Letters from the Falling Sky

Author's Note: Keep an eye out for my newest fiction, "What Happens in the Swamp," to be published in another month or so. I look forward to your fantabulous input!

Also, if any of you are avid TV watchers, and would like to suggest shows for me to watch or books to read, please feel free to message me, or include them in your review. Avatar is great, but I would like to write for something else, and I'm extremely open-minded when it comes to good literature.

There will be anywhere from one to two chapters after this—yes sir, we're getting close! Be sure to send me your thoughts.

Still enjoying this ride, and hoping you are too,

scorpiaux

.21.

She was difficult.

Her parents often called her stubborn. Gran Gran chastised her hard-headed attitude, telling her that it was boyish and an unattractive quality in a girl. Katara insisted otherwise. Sokka had once called her a bitch, when they were old enough to use such language, and when the absence of both mother and father had allowed them to. But it had only happened once, after a fight Katara can't remember.

So despite Orabi's weight and her bounded limbs, Katara was able to give him a tiresome fight. She twisted, screamed, grunted in the black bathroom. Orabi swore through his teeth and threatened, but it was as though he was trying to hold a snake. Years of bending had left Katara agile and fierce. Orabi, who had let age and weight somewhat catch up to him, was larger, yes, but much clumsier.

Yet, he was still a man, and still stronger than her considerably. So after a struggle that had deemed itself exhausting, Katara—red-faced and panting—gave up. Orabi frowned deeply and breathed through his mouth.

It was then a large slab of earth, slightly pointed at the top, erupted from the ground and smashed into Orabi's chest. It pinned him to the ceiling and stopped—he remained wedged between the slab and the ceiling, breath caught short from the impact. Katara took advantage of this and cut the rope from her hands, then her feet. She didn't have the curiosity to wonder about the miracle; her priority now was finding Lynnie.

"What is this?" Orabi bellowed desperately, squirming from the grip of the boulder. He was a man who took his plotting seriously, and this turn of events had upset and confused him. He thrashed in his new position, but the rock held fast. He knew without trying again that he was powerless.

Katara grabbed her kimono from the floor and threw it distractedly about her shoulders. Then the paper door of the bathroom opened up like the mouth of a cave, and the bathroom flooded with light from the window across the bedroom, and Toph, breathless and sweating, stood in the doorway, with her fists up halfway, fingers clenched tightly, eyes as vacant as ever, but trembling. Orabi's jaw dropped.

"You're going to regret everything you ever did," Toph muttered darkly. "Everything."

Her hands—soft and white, strangely lady-like—moved up, and the boulder followed suit. Orabi wheezed as his ribcage was crushed between the rock and the ceiling of the bathroom. Katara, wide-eyed, realized what Toph was doing.

"Don't kill him!" begged the healer, grabbing Toph's elbow. Toph moved her face quickly in Katara's direction. "I know he's bad, Toph. We can send him to jail. But please…please don't kill him."

"Katara," Toph hissed back, "you don't know what they've done to Kya Lynn." Then, without consulting the matter further, she flicked her wrists upward; the boulder went through Orabi's body as though he was nothing more than a paper bag. Red spilled from his eyes and nostrils, from the hole in his stomach, from his mouth. His last word was a disconnected huff and a sigh, something indecipherable, quiet. His right hand twitched.

Katara stared up in horror. She covered her mouth with her hands. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice muffled and cracking. "Where's Lynnie?"

Sokka was strangling Koko against the wall-sized window. Beneath him he could see an empty ally, the faltering light of evening.

He and Toph had found Nation's End before Aang had. Zuko and Mai had left to find help from the palace doctors. The sight of Lynnie's small, pale body on a pillow stained with blood was enough to convince them. Fa Ling had heard their angry steps on the path in front of the small building, and had hidden behind the desk, shivering and biting her hand.

Koko choked and gasped for air. Sokka, unfeeling since the sight of Lynnie, wasted no time. He had been raised with war, fed on it, grew from it. Since he was a child he had not found the error in death—and only since Suki did he truly realize how much it could change the course of lives. But he was a swordsman, experienced enough to forget morals in his practice. And Koko's inability to save Toph, as well as Lynnie's bleeding body on the bed…it had snapped him. Reminded him. It was the physical push that made him tighten his fists. Attack the woman who called herself a healer.

