over her head. It was laughably large, stretching down to mid-thigh. The trousers were worse, already generous on Amon. She felt oddly drowned in his clothes, his smell surrounding her. Experimentally, she lifted a leg up and the trousers slid down until she doubted her ability to walk without tripping. Everything was so strange without her underclothes as well. For one of the few times in her life, she was uncomfortably aware of her breasts. He couldn't have been as petty as to hide her underclothes, could he? It seemed unusually trivial for a dictator.
She did the best she could to try and make herself more comfortable in them, tucking the trailing ends of the shirt into the trousers, and rolling the trousers up. It would be too humiliating for her to bear if she tripped. Evidently, he wasn't going to gift her with shoes. While he moved around the room, pulling a shirt over his head and pulling last night's jacket from the chair, she sat on the bed and waited. After a moment, she sighed and lay down, nuzzling her head into the lumpy, uncomfortable pillow.
Lack of sleep was catching up with her. It couldn't hurt if she closed her eyes for a second, she was so tired… her nerves had been working overtime for hours trapped alongside Amon, and she needed rest if she was going to be able to think clearly. It was important to keep a clear head…
She couldn't have said why exactly, but her eyes flicked open to see Amon inches from her face. Instinctively, she gasped and scrambled away; her hands hit air and there was no time except for alarm as she fell hard onto the floor. Amon watched her dispassionately, putting on his mask, and his expressions were again veiled from her. Frowning at him from the floor, she couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. It was horrible not knowing what was going on at all, having no inkling of what he was thinking except for what showed around his eyes, but seeing the smugness, his pleasure at her pain…. Neither of the two was better.
"Shall we pay your friends a visit, Avatar?" he said softly, not at all gently. She could only stare back, dread spreading through her as if it were running through her veins with her blood.
Of course he chose Mako and Bolin. That bastard. She knew the way now by the corridors, by the alcoves and the strange writing on the walls. They were going in the direction of Mako and Bolin, both of whom were housed at the end, separated by a thick stone wall. The times that she'd been taken to them before, they'd been brought into one room. It was a momentary reunion, joy that they were still alive, any hope and jubilance quickly crushed by what Amon or another Equalist would do.
Korra followed him in uneasily, hands fisted in the fabric of the trousers. Having them see her in his clothes… it was… in the scheme of things, she knew it wasn't important, but… She couldn't bear it if he told them. If he said what had happened—what he'd done to her— Of course he was going to tell them. It was how the filthy man worked. She gritted her teeth, fear solidifying into anger that threatened to consume her outwardly submissive appearance.
All the same, seeing them made her heart lift. She lifted her head to look at Mako, her chest constricting at how bad he looked but that relief resurfacing that he was still alive. Turning her head, she looked to Bolin. He offered her a small grin, and she tried to return it to lift his spirits. Her smile was full of glass. For a moment, the trio were reunited and that felt… good, despite the circumstances. She just wanted to reach out and touch them, for a second to hold their hands. All foolishness had been left behind in a sweeter, easier past. All that remained was genuine affection for what they'd been through.
It made it harder when he hurt them. Korra tried to settle her beating heart, irrationally worried that everyone would hear it, know how afraid she was. It didn't matter that she was afraid, but what she did with that fear. She had every right to be afraid, but she couldn't let it take over.
Mako was hauled forward first. She gave him the tiniest of smiles, gone in a flash, and he inclined his head ever so slightly—was he in pain? Was he even aware of what was going on?—to acknowledge it. Exchanges like that gave her a momentary sense of comfort, closeness, a feeling of connection with another human being. That feeling was something that she'd come to crave after weeks of solitary confinement while the last remnants of the last desperate battles raged above her head.
He looked bad, all the same. So thin, so thin. Had they fed him at all? Previously muscular, he looked as if he had receded and wasted away. His skin had an unhealthy greasy pallor to it, and she could still see the remains of bruises from last time. If she was remembering correctly, that was the last time that she'd refused to leave her cutlery neatly on the plate for the guards to take it away. It rankled so, so much, but she'd learned the hard way to sacrifice her pride. Cutlery was never, would never ever be worth hurting them.
"Good morning," Amon said, nodding to the other Equalists. They moved to the corner of the room. To keep things interesting for everyone, sometimes Amon would carry out the punishments himself and sometimes he would have others do it. "I assume you've been informed of the happy occasion, bender."
Mako raised his head indolently, nearly looking him in the eyes but not quite. "Happy occasion?" he asked, attempting to affect carelessness. His voice cracked horribly and nearly disappeared on the second word. Korra's heart beat even faster, and she dug her fingers into her—oh, his, his—trousers until she was hurting herself. Mako actually looked at her for the first time, and she saw some of the dots connected in his mind. For an awful second, all she could feel was shame, deep, crawling shame. His frown was unbearable. "Happy occasion?" he repeated, sounding more awake and more wary. His eyes darted around the room, unnaturally wide and suspicious.
"I apologise for the news coming so late." Amon was revelling in this. She knew he was revelling in this. It was a victory for him. She blinked and for a second under her eyelids there were nails in her shoulders. Another blink and it was gone, but she couldn't help feeling unsettled. For a moment, Korra was out of step with the world and then it came rushing back slightly too quickly, as if everything was sped up. "Last night, the Avatar and I were married."
