#equal measure

The surface of the dresser was littered with small stacks of books, papers, and old photos of long-lost friends.  He liked to keep pictures of the people he’d once called family nearby.  It soothed him to see their smiling faces when he woke in the morning and before he slept at night.  They reminded him why he fought and what he fought for.

His eyes drifted over the images to rest on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which dominated the far-end of the wall.  The ornately carved exterior didn’t quite fit with the utilitarian décor of the room—there wasn’t another piece of furniture that featured meticulously engraved dragons crawling over an earth-kingdom style latticework.  But the piece fit the dimensions of the space and, at the time he’d located the piece, it’d been good enough.

He’d grown fond of the sturdy, if fanciful, old bookcase over the years.  He’d been meaning to repaint it and make a few repairs—perhaps give the creeping dragons a bit of color so that they stood out against the dark wood.  Now it seemed unlikely that he’d ever get around to making those small improvements…

He swallowed sharply at the thought and looked away…  Only for his eyes to land on a large, colorful poster that dominated the wall directly opposite him.

The poster depicted the Red Mandala Opera Troupe, decked out in all their finery for a somewhat controversial performance of The Tale of Kyoshi.  The lead players of the Red Mandala Opera Troupe met his gaze.  Their empty ink-on-paper eyes and smiling faces filled him with so much melancholy.

What would they think if they could see him now?

He stepped into the room and reverently approached the decorative red print. He could feel his lips pulling into a wistful, bitter smile as he stared at it.

He loved that poster.  He’d designed it himself when he’d been part of the small opera company.  Everyone had called it his best work.  After all these years, even after analyzing every flaw, he still adored it.

It was one of the few remaining images of the original leaders of the Earth Kingdom branch of the Equalist Revolution.

Things had been different back then.  The revolution had been at once much smaller and much larger back in those days.  The Red Mandala had functioned as the core—a troupe of thirty-five individuals who were free to move from across the various principalities of the Earth Kingdom, forging allies and spreading the word of ‘Amon.’  They’d had a contact point in every city who’d get them in the door and out again after the authorities started to look for the people who were stirring up discontent.

Even though only seven members of the core group were depicted—not everyone could be a leading actor or actress—the poster still called to mind the names and faces of his old comrades.  Back then he hadn’t led the revolution alone, he hadn’t been a mysterious and frightening figure in a mask.  No, he’d been the right hand of Amon.

The right hand of a great man.

A man he could never hope to replace.

His eyes traced the red mandala at the top of the poster, searching the intricate lines of the circular diagram for the carefully hidden character for equality.  He found it easily and as his eyes continued to rove over the print.  He found that he could still pick out the coded messages hidden among the lines of romantic poetry that decorated the background of the image.

His heart swelled with nostalgia and pride.

He’d designed this poster to hang in every city in every nation of the world.  And it had, indeed, hung in every city from Republic City to Ba Sing Se.  The authorities had seen nothing more than an advertisement for a famous play, but to the discerning eye it was a call for revolution and their allies had used it to spread the word.

His eyes drifted to the figures depicted on the poster—his rendition of the cast.  Whenever he looked at it he always found his attention went to the actor in the page’s attire first.  It was his old friend, Pok-To.  He’d gotten his friend’s nose wrong.  It’d been a great joke back in the day, but…

Pok To was dead.

So were Ah Fai, Wu Mei, Mu Bai, Jiao Long, Kei Ying…

His gaze moved slowly over the faces of his long-deceased comrades, recalling their names and the good old days, until his eyes settled on the three figures who stood in the center. The three actors who played the characters of Avatar Kiyoshi, her first lover, and her predecessor, Avatar Kuruk.

His eyes slipped closed, he clenched his teeth and turned away.  His body shuddered as he recalled them…

… Fei Hung…

… Shu Lien…

Only he, the third central figure who stood to the right of the beautiful lead actress, the lover, remained.  He’d gone by the name Xiao Hu back then, before he’d become Amon…

…back when the title of Amon had belonged to another man.  A worthier man…

A man who had been like a father to him for nearly a decade…

Amon swayed on his feet. He turned his gaze away from the image and stepped over to his desk, which took up a portion of the wall near the foot of his bed.  His left hand reached out and his fingers found the edge of its surface.  He leaned heavily on the hulking piece of furniture.

His right hand shook as he reached up and carefully removed his mask.  He set it down on top of the remaining scattered pieces of paper that littered the desk.  He’d torn them from the files last night, desperate to hide whatever truths he might have accidently recorded.

He dropped down into the chair by his desk and looked around the room again, with wide, dazed eyes. This could be the last time he ever set foot in this room.  This could be the last time he ever laid eyes upon the various objects that tied him to his lost friends and allies—the families he’d loved and lost since…

Since he left the North…

He swallowed sharply and winced.

But if things went according to plan he might be able to return.

A soft, dry chuckle slipped from between his lips.

‘If things went according to plan’?

NOTHING.  Was going to according to plan.

Everything was falling apart.

He blinked his eyes rapidly.  His face felt hot and a terrible ache rose in his chest.

What have I done?  He asked himself.  I’ve let everyone down.  I’m a failure.  I’m worse than a failure, I’m a fraud.  I’m a monster.  How could I have let this happen?  What was I thinking?  Why am I still alive?

I should have died back then!  If it’d been anyone else this never would have…!

He leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes tightly, and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.  The chair creaked in protest, but the pressure helped him focus as he reminded himself that he could not afford to come apart again.  Not at a time like this.  There was too much at stake.

He slowly let his hands slide up so that his fingers tangled in his hair.  They closed around his short, dark locks and then pulled gently. Typically, the pain helped distract him from his stress.  But it was no help at all.

He ground his teeth as he went over the situation again and again in his head, trying to come up with a way of resolving the situation in a more timely fashion.

If he turned himself over…?  It would do no good.  No one had seen his face and no one could confirm that he was Amon—that was the point. The whole purpose of Amon’s mask was to ensure that anyone could step into the role at a moment’s notice.  If he died, he was replaceable.

But now that aspect of the persona had come back to bite them all in the ass.  If he tried to turn himself in, he might not be recognized as the real Amon.  It would leave the Revolution leaderless in the face of this crisis and Republic City would be destroyed.