He unsheathed his crystalline sword and held it up to her neck. She shut her eyes.

"You were part of our tribe," he said. "You bitch!"

From the deep corner of his field of vision, he saw Katara and Toph rush in from the bathroom. Katara started crying. She placed her fingers over Lynnie's severed neck. Toph stood in the corner and felt a numbing shiver crawl down her back.

Sokka's eyes were wet. He kept his face fixated on Koko when he asked, "Is she okay?"

"Her bending is gone," answered Toph, because Katara was sobbing quietly and could say nothing. "Orabi took it."

Sokka shoved his sword closer to the healer's neck. "Now," he demanded. "You go over there and fix this. Now."

Koko stared at him. Her brows were tight, mouth stretched, slightly open. Her hands trembled. She weighed the consequences; for the first time in her life, she realized that she didn't fear death. All her life she had been in search of something great, wanting so much to add to something, to take it away…to become some sort of legend. Spying for the resistance had been a joy for her, given her something to do. She glanced at the sword, shifted her eyes to meet Sokka's. She was not afraid for him. But Katara's sobbing was loud. Persistent.

What have I done?

"Now!" Sokka shouted. He grabbed her arm and tossed her towards the bed. "You'll see what happens to you if you can't save her! Now!"

Koko landed on her hands and scrambled quickly to the nightstand, where there was a vase of wilting white roses. She pulled a strand of water from the base of it, knocking over the ceramic in the process.

Sometime through it all, Koko looked over and caught Katara's eye. Her makeup was smudged from her struggle with Orabi. It had gotten worse with the crying now, and there were dark stains from her mascara and eyeliner that ran down her cheeks in thick tracks. There was a little puddle of wetness underneath her nose, over her upper lip. On her forehead, there was a thin red line, glimmering crimson in the light from the window, where Orabi had scratched her. Her hair stood up in uneven jabs, a battered mess that Koko had once envied. Katara's lips quivered unevenly; she turned her face and stopped crying long enough to throw up. She held her stomach.

Koko swallowed the sweltering force throbbing in her throat.

Fa Ling's father must have had six or seven daughters, maybe around Fa Ling's age, the youngest of which was only twelve, the oldest, twenty-one. Fa Ling was sixteen at the time of Hakoda and Suki's murders. Now she was almost twenty, and sitting behind the reception desk, shivering and biting her knuckles.

She had known since before this started that her planning with Orabi would end badly; she had met him almost by accident, at a conference he father forced her to attend. One of the taverns in their city had caught fire the night before, and Orabi was held suspect. It was unlikely, said Fa Ling's father, that he was to blame; Orabi dressed better than the government officials themselves, and his temperament was strangely calm, even in the face of accusation. The conference ended. Orabi swore that he would help the local police find whoever was in charge of the arson, and sometime afterward, as Fa Ling was outside, watching her younger sisters scream and chase each other, Orabi had come up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

She turned expecting her father, but found a man much taller and a few shades darker, too. His hair was long, tied up with a pin, with the neatness one would expect from someone older, more mature.

"I'm sorry I had to bore you today," he said, not removing his hand. "I know it's probably not your best interest to come to these sorts of meetings. And I apologize. I have no idea who would have accused me."

Fa Ling laughed attentively and shook her head. She cleared her throat. "It wasn't you…it was the atmosphere. I don't like politics, or government…and the fact that my father is a mayor honestly isn't the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. Frankly," she concluded, finding her voice to sound rather sophisticated, "the political aspect of my father's life got old the second I was exposed to it."

Orabi offered her a rolled crimson sheet with tobacco inside. She took it, not wanting to look childish in front of him after her collective speech, and watched as he struck a match against the case of a sword hanging casually on his side.

"The whole concept of politics after Ozai," he started, "is an impossibility. I have nothing against Prince Zuko, but think about it." Fa Ling looked up at him. "Think about what happened for Zuko to come to power. The Avatar had to remove Ozai, and his fall—symbolically speaking—is an insult to the Fire Nation as a whole. It's as though everything the Fire Nation has done to better the world didn't matter or count. I mean, sure, Ozai was a bit of a tyrant, but he came from a bloodline of kings, and there are parts of the Earth Kingdom that have been bettered because of colonization. Even your father's city," he continued, "has gotten better since he received back up from the Fire Nation police forces."

