A/N: Okay, so this IS NOT the final chapter. There might be one or two at most after this one so thanks for hanging on in there. Also, I apologize for the lousy update speed but my high school graduation is coming up and I've been busy with other things.

So with that in mind, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar the Last Airbender.

Chapter Eighteen: War Within

Inside the lonely caravan, a brooding man sat alone, cradling a bottle of gin. He was not quite as intoxicated as he would've liked but the dim light of the candle at his elbow gave off the illusion that the man was dozing drunkenly, sleeping a blurred dream. But he wasn't.

With one hand, he undid the black tie he had worn to the funeral, tossing it aside on the floor in uncharacteristic carelessness. His eyes seemed to burn, reflecting the candle's glow. The windows were shuttered and not a single ray of moonlight penetrated the gloom.

Taking another swig from his bottle, Shadow smacked his lips lazily, thinking back to the morning when he had marched solemnly across the parched grass with a framed picture of Iriah in his hands. A gathering of people had watched him do it, some of whom he recognized, most of whom he didn't. Shadow hardly cared. If he'd cared what others thought, he'd never have washed his face of white powder or his signature black diamond and attended a public gathering. Even a few of his staff members had failed to recognize him at first. Shadow never removed his makeup – his mask – for any occasion. That morning was the exception.

"Old friend…" he muttered, his voice slurring slightly as the alcohol ran its course through his bloodstream. "Is this… is this what you had in mind?" His voice carried around the caravan with no one to hear it but perhaps the candle. He hiccupped suddenly. "Was this part of your plan? Your only daughter dead; your wife dead; you… dead."

He was definitely drunk now. No longer was the room gloomy and steady but spinning and bursting with more light than was possible on a pitch-black night. He recalled the day before the funeral, saw himself sitting rigid at the bedside of a burn victim, her skin black in places. It was useless, Shadow had thought. He'd seen fatal burn wounds before in his years of circus life. A burn this bad would result in death one way or another.

Iriah had never opened her eyes but her chapped lips had moved ceaselessly, moaning in pain and sometimes mumbling. Shadow had been there to hear it all, an entire year's worth of apologies and regrets spilling from the body of a dying person, his best friend's last kin.

"…help the…" she'd muttered, her face contorted in pain.

Shadow had quickly drawn nearer to her. Iriah's voice had been paper-dry and fading but still coherent. She repeated her request over and over again until she finally died a few hours later. Shadow heard it all.

And now, here he sat in complete solitude, more wasted than he'd been in many years, hazy recollections spinning in his aching head. Shadow had a decision to make. Yes, Iriah had been something to him, a solid reminder of someone very close to him, someone he'd lost and never quite forgave for leaving. But on the other hand, Shadow had vowed to keep a low profile, to vanish within the darkness and emerge only in disguise, in the spotlights which were his only refuge.

"I… I don't know," mumbled Shadow, his eyes drooping with sleep. "Help a brother out here, old friend…"

His head lolled to the side and the empty bottle rolled from his grasp, thudded to the floorand rolled underneath his desk. Fatigue pulled him into nothingness and Shadow slumped over his desk, falling into a troubled sleep.

There were mainly two emotions Mako felt after the night in the alleyway. These two emotions interchanged and switched so often in the days following his three-day coma that it was like watching a coin flipping back and forth like some demented fish spirit.

At first he suffered bouts of depression. It would settle in, blanketing him like black snow, and reminding him of a short-lived pseudo friendship. In all honesty, Mako didn't know enough about Iriah – except maybe her single darkest secret – to call himself a real friend. He didn't know all the details about her childhood or what her hobbies were or any of that other stuff that friends normally knew about each other. But she had obviously thought differently. Why else, Mako reasoned, would she have sacrificed herself to save him?

And then, when the miserable thoughts seemed to suffocate him, the coin flipped and he felt… happy. Jubilant. This brought immeasurable shame to Mako. He knew why he was so glad. If Iriah hadn't stepped in when she had, Mako would probably be in the Spirit World right now, his mortal body slowly rotting beneath the earth while his family wept, their eldest son unable to help them in any way. Was it not better for him and his family that he was still alive, even at the cost of an innocent third-party?