If he returned the Avatar…?  There was no guarantee that the Water Tribe would stop even if they did get her back.  And she’d been running around with those damn pro-bending brothers for months.  It was highly unlikely that she was still intact and if she wasn’t the revolution would take the blame.

He could try and send Tarrlok to parlay, but everyone knew that Tarrlok was a blood bender.  And, as such, was completely untrustworthy.

He could try and negotiate, but chieftains who called off Blood Wars had to abdicate the throne and go into exile.  Unalaq had staked his title and career on this.  There was no way he’d consider backing down for even a second.

He sighed and let his head drop so that his upper body was pressed against his thighs and drew several deep breaths. It was a profoundly painful position.  Every part of his body ached and no matter how much air he sucked into his lungs, he felt as though he were suffocating.  His cracked ribs protested the pressure and the gash in his shoulder strained, but the pain helped him focus.

There was no other way.  He had to go through with this.

He suddenly, desperately wished that he hadn’t spent the night before last sleeping at his desk in his offices.  But at the time he hadn’t known he wouldn’t be returning to his bed.  He hadn’t imagined that he’d be losing his home all over again…

He sat up too quickly. The room spun, but he found his bearings quickly.  He looked at the small clock on his desk.

It was five forty-five am.  He didn’t have time to mull over what he was losing.  He had to gather what he needed for this… this…

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to recover some semblance of self-control, but nothing came.  His mind was running down the long list of missed opportunities—everything he’d considered, but had never done—from fixing the pipes in the bathroom to leveling Ba Sing Se, from seducing the young equalist woman he’d seen during the humiliation of the Avatar to forging a more permanent arrangement with Zhen…

He had so many regrets.

His eyes slipped closed and he felt a deep painful ache blossom in his chest.  He was familiar with the sensation.  There had been days in the past when he’s lost himself to that agonizing ache—unable to so much as get out of bed and go outside.

He hated it.

He clenched his left hand into a fist, lifted it up past his shoulder, and brought it down sharply on his desk.  The sharp, loud sound, and jolt of pain tore him from the rising ache and helped him focus on a familiar emotion: rage.

His left arm swept across the surface of the desk as he forced himself to stand again, sending papers, note books, and even his precious mask tumbling to the floor.  He looked down at the mess, threw back his head and screamed out his frustration.  His hands reached out, grasping for something upon which he could vent his anger.

His hands found the chair he’d been seated on.  He lifted it up over his head and brought it down on the floor with all his might.  It shattered on impact, its wooden frame crumbled and splintered.  Pieces of wood skittered across the floor.

He stared down at the remains of the chair, his eyes wide with shock at what he’d done, but it still wasn’t enough appease his fury.

He wanted to scream and howl and strike out at everything around him until his ire was spent and he was too tired to do anything but lie still.  But as he moved to stand, he staggered to lean against the old desk—tired from the small, destructive display of his temper.

He looked around again, his eyes glancing over the countless trifles and objects that made up his life. He sighed heavily, shook his head, and tried to remember where he’d left that old trunk that he’d used back in the days when he’d been travelling with a troupe.

Under his bed.

Right.

He dropped down to his knees and pulled it out.  He stared at the massive, dark case with metal fixing that looked like it’d been dragged across the Great Si Wong in the height of summer.  There were so many scuff marks that Amon thought that he could see the wood hidden under the thick leather that covered the old box.  His hands slid over its rough surface, letting his finger catch in the deep gouges, metal bolts, and fixings that held it together.

He couldn’t bring this with him.  It was too big and bulky. He needed to travel light.

He opened the trunk and pulled out a satchel and two large packs from among the collection of bags, old opera costumes, and performance equipment that he’d stored in the trunk. He closed the trunk, pushed it back under his bed and set the bags on his bed.  One pack and the satchel would be used for his belongings, the other would be for Tarrlok and the Avatar’s necessities.

He opened the pack as he mentally ran down the list of items that he’d need. He moved quickly around his room, gathering the things he’d need for the journey.  As he worked he began to form a plan.

He started with clothes. He needed a few items of casual clothing that he could wear during the first part of the journey.  They ought to be items that weren’t exactly flattering and that he wouldn’t be too concerned with losing or tossing aside during his trip. He’d be wearing them for the first month, after that he would need to change his look.

Then he began assembling a small collection of scarves that he would use to cover his face. He recalled Tarrlok’s reaction to the scar and he wanted to keep his cunning little brother off-balance, so he was going to try and keep up his masquerade for the first part of the journey.  It would also help him lead the Avatar’s friends and family down a specific path of inquiry and pursuit.

A path that suited his ends.

If everyone sought a man with a facial scar, they wouldn’t be looking for a man with an unblemished face. He’d use scarves instead of a mask and bring along makeup to continue recreating the horrific burn.  He’d have to reapply regularly and that would present its own problems, but he knew what he was doing.

A mirror and a razor joined his collection of belongings, along with a few other toiletries.  He’d need to stay clean-shaven for as long as he was wearing his scar.  He needed people to see it and applying stage makeup over a beard would be nearly impossible.

He grabbed his collection of Amon masks.  He’d need a few for public appearances and he’d have to ask the lieutenant about producing several others, which could be shipped out to various allies in the Earth Kingdom States—if Amon was in Ba Sing Se, Omashu, and Republic City, it’d be quite hard to pinpoint his position.

After adding the masks to the pack, he looked around the room.  He had the basics.  Now for the other necessities.  He added a few more items of clothing, a small selection of books on strategy, two of his private notebooks, four empty notebooks, some writing utensils, and a small collection of maps.

He stopped and assessed what he’d gathered.  He would need rope to bind his prisoners and a knife to threaten them with—since he knew blood bending would only antagonize them and he…

… he needed his future wife to be as amicable to him as possible to ensure the success of this… venture…

He sighed and turned away from his pile of things, desperate to avoid thinking about what he would have to do to resolve the situation.  He sat down on the bed with his back to the pack, his eyes searching the walls for some sort of distraction.  He could find none until he realized that he hadn’t packed the book he’d been reading before this… thing had happened.