"I don't know," she said, watching the edge of the rolled tobacco ash up and crumble. "Like I told you, politics isn't exactly my forte. And I like the Avatar. I like that the war is over."

"Oh sure," said Orabi. "Of course. We're both Earth Kingdom, right? Ha! Of course, the war is over, and it's great." He placed his hand on her shoulder again; Fa Ling noticed how large it was. He looked at her face intently. "I'm saying, sometimes the way things is done are more important than the end product."

"What do you mean?"

"Why should the Avatar live and be happy when he's imprisoned a man and forced a coup on the Fire Nation government? Why should the Avatar live happily when there are still places that are suffering from postwar industrialization? You see? There are so many things he still hasn't fixed, and everyone is idolizing him like he's some sort of saint."

"I like the Avatar," repeated Fa Ling. "He's done his best, and I'm sure it will get better. I mean, it's only been five years. We can't expect it to get better right away."

"There are ways to speed up the process," Orabi said, patting Fa Ling's shoulder. Then he handed her a card with an address written on it, and a time, and a date.

The first time in his flat proved difficult. Fa Ling may have been fifteen, but she had the sexual experiences of an eight year old, which consisted of innocent pecks on the cheek in grade school play grounds, and holding hands on a field trip when she was much younger. Orabi was older, so much more experienced. The very fact that he lived on his own nearly forced Fa Ling to respect him and his ideals, even if they were extremist.

He made her tea and they sat on the balcony, which was small but not uncomfortable. Fa Ling had left the house with the excuse that she was seeing a play with a few of her friends, and her father—perhaps because his attention was split among his other daughters—didn't inquire further.

"This tea is delicious," she complimented, emptying her glass. "You make it just like my mother does…is that weird?"

"Only a little," he said, winking.

She laughed and covered her mouth. When Orabi refilled her cup, she turned her face. "I feel like I shouldn't be here," Fa Ling admitted in a whisper. "I don't know why. I feel like maybe we're doing something wrong—well…maybe not we. Maybe…maybe, I don't know. Just me."

She felt Orabi's fingers touch her chin, and she turned to him almost impulsively. "You have beautiful eyes, Fa Ling," he murmured, staring hard at them. "I've never seen this before, this mix of brown and green. It's very beautiful on you."

She said, "Thank you," mostly because she didn't know what else to say. The only other time anyone had noticed her eyes was when she was younger, and her mother had blinked and held her face to the light, exclaiming, "Look at you, Fa Ling! Not green, not brown!" Her mother's friends laughed and took turns looking at her, this accident of design, this odd and captivating mistake.

"I want you to do a favor for me," he stated, opening his palm to hold her face. "Don't think about your parents. Don't think about what you should or shouldn't do." She felt his fingers graze over her ears, soft but contained. She blushed. "Think about what you like, about what you want to do. Think about us."

Her voice was shaky, hesitant. She mouthed, "Us?" and he nodded, leaned over the table with the teapot on it, and kissed her mouth.

The idea of a young woman's first kiss had appealed to Fa Ling since the age of nine, when she had watched her older sister kiss what had then been her love interest. She had included the ideas of fairytales and marriages, and fireworks in the background and nice clothes and the smell of peppermint, flavored tobacco, and cologne. She could see herself stroking the head of her beloved under a full moon, as they kissed one another with urgency—sensual, unfulfilled urgency, and haughty, shameless need—and oh, how great it would be when afterwards, the man of her dreams would bend on one knee and show her a stunning ring, and ask her, looking at her as though she was the treasure of the earth, "Will you marry me, Fa Ling? Will you be mine always and grow old with me? Will you be the mother of my children, my companion forever and ever and ever?" to which Fa Ling would answer, "I would have it no other way, my darling!"

But her first kiss with Orabi was different. It was almost as though she had stepped out of her skin and could watch herself objectively, from another spot on his balcony, when he lifted her up and ran his tongue over her bottom lip, and held her waist and stomach as if she was trying to get away.

She moved, faltered—paused long enough to look at him and then look at the carriages below, considering.

"Orabi," she said, crossing her arms, "I—I…really like you…but—but, I…"

"I like you a lot, Fa Ling." He was grinning. He hadn't let go of her waist, and while she did mind at first, this new feeling—this feeling of having someone to want, to hold, to pay attention to—was becoming realistic, tangible. She and Orabi could get married, and start a family, and move to a classy neighborhood and go on vacations and resorts, and live happily. It would be so perfect, she thought. So perfect, so unbreakable…so adult.

Orabi kissed her neck and held her closer, a little tighter. He uncrossed her arms with one of his hands and placed it around his neck. Unsurely, she had her other hand do the same thing. She felt the muscles under his neck; he moved his arms up to her back.

"I want to teach you things, Fa Ling," he insisted quietly in her ear. His breath tickled her. "I have so much to teach you. You should trust me. I'm not going to judge you, or make fun of you, or tell you want to do." His teeth clasped gently on her earlobe, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. This was so new, so different…and even if it felt immoral, Fa Ling was dizzy with his attention, his experience. She closed her eyes. "I want you," he informed simply.

"I…I think—"

"Let me have you."

It was a disastrous cycle, she knew—hideous in its secrecy, frightening in its vulnerability. She was certain that after he had taken her virginity, he would leave her. But Orabi returned to her father's house the following morning for what he called a 'casual visit to say thank you,' during which he spoke to her very briefly, without her parents knowing, that he needed to see her again—needed this thing called Fa Ling in his life.

She couldn't help herself; she had grown addicted. She visited his apartment every night for the first week, then every other night, then only on weekends. When he started working with a shipping company, they saw each other whenever they could, and she adopted the habit of writing him letters, missing him, his touch, his ideas, their lovemaking. He wrote back with something akin to sincerity.

A year later, she helped him commit two murders. Four years after that, here she was again, after he had cheated on her with Katara and an unknown number of other girls. As she sat behind the receptionist's desk, Fa Ling realized for the first time in months that she was incredibly stupid to be following this man, who was not only a pervert but also a psycho. What if he killed her? What if he decided that her family needed to be punished for having connections with the Avatar? It was amazing how much one thought about things when their life was threatened, when the entire scheme of occurrence was put in perspective. She listened as a gust of unnatural wind blew the door of the makeshift inn off of its hinges.

Aang, covered in sweat, dirt, and needle-like twigs, stood firmly in the reception area, his eyes narrowed and searching. As soon as Fa Ling glanced at him, he turned to her, grimacing, the veins of his arms rigid and obvious.

"Where are they?" he demanded, his steps echoing with his voice. "Tell me where they—" He paused, opened his eyes a little wider, formed a perfect "O" with his lips. His confusion—sudden, overlapping—flashed as an immediate contrast to his anger. In that precise second, Aang looked like a boy of twelve years, exposed to something he was not yet made to understand.

He said, his voice breaking, "Fa Ling?"

She looked at him; fear prevented her from answering.

"You?" he said, growing closer. She shrunk from him and pulled her knees to her face. From her position on the floor, he looked twice as tall, twice as threatening.

She managed a whimper.

"What are you doing here?" he wanted to know. His voice was getting louder, more involved. Fa Ling saw Aang's grip tighten around his staff. Three of his knuckles were bleeding.

She didn't answer. How could she? Her tongue was caught in her throat, held fast by guilt, fear, and pity. She would die today. Orabi would die today. Koko, that ignorant, self-absorbed waterbender…they would all die. And maybe Katara and Kya Lynn were dead too. Maybe Aang would die. Fa Ling swallowed and tried to stand. But her legs were weak, and they buckled, sending her face first on the desk.

Aang's facial expression communicated that he had assumed the worst, and the worst was the truth. Fa Ling was part of the Resistance.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, mixing the words with desperate sobs. "I'm so, so sorry." She tried to breathe in—for some reason the task proved unspeakably difficult. "I'm stupid. I'm just stupid. And your family. They're upstairs." She added, unable to look at him, "They're upstairs in Room 3, to your left. And they need you. Please…" Then she buried her face in the scrolls unraveled on the desk. Aang's response to this faded. The view of the room from her position on the desk spun and shook. Fa Ling's first kiss flashed inside her eyelids, her first night with Orabi, his name resonating in the dark apartment, his empty promising, his uneven smile and large, eager fingers.

Aang grabbed Fa Ling's dark hair and lifted her head, realizing unwillingly that she had fainted. From the rooms upstairs, he could hear fierce screams and quiet crying, and it was almost as though he was in that hotel four years ago, listening as Sokka discovered his dead bride and butchered father…listening as the sky fell in large, ominous pieces, breaking silently over his head, mocking his unavoidable misfortune.