As swiftly as this new-found joy of life kicked in, heavy boulders labeled "guilt" would send him crashing to the ground again, deflating all sense of purpose or contentment. Poisonous thoughts would prick his insides mercilessly, reminding him that someone had died for no other reason than that he, Mako, existed. Had Iriah not suffered enough? Had she not earned the right to live her chosen life? Did Mako really have a better reason to live than Iriah had, even if she no longer had a family?

These questions would fog up his brain, sometimes causing him to burst out in rage, sometimes tears, sometimes both. Often times he had to excuse himself if he was with someone just so he could go outside and punch a wall. When he was alone – or thought he was – he didn't care much about appearances. Once or twice he had to physically restrain himself from breaking something he didn't own. And then the coin would flip and he'd be happy again. Disgustingly so.

To say that Mako's behavior went noticed by younger brother Bolin was an understatement. Bolin seemed to quickly develop a hair-trigger sensor for when Mako was about to have one of his emotional collapses or just switch moods. When they were together, Bolin would excuse himself before Mako asked him to, allowing his older brother some privacy when he broke down again. Even when they were apart, Bolin had the strangest feeling he could tell what Mako was feeling at that moment, whether he was laughing or crying again. It felt frustrating to watch from the sidelines, unable to help his brother out of the extreme mood-swings. Bolin understood why Mako was struggling with this inner conflict, knew his brother well enough to know how severe his survivor's guilt must be. But at the same time, Bolinfelt annoyed that Mako couldn't control himself. The truth was that there were bigger problems than Iriah's inexplicable sacrifice and Bolin needed his older brother's help.

While the two brothers were hospitalized, debt collectors had paid a visit to their home. Though their mother tried to hide it, it was obvious the debt collectors had been vicious with their demands. Bolin could easily tell how worried she was about the mounting debt on the soy field, the seed money they had borrowed, and now the medical bills for their burn treatment.

Afraid the debt collectors would return with something more than verbal threats, Min and Mireu were sent over to live with their mother's friend Huaming for the time being. Meanwhile, the rest of the family tried to cram as many jobs as they could come by into their schedule. Even Mako, who was still internally waging a war against himself, found the strength to get up and go to work every morning, always remembering to flip up his collar to hide the faded scars on his neck.

About a week after Iriah's funeral, Shadow asked Bing Su to join him in his caravan. Bing Su was tardy again as she had been to every single rehearsal they'd had since the funeral. She came gliding in, her posture perfect as usual without even knocking because Shadow had left the door open. Though annoyed, the ringmaster, wearing his trademark make-up and one of his black suits that wasn't rigged with a water-squirting daisy, greeted her politely as she shut the door.

"Thank you for coming, Bing Su, "said Shadow as the dancer perched herself on the stool opposite him, a desk wedged between the two of them.

The dim lights in his room didn't quite illuminate the beauty of Bing Su's lacy turquoise dress but failed to diminish the natural radiance that seemed to emanate from her pores, even when she was frowning darkly at him. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant bun, the delicate handle of an ornate dagger protruding from it, a warning as much as it was a fashion statement.

When Bing Su did not speak, Shadow decided to cut to the chase, acutely aware that Bing Su was much less courteous just days after her close friend's death. He admired her ability to keep her outer composure while simultaneously containing grief and anger.

"I wanted to ask why that boy – Bolin was it? Yes, what he said to you at the funeral," said Shadow quietly, making sure to keep his voice light yet firm.

"Why?" replied Bing Su coldly, still graceful yet more dangerous than a poisonous rat-viper.

"It might be… important."

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Bing Su snorted, a delicate snort at that. Shadow doubted whether she could imitate the cry of a platypus-bear without making it sound delicate. She didn't speak but did not break eye contact.

"Please, Bing Su," said Shadow. A pause. "It… it has something to do with Iriah."

The stool scraped the wooden floor as Bing Su stood up, preparing to leave. Shadow watched her as she reached the door and opened it, letting the sunlight flood in.

Without turning her head, Bing Su said, "He thanked me for saving him. Him and his brother."

"Was that all?" asked Shadow, speaking to the hair piece as Bing Su resolutely kept her back turned to him.

"Yes," she said. Then the door closed, the sunlight leaving with her.

A/N: Thank you all who have read, reviewed, or both. If you find any glaringly obvious typos, grammar mistakes, etc. please let me know. :D