It would be a very useful book to have on this journey since it outlined the techniques used by the Earth Kingdom at Lake Laogai.  He hadn’t quite gotten to the advanced brainwashing techniques and those would be handy in dealing with the Avatar and bringing her around.

He turned toward his bedside table and, without moving from his seat on the bed, reached out to tug open the drawer where he’d stored the book.  His fingers had only just closed around the decorative nob on the drawer when he caught sight of a small, lumpy orange bundle of cloth tucked into a shelf.

He forgot the book and gently plucked the parcel from its perch.  He set it down on the bed next to him and slid his fingers along the fabric until he found the metal fastener that held the strip of cloth in its form. He gently removed it and unwrapped the fabric to stare at the contents of the small bundle.

An early version of his Amon mask stared back up at him.  It was his first completed Amon mask.  He picked it up and ran his fingers over the lacquered wood.

It was quite like his current mask.  All the elements were there: white base, green face-form, knife-shaped eyes, and a red circle.  But the design was far more elaborate and fanciful, almost crude in its excess compared to his current mask.  He could see the full influence of the opera in its form and features, from the exaggerated nose to the sharply downturned mouth.  Even the way he’d used of green and white paint to create cloud-like designs on its surface—as if a terrible white face were peering out of a poison-green mist…

He smiled wistfully down at the mask.  He remembered his struggle in choosing the motifs and design of his mask.  He’d gone through so many pieces of wood trying to carve this piece.  He’d been so pleased with his work when he’d finally completed it, but now, as he looked at it, he found himself amused by his childishness.  This mask wasn’t clean or sophisticated and it didn’t speak to the Amon he’d become. No, this mask was excessive and full of youthful intemperance.

His brow furrowed as he considered the thought.  Was twenty-five really all that young though?  Yes, it felt young to him now, but…

He shook his head, set the mask aside and turned his attention to the other objects carefully arranged in the orange fabric.

He began carefully sifting through the contents.  There was a small book of designs, motifs, and classic symbols; a notebook full of ancient Fire Nation medical techniques related to chi-flow; a fish knife; a misshapen, ugly bronze coin; a strip of leather from when he’d had enough hair to tie back; and a small blue stone among other things… 

These items were touchstones that linked him to his past.  He’d carried them for decades.  Now, he was faced with a choice.  Would he leave them behind, or carry them with him?

He thought about what might happen on this particular journey: He would be hunted by every able-bodied Water Tribe man who valued tradition and honor.  His brother would probably turn on him at some point.  The Avatar, though greatly diminished, would fight him every step of the way.

“If I die,” he said, “I do not wish to die without my memories.”

He carefully rearranged the objects, put the mask back in with the rest of the items, and tied the bundle closed once more.  He took the precious parcel and put it in his pack.  He arranged the rest of his objects around it so that the orange wad of cloth and precious objects was suitably buried and hidden from sight.

He didn’t want anyone prying into his personal things.

He continued packing and arranging his things until everything he needed for the trip was stowed away.  When he was done, he found that there was still space for more, so he turned to his desk and began to rummage through his stationary and numerous files for items that might be of use to him.  A scholarly book on the nature of the Avatar, a misplaced history book, and an antique map that he’d misfiled were quickly added to his packs.

He was surprised and amused at the odds and ends that he unearthed.  He’d forgotten many things in his desk over the long, hard years.  He found himself almost enjoying the exploration of his files and things…

…Until he came across an old print that he’d purchased years ago during a bout of intense nostalgia. It depicted a domestic scene—a water tribe man and his wife preparing for an evening at home.  The man stood in the doorway, peering in at his wife.  He was wearing heavy furs and carrying a selection of kills that would feed them that night and, likely, many others after. The woman was seated at the table, her blue, fur-trimmed skirts tucked demurely under her legs.  She was looking up at the hunter with an expression of warmth on her face.

Amon stared at the print silently.  It’d been an impulse purchase.  It reminded him of home.

Home…

Melancholy and nostalgia washed over him.  He sighed heavily.  He missed home—the home that Yakone had torn apart all those years ago…

He looked at the woman and couldn’t help but think that she reminded him a little of his mother—it was probably the hair.  The woman in the print wore a hairstyle similar to the one his mother had favored. He wondered what she would think of him… What would she say if she knew her eldest son was starting a family with an elopement?  If she knew that he’d backed himself into a corner and was committing to a political marriage for the sake of the greater good?  Would she be angry with him?

Or would she be proud?

He sighed and smiled.

But his smile vanished when he caught sight of a vital detail.  A tiny blue necklace with a pale stone was wrapped around the woman’s neck.

A betrothal necklace.

He swore and threw the print down on the bed.

A betrothal necklace!

In the North, the necklace was the symbol of domestic unity and marriage between two people.  The elders always said there was no marriage if there was no necklace.  And tradition dictated that betrothal necklaces had to be hand-carved by the groom

He would have to carve a betrothal necklace for the Avatar…

He groaned in frustration and ran his hands through his hair.  His fingers knotted in his short locks and pulled as he let out another cry of anger and frustration.

To think…

To imagine that he’d be giving the Avatar a betrothal necklace instead of…

A face flashed in his mind’s eye.  A broad, brilliant smile, warm green eyes, and long silky black hair.  Suddenly he was back in that moment, she was staring at him with that lost and confused look in her eye as he pulled away from her—turned from her and fled…

That was the last time he’d seen her alive.

He could still feel her eyes on the back of his neck…

He gasped and clenched his teeth.

He still had the betrothal necklace he’d carved for her… that he’d meant to give to her a thousand times, but the moment was never right…

And now he was going to have to carve a betrothal necklace for the Avatar!  The spirits damned Avatar!

A petulant, conniving, brat!

Not even a real woman!

The injustice of it all made his blood boil.

Something hot and wet coursed down his cheek.  He froze. Emotions tore through him so quickly that he couldn’t understand what he felt, so he defaulted to what was familiar:

Rage.

His fist clenched and he turned and slammed his fist into the wall.  It hurt, but it did nothing to calm him, so he did it again and again.  Finally, he stopped and stumbled back.

His arm hurt.  His hand hurt.  When he looked down, he saw his knuckles were bleeding.  He took several deep breaths as he watched the red drip down his fingers.