"Married?" Bolin said, his voice hoarse with disuse. "Married?" He looked from Korra to Amon, at her clothes, realisation dawning. "That's a lie. Korra would never marry you." Bile rose in her throat, anger at Bolin; it had happened, the evidence was right in front of him. Did he think that any of them had power anymore? Did he think that she would have refused, when Amon could have so easily killed either of them, any of her loved ones? Did he think that she would just let them die, for all her panicked thoughts about mercy killing?
"It's true," Amon replied. "Republic City's most upstanding citizens were invited. I presume you understand why you were not present." It was all a power game, she thought, a ridiculous power game. Amon just had to have power over them all; he had to have the last word, the ultimate one-up. "Unfortunately, Korra did not behave with the decorum accordant with her status. It's for that reason that we are gathered here currently." Bolin looked at her with pride. How did he still have that exuberance in him? A man whose emotions moved and twisted so easily from joy to tears, who drowned his sorrows with little provocation but forgave so easily, how had he not been crushed in the aftermath of the revolution? Korra couldn't look at him. She felt dirty. "For the problem of your consumption of alcohol, I think we'll start with the earthbender."
Korra could never choose whether it was disrespectful to their pain to switch off and distance herself while the violence began, or whether she could bear to see them brutalised for silly, foolish things that she'd done in the spirit of prideful rebellion. She looked away, her feelings of guilt rising as to be intolerable, and tried to decide what to do with her thoughts. They flitted aimlessly as the Equalists systemically, almost bored, went about their duty. She didn't even have a hangover this morning. Surely she should feel real pain for her actions, when Bolin was being punished for her inability to deal with the situation. She'd been weak for burying herself in alcohol. This was what it brought. She had to deal with everything, do better, just do better; she couldn't have people suffering for what she did.
When Amon said, "That's enough," in that detached, careless tone, she looked back up again and made herself properly look at Bolin. His face brought her that real pain, but for some reason all she could after that see was his fingers. Two of them were warped and… mangled in a hideous way on his left hand. She remembered those hands moving and the earth rumbling with them, and her mouth twisted in a bitter, miserable line. "Next," Amon said slowly, as if he were genuinely considering it, "later behaviour in the bedroom." Her cheeks burned and her heart beat so fast that it felt as if it might genuinely burst out of her chest. Were they looking at her? Did they pity her? Were they angry? What if they were angry? What if they thought that she'd failed them?
She stole a quick look upwards, blinking rapidly to ensure that there were no tears in her eyes at all—she was the Avatar, she was a big girl, she needed to stop being so emotional just for a second turn off all the emotions—and caught Mako's eyes. As if burned, she looked back down instantly. Concern. Concern and anger. The anger couldn't be for her, she tried to convince herself. Mako couldn't be angry with her. Shouldn't. Mustn't. All the words seemed to ring false in her head however much she repeated them—nails in her shoulders, unable to breathe through the pillow, lungs constricting and panicking—she blinked, wiping the senses away, and this room came back.
"First transgression; first attempt at escape." He stepped forward himself and dealt a contemptuous blow to Mako, his metal gauntlets making the most awful noise on Mako's skin. With a movement that had far too much elegance for its purpose, he kicked Mako in the gut, sending him down onto the floor. Korra couldn't help but watch, her heart in her mouth, beating so erratically that she was worried it would stop altogether. She itched to intervene, ached to jump between them and take the blows instead. That was the whole point of this exercise. Retaliation came to someone else, something infinitely harder to deal with than personal punishment.
"Second transgression; fighting." He advanced as Mako fell back, trying to get back on his feet, trying to clamber back to his knees at least, failing each and every time underneath the blows. Bolin was watching too, straining perhaps unconsciously against the Equalist holding the tattered remains of his shirt collar. Korra took in the scene, beginning to feel further and further away from events, detached to the point of floating. When the room began to spin slightly, she wondered distantly if something might be wrong, and when everything went dark, her last thought before she was already conscious again was simply huh.
She was confused and disorientated for a moment to find herself in an utterly different position than she had been, searching for the last memory, which was of sickness clambering up through her body to her head and the blackness taking over. She blinked, and stared up at Amon's mask. Everyone hadn't really moved. She must have fainted. Had she been out for only seconds? How unfair. Even unconsciousness brought no real respite.
Amon would only see this as more weakness. Good, a voice whispered to her, good. Nobody moved as she looked up, still dazed, mildly concerned about the voices in her head. "Get up," he said harshly, and the ideas floating about disconnectedly in her head clicked. Painting a smooth expression on her face to cover the fire brewing, she slowly pulled herself up off the floor. Her head still span, and she exaggerated it, moving as slowly as possible to cover for the rapid thought taking place. Act, the voice whispered, returning, act small. Make sure he thinks you're small. Be small. "Get up," he repeated.
Moving as if through tar, she put her hand on the cold stone of the wall, and pulled herself up. If she looked at Mako and Bolin now, she might get lost. She might lose herself in their concern and worry for her. Through the fear and shame came one clearer emotion; serious, intense anger. Anger felt unusual. Anger felt powerful. She pulled carefully on fear to make herself small, and clung onto the fury. "I'm up," she muttered, her voice coming through surprisingly clearly.
She was up, and the counter-revolution had been born.