i guess this has become a motogp blog

it's not a name that would've been recorded in history books, by the sages. casey looks all about fourteen, which means he must’ve died at that age. alex stares mutely at him. maybe he ought to feel sorry for this boy, a larval avatar whose life got sniped short but alex's mind is too preoccupied with marc. how will I get my brother back? meaning how long is he stuck like this?

casey looks even more annoyed. he isn't gone. he's here. he curls a hand into a fist, thumps his chest. alex notices, belatedly, that the boy's trousers are crusted over with ice. that his skin has a strange faint tinge of blue to it that might not just be from the interior lighting of the cave.

you were being pursued by valentino's men, casey says, because he would've also been there, since he's marc and all, and alex is still trying to wrap his mind around that -- marc triggered the avatar state. because of you. to protect you.

alex's heart clenches. marc has always seen himself as the protector. even when he's so battered he's delirious. alex has to help him. all his senses that have stirred since he woke are on high alert, saying the same thing again and again: danger. marc. help marc. marc is in danger.

he's dying, says casey, flatly, the words like fireballs blasting into alex's chest. the arm -- it's beyond infection. it will burn him alive from the inside. the avatar state can only stave the curse off for so long. besides which, marc can't sustain this state -- gesturing at the cave around them -- for long. he has not yet mastered the elements.

alex is more worried about the he's dying part than the fact this cave is somehow a manifestation of marc's headspace. or whatever.

i noticed he's dying, he says starchily, in case you haven't been following along, we were just trying to get away from the fire kingdom then to the water tri -- wait. alex's eyes widen. you -- can't you heal him? casey, a native of the water tribe, surely he would be able to heal.

casey shakes his head. it will be a futile journey, even if you make it there in time. there isn't a waterbender alive to match valentino's prowess as a firebender.

alex starts, but you’re the avatar!

casey’s eyes flash with temper, like avatar is a word that scrapes over his nerves. it doesn’t matter. your brother’s beyond healing. he stares alex down. you know what needs to be done.

he stretches an arm out, palm up. snow, water from the walls of the cave, the puddle surge upward, coalescing into his hand, sharpening into a slender, cutting shape: a blade the length of alex's arm. alex recoils from it, understanding piercing sharp and fast, at once.

the avatar state is ending, casey tells him, urgency making his voice crackle, echoing as the cave begins to rumble and alex wobbles on his feet, nearly stumbling back, you have to do it. quickly, the moment you get back. ice and stone begin to drop from the ceiling, tiny little icicles that crack against alex's shoulder, collarbone.

take it, casey's voice fractures as the walls began to crack apart, he can't die like this. he has to -- he thrusts the knife at alex, blade-first, and alex yelps, grabbing for the hilt, wrapping around casey's ice-cold hands and then it's in his hands, a blade so cold it hisses.

then the ground opens up and alex falls, screaming, as a roar reverberates from the depths of the cavern, the creature that had called out falsely with marc's voice screaming furious: avatar, avatar, come to me, let me devour you whole once more--

and casey, resigned, leaps over the abyss and goes to battle it once more.

alex wakes alone. he wakes to the impression of an inferno and he jackknifes upward and almost impales himself on the ice sword. he's so startled he loosens his grip and the blade clatters onto the dirt.

his brain unfreezes. he bends down to scoop it back up and as he does, he sees that he's back in the real world. that he's somehow survived a direct drop to the bottom of the canyon. the sky above is but a thin, jagged blue line. scholars call the bottom of the canyon tartarus, the gateway to hell, but alex couldn't have cares less about being in hell. he turns. marc! he shouts, his voice echoing. marc, marc, marc! one call repeated a hundred times.

he doesn't hear a reply, and he shivers, recalling that creature's false-marc voice from his -- dream? no, the spirit realm? whatever the avatar state had brought him and marc to.

marc, he calls again, softer, almost like he's a little kid again and he'd gotten lost in the market. it had been marc who found him, who turned back and fought his way through to the crowd to get back to alex.

no words call back but the ground shivers, the faintest of tremors, and alex trains his gaze downward to the new split in the ground, a jagged trail that he follows until he finds the lump of a human form splayed some twenty feet away.

marc! he skids to his knees, reaching for marc's head, trying to pull him into his lap. marc's skin scalds him - he screams, burnt.

marc's head lolls listlessly in his direction and the sight of him terrifies alex more than that creature in the cave. his face is white as a corpse's, waxy. 'lex, he sees marc's lips move.

i'm coming, i'm hurrying, he says, blinking rapidly, even though all he can do is hover over marc. droplets fall onto marc's pale cheeks. stupidly he thinks it might be rain at first.

don't... marc's voice rustles like desert wind, raspy, dry, don't cry, 'lex. i'm okay. his attempt to lie is so audacious alex chokes on a watery laugh.

alex sniffles, wiping a knuckle over his eyes. i can help. casey said -- the blade. he fumbles for it. his heat-stung hands from trying to touch marc are beginning to cool, healing from the touch of the blade.

i know what casey said. it's me. marc's eyes drift shut, lashes stilling, and alex's heart nearly stops until his brother opens his eyes again, fading fast, do it. as close to begging as he'd ever allow himself.

alex adjusts his grip on the blade, finding the hilt with his right, bracing the bottom of it with his left and at last makes himself look at marc's arm. or what's left of it.

smoke is rising from the blackened thing that was marc's arm. it still has the shape of an arm, but it looks like a bunch of coals stuck together, arranged a little clumsily, like a child's clay art project. dust swirls around it as marc earthbends the dirt into moving it, splaying it horizontally, like a sacrifice on an altar. alex moves on his knees, positions himself, braces the blade. the tip quivers as his hands shake.

it will be a deep cut, one that will go right through the shoulder.

bile rises like the head of a striking serpent in alex's empty belly. marc, he says, tremulous. sorry. i'm so -- so sorry.