He felt tired again, but at least he was calm.  He went to the bathroom and doctored his hand.  When he was done, he leaned back against the wall and took a moment to center himself.  His hand ached from the punishment it’d taken—luckily he hadn’t broken anything this time…

He looked up at the ceiling and thought, Ah… this is such a mess.  What was he going to do?

What was he going to do?

He had to get the Avatar pregnant, apparently… which would be a hellish ordeal.  And he had to outrun the entire Water Tribe during the first three-month engagement period and then later while the Avatar was pregnant…

They’d only be safe after the Avatar successfully gave him a child.

He swallowed and grimaced.

There had to be a way of solving this that wasn’t a complete agony.  Some place to go, somewhere he could hide and wait this thing out…?  Maybe if he was patient he could just set up a safe house somewhere and wait for the Four Nations to take down Unalaq…?

He wandered around the room in search of inspiration.  His eyes roved the walls until they came to rest on an old picture.  A group of smiling people in Fire Nation regalia… he was eighteen in the picture, and he was flanked by two cheerful elderly women.

He found himself smiling back at them.  The Ty sisters had been his family during that difficult time.  He’d spent six years with them and they’d taught him everything they knew… from medicine to chi-blocking to acrobatics.  He’d been their adoptive son and had filled the void in their lives left by the death and marriage of their multitude of other sisters.

Ty House.

His mouth dropped open and his breath caught in his throat.

They’d given him the deed—they’d called it his rightful inheritance.  He still had the deed somewhere!  He could claim it!  He could take Tarrlok and the Avatar, change their appearances, and hide out there for months!

He rushed back to his desk and dug through the files until he found it.  The wooden box containing the deed to Ty House.  He opened it and read through the notes.  It was a substantial piece of land, with several buildings, located in the South of the Fire Nation—far from the capital and comfortably out of the way.

He grinned.

He could use this!

…but he needed capital.

His smile vanished.  He groaned loudly.

He’d have to pay a visit to Jin, the Revolution’s banker.

That crusty old man would have a thousand questions for him.  And Amon knew he wouldn’t see a red cent until he explained everything.  Of course, once Jin had the full story he’d make a countless scathing comments and snide remarks about how he’d failed his predecessor.

Amon could hear it already: “Your predecessor would have never been accused of compromising a woman--noble or otherwise!”

He felt horrible about this mess already, he didn’t need Jin to remind him of his many, many failures as Amon.

And he’d have to take off his makeup to move through the streets incognito. It felt like he’d only just applied the elaborate scar a few hours ago!

He sighed heavily and walked back to the bathroom to scrub his face clean.   He’d have to reapply his face later, when he had a spare moment…

If he had a spare moment.

Once he’d removed the makeup, he went and collected his mask from where it’d landed on the floor and carefully strapped it back onto his face.   Then he gathered the packs—empty and full—and put them beside the door. Finally, he went and selected an outfit to wear during his visit to the Revolution’s bank.

Jin always insisted that he dress like a “normal, dignified person—not a character in a play.”  The geezer had explicitly told him that he wouldn’t speak to him if he dared to show up in his full Amon regalia.

And Jin always kept his word.  The one time Amon had shown up at the banker’s apothecary in full regalia, the old man had glared at him silently and refused to do anything for him.  He’d had to return to base, change into civilian clothing, and come back to pick up the cash...

When everything was in order, Amon turned to the old wardrobe he’d pressed into the corner beside his bed.  There was one last thing to do.

He made his way over to the piece and ran his hands over the dark, careworn exterior.  He wouldn’t never forget the moment he saw it, abandoned in a back ally behind an old antiques shop. It was perfect—no ornate carvings or colorful embellishments to mark it as originating from a particular nation.  It was simple, somber, and dark.

Like a coffin.

He gently opened the outer doors as he sank to his knees.

The inside of the wardrobe was divided into two sections.  The lower half of the wardrobe consisted of drawers.  The perfect place to store small items and accoutrements.  The upper-half provided a sizable open space, just deep enough and long enough to hang shirts, coats, and dress-pants that were carefully folded in half and situated on a hanger.  It was also the perfect size and depth to act as the impromptu house for a shrine to the dead.

He opened the middle drawer and carefully pulled out a few sticks of incense and some matches.  With a deft hand, he carefully lit the collection of candles and illuminated the small shrine to his fallen comrades—the predecessors of the Republic City Revolution.

He lit the candles on the altar and illuminated the space.

As he carefully arranged the incense and lit the fragrant wood, he found himself reflecting on his choice of the wardrobe.  He always had mixed feelings about the small shrine.  It wasn’t traditional or ideal or even particularly reverent, and yet when he recalled how his master and companions had scoffed at fanciful alters… he felt that the old wardrobe was what they would have wanted…

The wardrobe could have come from any nation in the world.  It was a thing with a history that had probably survived many owners.  In a way, it represented the ideals of the Red Mandala Troupe—a nationless group, made up of a variety of people, who, though battered and bruised by their personal experiences and histories, had survived to fight for a better world.

The altar itself, was a different matter.  While it was small and serviceable, he’d gone out of his way to decorate it with expensive gold and muted, earthy fabrics.

His friends deserved something beautiful and luxurious for all that they’d done.

The luscious fabrics were also an attempt to mitigate his failures to leave adequate, fresh offerings in the ornate black bowls and trays he’d purchased for the shrine.  When he had time to clean and care for the shrine, he typically left non-perishable goods and things that wouldn’t spoil quickly, because he never knew when he’d return.

If he would return.

And his inability to return to the shrine was a small point of anxiety for him.  Though he’d long ago accepted that a time might come when he would have to abandon the shrine for good, it still troubled him at times.  After all, the few keepsakes and precious objects that had belonged to the members of the Red Mandala group—everything he’d managed to salvage—was assembled here.

An ornate comb, a precious pin, a prized ink-brush, a small book of prints, a few items from a treasured collection, the betrothal necklace he’d carved for Shu Lien… and so many other small knickknacks and trinkets that had been dearly loved.

The centerpieces, however, were the most precious.  An old photograph of the troupe in its entirety.  The sight of all thirty-five members assembled and smiling at him never failed to help him steel his resolve.  And the mask—his master’s mask.

The mask was black where his was green, red where his was white, and gold where his was red.  The black embellishments were curving in form creating a more welcoming and friendly appearance.  It looked down on him with circular, friendly eyes.  It was a beautiful piece that spoke of resolution, bravery, fortitude of spirit, and divine guidance, only marred by a great and terrible crack that split its forehead.

The items were irreplaceable and he lived knowing that one day he would probably have to part with them for good.

And it seemed likely that the time had come to say goodbye to what little he had left of those he’d lost.

As he knelt before the shrine, he let his eyes drift upward to look at the beautiful, dark mask.  He swallowed down the torment of sorrow. 

“Master,” he began haltingly, “Master Amon, I fear I have failed you.  I have made a grievous error.  I feel as though I’ve betrayed you and everything you ever…” He choked and turned his eyes away in shame.

“Have I undone everything that you’ve worked for?” Amon asked as he turned his eyes back up toward his master’s mask, his gaze searching.

There was no reply.

Amon knew better than to expect any response from his deceased predecessor, but asking provided some relief and helped him think.

“I am…” he hung his head in shame, “I’m sorry for failing you.”   He could feel tears welling in his eyes for the man who had been the father that Yakone never was…

He swallowed sharply and shook his head, struggling to contain his emotions.  Once he’d regained his composure he reached out and carefully plucked the photograph from the alter and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

He would not part with it.

Not yet.

He turned his gaze back to the mask and, as he rose to his feet, gently lifted the broken mask from its stand.  “I have done my best as Amon and I have tried to inspire my followers as you inspired me.  I must…” he faltered, “I must leave my post for a time for the sake of the vile ambitions of evil men,” he told the mask.

“I need you to help a new Amon find his place within our glorious revolution.”

“I know that you are gone forever,” he said, “but perhaps your memory can guide him as it has guided me through the years.”

He drew a deep breath as he fought to steady himself and strengthen his resolve.

“I am not the first Amon. I will not be the last.”

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A/N- So, I was going to be creative and come up with original Chinese names for Amon’s opera buddies.  But I decided that I’d much rather be lazy and leverage the names of characters from marital arts movies-

Pok To- The romantic lead in Wing Chun (1994), Leung Pok To, played by Donnie Yen. Ah-Fai- The name of the Actor who played ‘flying monkey’ in Wing Chun (1994). I liked him for this, because he looks a little like the Lieutenant. Wu Mei- Wing Chun’s teacher--the legendary kung-fu nun.  I can’t find the name of the actress who played the role in the (1994) film Wing Chun. Mu Bai- As in ‘Li Mu Bai’ from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), played by Chow Yun Fat. Jiao Long- Also known as Jen Yu--played by Zhang Ziyi in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000). Kei Ying- Portrayed by Donnie Yen in Iron Monkey (1993). Fei Hung- Portrayed by Angie Tsang in Iron Monkey (1993). Shu Lien- As in ‘Yu Shu Lien,’ Michelle Yeoh’s character in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000). Xiao Hu- As in ‘Lu Xiao Hu’ or ‘Dark Cloud’ from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), played by Chen Chang.

I swear I watch more martial arts films than the ones listed here, but I was feeling REALLY lazy.

2.1.7.2- Not Alone 2.1.6.5- Shame

As she swallowed down another mouthful Oogi, began to scold her soundly.  His deep, grumbling voice filled the space.  “No, Korra!” he yawned angrily, “You cannot go to Republic City!  It’s much too dangerous!”

Korra had to act fast to save her mysteriously delicious meal as Oogi brought a massive foot down on the table to emphasize his frustration.  She lightly lifted the bowl of salty-sweet delectables off the table as every plate of food, cup of tea, and eating utensil jumped and clattered.

She covered her mouth with her wrist as she swallowed down another delicious mouthful, before she leaned forward to retort, “But Master Oogi!” she cried out, “Amon’s sad dance-opera revolution must be stopped!”

Oogi shook his massive head and rumbled, “You haven’t mastered the art of peeling fruit!  How can you hope to save anyone when you can’t sip tea while standing on one foot or look back-sideways?!”

Korra took a moment to shove more pickled zucchini root into her mouth.  She couldn’t get enough of the taste!  But she wasn’t about to let a full mouth get in the way of important conversation.  “I can totally do that!” she declared through her food.  “You just won’t give me a chance!” She pointed her chopsticks at Oogi accusingly.

The great bison shook his head and yawned in disapproval and exasperation.

Suddenly, from the seat beside Korra, which definitely hadn’t been there five seconds ago, Naga spoke.  Her voice was firm, calm, and authoritative.  “Korra, is strong and sure,” she said with great warmth, “she’s more than capable of resolving these troubles.  But if she is never given the chance to try she will never learn to be capable.”

Korra let out a food-muffled, “thank you!”

Naga cocked her large head to one side and blinked pointedly at Oogi, “Besides, what could an old flying bison possibly know about such things?  It’s not like you’ve done anything to resolve these problems, have you?” she licked her nose disdainfully at the old bison. 

Korra swallowed her mouth-full of food and grinned at the massive polar bear dog beside her, “Thanks, Naga!  You always know what to say!”

Naga inclined her large head.  “That’s why we’re best friends,” she said smugly.  “Give me some fish?” the polar bear dog asked a doggish grimace of a smile.

Korra picked up a raw salmon codfish steak and lightly tossed it in the air to Naga.  “Here you go!”

Naga neatly caught the fish steak in her mouth and, in a few quick gulps, swallowed it down.

Korra watched Oogi huff and snuff indignantly.  She smirked as she took another bite of the pickled zucchini root.

She chewed and swallowed, and the room went dark.

Korra looked around in confusion.  The shape of the room had changed.  She wasn’t in the big, broad dining room in the Southern White Lotus compound anymore.  She was in a small, dimly lit, narrow room.  She didn’t recognize the space, but she felt that she’d been in this room before.

She was seated on a hard, worn-out cushion at a small square table in the middle of the room.  There was a small matt on the floor to her left—it was a bed, she realized.  There was a stack of neatly folded blankets and a headrest carefully arranged at the bottom of the mat.  To her right was a wall of cabinets, it was full of things—clothes, trinkets, accessories…

She wasn’t entirely sure how she knew what was in the drawers.  She just knew…

A door at the far end of the narrow room swung open, directly across from her. She winced and lifted her arm to her eyes as sunlight streamed into the small space.  When her eyes adjusted enough, she peered cautiously over her limb.

There was a strange man standing in the doorway.  She couldn’t make out his features, because the bright light of the sun at his back threw his face into darkness.

“Avatar,” he said.  His voice was deep and rich.  “It’s time to train.”

Korra’s eyes widened in surprise.  Then she looked down at the bowl in her hand.  It was empty.  The pickled zucchini root was gone.

She felt the corners of her lips turn up into a smile that wasn’t hers.

She set the bowl and her chopsticks down on the table and rose to her feet with a grace that she’d never possessed.  She stepped lightly around the table and made her way to the door.  Her hand instinctively reached up to pluck a broad-rimmed straw hat off the wall beside the door.

As she passed the threshold, she turned her eyes up to look up at the man.  He smiled down at her.

She realized that he was handsome, but not like Mako or Bolin.  He wasn’t like any man she'd ever seen.  The form of his face was fundamentally different. His features were exceptionally sharp and angular.  He had scars on his forehead and cheeks, but they weren’t scars from battle—these were purposeful scars, carefully carved into his face to form complex patterns; it looked like his skin was studded with tiny white triangles, dots, and diamonds.  The patterns cut across his forehead in a narrow band and two vertical lines dipping down from his high cheekbones.  They were accentuated by black tattoos; small dots and lines that traced strange, angular patterns across his face.

“Do you see something strange upon my face, Avatar?” he asked gently.

Korra shook her head.  Because nothing about this man was strange.  She knew him, even though she couldn’t recall his name.

“That’s a relief,” he said with a smile, “I was afraid that a spirit had changed my face in the night.  But let’s not waste time on idle chatter.  I want to check your technique.  We move out in a few days, after all.  We would not want the Esteemed Avatar to die in battle.”

“Of course,” Korra said.  But she didn’t recognize her voice.  And the words certainly weren’t her own.

The man nodded and turned away.  His clothes, lose, blue-black robes that resembled traditional air bender attire flowed around him as he made his way down a long, narrow, path that wound its way through a beautiful and strangely familiar grassy field of flowers.

She started after him without bothering to look around or question him about her surroundings.  However, she quickly realized that she knew the area--she could name the colorful flowers in the green, grassy field and she recognized the large, ornately carved rocks situated in the fields as representations of powerful local spirits.  She knew that if she turned to look behind her she would see that her narrow, dim room had been carved into the side of a massive, steep cliff-face.

Her room was one of thousands of small cells where people like herself--elite warriors--slept and ate between training sessions.  The entire cliff-face was a web of narrow stairs and landings that the warriors could navigate as they came and went.

They lived like cliff-sparrows, nested in the crevices of cliff-faces in the high mountains.

The thought surprised Korra--she didn't know what a cliff sparrow was or how it nested.  But at the same time... she knew...

Before she had time to ponder how she could possibly know something about an animal that she was certain that she'd never seen or heard of before, she found herself miles down one of the exceptionally narrow winding paths that cut through the field.  This particular path dipped and snaked between the mountains, before veering sharply upwards and branching into several different routes--each leading to a locale where teachers could put their students through their paces.

As she followed several paces behind her teacher she took the opportunity to let her eyes wander.  She knew (without knowing how she knew) that the walk to the training grounds took over an hour and that she would have the opportunity to see several landmarks.

But time slipped away.   And the walk through the peeks that should have taken over an hour took minutes.  One second she followed her teacher down a sharp incline, only to step onto a narrow ledge, a mile or two on, that had been carved into the mountain many, many years ago.  She briefly caught a glimpse of a great city nestled between the peaks, but she blinked and it vanished.  It was replaced by an impossibly steep stairwell, shrouded by low-hanging clouds.  She ascended the slick stone steps with great care.

If she fell, no one would help her up.

She was only moments from cresting the ridge, but the world shifted and she was suddenly in the midst of the high mountain valley.  The tall grass, green and verdant brushed her hips as she waded through it.   Small, brightly colored flowers dotted the lush field.

A cold, high-mountain breeze pulled at her clothes.  She glanced down at her attire and realized that she wasn't wearing her usual blue shirt and pants.  Her clothes resembled an odd mix of Air Nomad and ancient Earth Kingdom-style attire.

A broad strip of cloth bound her breasts flat.  The binding was covered by a soft, loose black tunic and a dark blue gi-jacket--belted by a strip of blue-black fabric wrapped and tied around her natural waist.  The loose fitting black pants were made out of the same soft material as her tunic.  The sleeves of her gi-jacket and the legs of her pants were wrapped with a tattered dull grey cloth to keep the loose soft fabric from impeding her movements.

These clothes were simple, utilitarian, and functional--perfect standard attire for a warrior who was being trained for battle.

And it was standard attire--she realized.  All those people in the cliff-face cells wore exactly the same outfit.  They got new clothes at the end of each year.  No sooner, no later.  Heaven help the idiot who tore or ruined their uniform before the year was out.

She blinked and sucked in a deep breath.  The cool, crisp mountain air filled her lungs and brought a smile to her face.  She looked up at the clear blue sky.

The dark form of a great bird traced a wide circle around the high, golden disk of the sun.  Its dark, blue-black feathers glinted in the afternoon light.

Her teacher now stood beside a large rock near the path, signaling that no one could come or go until they were finished.  He raised his hands, weaving his fingers together so that they were interlaced with his palms facing his chest.  He bowed.

It was a gesture of salutation, which she returned.

It was time to begin practice.

He lifted his right hand to eye-level, palm facing toward her.

That was when Korra noticed his hands.

His hands were covered in bright tattoos.  His fingers alone were so thoroughly inked, that she couldn't see the color of his skin.  And there was a great black tattoo in the center of his palm.  It looked like a letter or a symbol.  Korra didn't recognize it, and whomever she was at the moment didn't waste time thinking about what it meant.

He turned his hand so that his palm faced him.

Korra moved.  She dropped smoothly into a low fighting stance.  Her hands reached out and she drew the air around her into a powerful current.  First, she spiraled the wind around her body.  Then she sent it spiraling around itself so that it formed a protective, serpentine coil around her.

Her teacher nodded his approval.  He lifted his left hand and folded his ring and pinkie finger down.  He extended his arm so that he was pointing at her.

Korra began to move through a complex form.  She moved the coiled wind with her, so that every practiced strike, and every defensive posture was an extension of the coil.  The wind was her weapon and her shield.  She was one with it.

He lifted his other arm so that they were level and closed both hands into fists in front of him.

She stopped halfway through the form and released the coil of wind.

He smiled at her from where he stood.

She preened.  He was pleased with her.  She'd performed the form perfectly and had obeyed his signals promptly.

And then he made another gesture.

Four figures burst out from their hiding places in the high grass.  They rushed towards her.  One, a man, tore out ahead of the group.  He was holding a bladed weapon at the ready, his eyes were wide and wild, and his mouth was set in a furious grimace. 

He was going to try and kill her.

Korra wanted to recoil—to jump back and prepare to take him down so that no one got hurt—but her body did not move.

Instead, she smiled coldly and dropped into a weaselcat stance.  She lifted her right hand slowly--letting her attacker see her intent, even as she began to gather a swift breeze around her left hand.  As she lifted her hand, she curved her fingers into strong claws.

Korra was baffled.

An open handed attack?  What?  Was she going to break her fingers as she dragged them across her attacker's face?  He had a weapon!  She needed to bend!

Her cold smile twisted into a grimace as she raised her hand high over her head and then brought her hand down sharply while the man was still at range.  Her curved fingers dragged against the air in front of her, giving it the form of five sharp blades which hurtled toward her attackers.

Korra saw the man’s eyes widen in terror.  He'd realized what was about to happen to him.

His mouth opened.  She could hear his feet scraping against the ground as he tried to slow down and change direction.

But it was too late.  The blades were about to connect.

“NO!” Korra screamed as she brought her hands down sharply and her body sprang upwards like a coil that had just been released.

Her eyes searched wildly around her for the poor man, but the field, her teacher, and her attackers were all gone.  She was in a dark, cool, stone room, seated on the cot she’d been sleeping on until a few seconds ago.

For a moment she wondered where she was, but it quickly came back to her:

Cell…  Equalists…  Captured… Right.

The Equalists had brought her one of those obscenely early breakfasts she hated.  She'd eaten, then tried a few air bending forms.  She'd nearly knocked the air out of her lungs a couple of times... at this point she was more of a danger to herself than she was to any potential opponent.  After using her air bending to throw herself into the walls, she gave up and went back to sleep.

It'd all just been a dream.  It wasn't real.

She closed her eyes, swallowed sharply, and gasped.  The first part of that dream had been ridiculous, but the second part had been so real that she… she…

They'd called her Avatar...

Korra looked down at her hands.  She half expected to see them covered in blood. But her hands were as clean and neat as they could be for someone who’d spent the past several days locked in a tidy cell with nothing to do.

They were also shaking.  She was sweating.  But she felt cold—like all the heat had been pulled out of her body.

She wrapped her arms around her torso, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut out the memory of the terrible dream.  But when she closed her eyes she could see the terrified eyes of her adversary looking at her in horror as blades of wind cut through the air to… to…

…to tear him to shreds...

They'd called her Avatar...

She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly and shook her head.  “…nooo…” she moaned.

She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head.  “It was just a dream…” she told herself.  “Air benders don’t have techniques like that.  Air benders don’t have armies or hurt people or kill.  They’re peaceful.  Air is the element of freedom.  Avatars aren't like that.  It was just a nightmare.”

It had felt so real though…

She sighed and looked up over the edge of her arms through blurry tear-filled eyes.  Where was Tenzin when she needed him?  He’d tell her that there’d never been any evil air benders and remind her that air bending was peaceful and non-violent.

But Tenzin wasn’t here.  She was alone in a cell, waiting for… for...

For Equalists to come and drag her out for another public humiliation.  For Tarrlok to return either as Amon's ally or his prisoner.  For Amon to appear and mock her--remind her how weak and miserable she was without her bending...

For...!

For!

For something to happen!

She buried her head in her arms again, shook her head, and groaned.

This was awful.

Amon and his Equalists were going to do something to her.  She didn’t know what it was, but she knew it was going to be absolutely terrible.  She couldn’t even imagine how horrible their plan was and it made everything so much worse.  Imaginable evil was something that could be planned for, unimaginable evil… there was no way to plan or prepare for that. 

She lifted her head out of the cradle of her arms and legs, set her chin on her arms, and glared at the door to the cell block.  Why didn’t he just come in here and get his evil plan over with?!

She let out an angry huff.

Out of the corner of her eye, something slithered across the floor.  She turned to see what it was—perhaps a ratroach or a spider snake?

She saw nothing.

Maybe it had just been her imagination?

There was a soft sound—like the woosh of breath in and out…

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.  Someone… something… was watching her.

She turned her gaze slowly and looked out the front of the cell.

There was no one there.

A chill ran down her spine as she realized that whatever was breathing, softly and quietly, was in the cell with her.  She turned her head slowly to look toward the remote, dark corner of her cell.

She saw what appeared to be a fuzzy orb of light.  It faded in and out at the same rate as the soft, almost imperceptible sound of breathing.  But with every soft, breathy inhale it grew brighter.

As it grew brighter, two distinct orbs took form, like a pair of eyes glowing in the dark.  The shadows around the… glowing eyes grew darker and seemed to take form.

It was large, amphibious, and had way too many legs.

Korra wasn’t normally afraid of frogs and strange lights weren’t particularly terrifying to her either, but something about this… thing that had appeared in her cell made the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.  She knew that it was looking at her.  And even though it had done nothing to harm her, every part of her was screaming to stay as far away from this creature as she could manage.

Korra slowly scooted back on her cot until her back was firmly pressed up against the wall.

She hoped that someone, anyone, came here soon. She didn't want to be alone with this thing.

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2.1.7.2- The Banker 2.1.7.1- Packing Up

He needed a break.

He sat back in his chair and stretched; lifting his arm overhead, arching his back, and letting his head fall back. His long fingers folded together as he turned his palms upward to pull the kinks out of arms and relieve his aching back.  His eyes slipped closed and he groaned in pleasure.

As he slowly settled back into his seat, he smiled and sighed.  His head felt clear again.

But as soon as he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at Tarrlok.  The councilman hadn’t moved an inch in all the time they’d been sitting alone in the room.  The politician slouched in his chair, his empty, soulless eyes were focused on a point somewhat above and to the left of the lieutenant.  His long, straight hair and fallen down to hang around his long, angular face and his fancy clothes were rumpled and unkempt.  He looked worn down and tired, but it was possibly a trick of the light.  The long, deep shadows in the room settled along the countless lines of the face, exaggerating and warping features.

Even the handsomest man could appear haggard and hideous in this light.

Now that Zhen was looking at the councilman, he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away and the cruel thoughts that tormented him roared to the forefront of his mind.  His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed into hateful slits.  Jealousy, contemptible and poisonous, gnawed at his insides.

He drew in a deep, unsteady breath and pushed himself to his feet.  He began to gather up the remaining files on the table, moving slowly and methodically as he struggled to keep his mind on the task before him…

But his tired brain would not let him forget what he’d seen.

He could not deny what he had witnessed, could he?  Amon and Tarrlok had shared a moment during the meeting and, in watching their interactions, Zhen could only come to one conclusion: they had a history.  A history that was old and complex and bitter. And the Lieutenant was certain that whatever feelings had existed between the two men were still there, just beneath the surface.

He wanted to pretend that it wasn’t true, but how could it be anything but?  He’d never seen anyone toy with Amon before.  He hadn’t believed it was possible.  Tarrlok, however, had seemed to know exactly how to provoke the Equalist Leader.  And all throughout the meeting the two men had shared looks…

Zhen had seen warmth and concern in his superior’s eyes when he’d looked at the vile councilman. There had been real warmth and concern in his expression.  At times the lieutenant had believed that his commander was simply searching for the right words to say to ease Tarrlok’s suffering.

Ease Tarrlok’s suffering!?

Against his better judgement, Zhen cast a glance at Tarrlok.  He nearly jumped when he saw that the ex-blood bender’s eyes were on him.

Zhen met the councilman’s cold, empty eyes with a stony, angry leer.  Tarrlok simply raised a brow and tilted his head slightly as if to ask, ‘yes, and?’

The lieutenant turned away sharply and continued gathering papers from the table.  His lips pulled into a thin, hard line and he frowned.

Why did Amon care about this wretched excuse for a human being!?  Why had the Equalist Leader seemed so contrite after he’d finally snapped at Tarrlok—after the councilman had baited him no less?

Zhen’s fingers gently caressed the paper in front of him.  He froze as his mind replayed the entire conflict.

… when that terrible confrontation had occurred…

…the way they’d looked at each other…

It was as though there was a terrible open wound, festering between them…

But why had Amon seemed so eager to heal the injury and Tarrlok so quick to seemingly reject every overture?—as if the very thought of trying to right the wrong was abhorrent to him!? As if the councilman had been the injured party!?

And how dare Tarrlok refuse Amon’s efforts to make amends?  It was astounding to think the Equalist Leader would ever even ask a blood bender—even a former one—for forgiveness!

And what was the councilman’s problem?  Was the grievance, the trespass, so completely vile and despicable that no amount of kindness or undeserved compassion could possibly earn the politician’s forgiveness!?  Whatever had happened, the politician probably deserved it!

Nevertheless, the lieutenant ground his teeth.  How dare that man reject Amon’s good will!?

The Equalist leader did not give his trust, his kindness… his forgiveness lightly.  Watching his commander’s attempts at reconciliation so viciously and coldly trod upon stung!  Especially when such benevolence was offered to someone so vile and undeserving!

…especially when it was not given half so easily to Amon’s most loyal followers…

Zhen flipped a file closed with far more force than necessary and slammed it down on top of the stack he was assembling.  He immediately reached for the next one, unaware of how violent his movements had become.

There was a soft “ahem,” from the man across from him.

Zhen looked up sharply. His eyes met the curious gaze of the councilman, now seated comfortably across from him.

The two men stared each other down.

This man, this vile, ex-bender, had provoked such powerful and extraordinary reactions from the Equalist Leader.  He’d known just what to say and how to say it…  He’d made Amon into his puppet with just a few words…

Zhen bristled in umbrage at the memory of the interaction.  His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared as he fumed.

What right did a filthy blood bender have to know the great, just, and formidable Amon so well?

What had occurred between the two men in the past that led Amon to treat Tarrlok with so much care and… affection?

What led the arrogant councilman to harbor such cold and completely underserved resentment for the man under the mask?

Zhen picked up a few more files, but his movements slowed as he silently considered the man who was seated across from him.

How could two men who were so different, whose lives were so divergent, share such an intimate knowledge of each other?

And then the most abhorrent question popped into Zhen’s head…

Could Amon and Tarrlok have been lovers?

The very thought of the possibility made Zhen’s flesh crawl and his head spin, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if… once… long ago… Amon had loved this vile, proud, and ruthless bender…

The lieutenant couldn’t believe he was pondering such blasphemous, traitorous things!  It was unthinkable!  Amon and Tarrlok!?  Lovers? It was ridiculous!

And yet it seemed to explain so much!

But an even worse thought followed on the tail of the first…

What if Amon still loved Tarrlok?

For a brief moment, Zhen thought that the room was spinning around him.  He clutched at the table for support as he contemplated the terrible, horrible possibility. 

But as Zhen thought back, he couldn’t help but feel like everything added up…

The familiar way that Amon and Tarrlok spoke to each other…  The way that the Equalist Leader had defaulted to the councilman’s opinions and expertise…  The fact that the masked man trusted the vile politician and took him at his word—as if Tarrlok weren’t a lying, scheming, evil bully of a bender!

But the councilman’s behavior had to be considered as well, and Tarrlok had been completely compliant… even helpful throughout this fiasco.   Whatever Amon asked, the councilman did without question or struggle. Yes, he was surly about it, but he didn’t complain or resist at all.  There hadn’t been a single escape attempt or rebellion since he’d left his cell…

… