The Madness of Fire

Jeong-Jeong was not crazy, not really, though people who encountered him often thought so. He was rough and hard and bitter but he still clung to his sanity with a tentative grasp. Sometimes he wanted to let go and just give into the despair that lived quite happily in the back of his mind, growing day by day.

Fire was destruction and death and pain. He was a firebender, a master even, and he had caused all three. Jeong-Jeong couldn't bring those soldiers and civilians back to life. He couldn't remove their scars or return the limbs he had ruined with searing blasts of fire. The flesh and bone that he had destroyed as a Fire Nation soldier would never grow back or reappear. What he did in the name of fire was terrible and permanent.

Sometimes he dreamed about the day he first discovered that he could make fire. He had been so happy and so proud, a little boy who ran to his father, eyes alight with a sense of accomplishment. He was special.

That joy was fleeting. His skill was honed not for good but for evil; for murder and intimidation. That was madness, though at the time he was too weak to rebel. By the time he defected from the Fire Nation Army, his mind was fragile, his psyche damaged beyond repair. He wasn't mad, though. That title belonged to those who continued mindlessly in their drive to dominate with fire. Perhaps those who created flames were predisposed to madness. Perhaps only the strongest could resist the pull of insanity. Jeong-Jeong was nothing if not strong. The fact that he had finally done something right made him stronger.

Maybe one day, he could love fire again. Maybe…

Tolerable Madness

"He's insane, you know, mad," Smellerbee rasped to Longshot as they watched Jet.

Their leader was busy interrogating a Fire Nation citizen, some hapless man who lived in the colonies and was traveling with his wares through their forest. Longshot stiffened just a bit and Smellerbee had her answer. The tall young man, expert with a bow, knew what Jet was and didn't care. Neither did Smellerbee. Jet was their leader. He had made a home for them all those years ago. He had given them somewhere to belong. They wouldn't give that up or abandon him no matter what.

Jet removed his hooked swords from his belt and brandished them threateningly in front of the petrified man who kneeled in the leaves and soft soil of the forest floor.

"Tell me," Jet demanded in a cold, quiet and terrifying tone.

Goosebumps formed on Smellerbee's skin as she watched and listened.

"I, I don't know anything, I swear I don't know. I'm just a merchant. Please, let me go," he pleaded desperately. "I won't tell on you. Please, I have a son. He's only eight years old."

"You're not a very smart merchant, are you?" Jet observed, ignoring the man's pleas. There was a hint of mirth in his brown eyes. "You really should wear Earth Kingdom colours when you're in our country. You Fire Nation bastards are so arrogant. Now, you're going to pay."

Smellerbee and Longshot stood by impassively as Jet moved behind the man, placed one sword around his thick neck and then drew it quickly outward. The vulnerable flesh opened up neatly and hot blood sprayed Jet's face and armor. He wiped it away casually and then kicked the prone body. The thirsty earth rapidly absorbed the pool of blood that surrounded the corpse.

"Let's go," Jet ordered. "It's time for dinner."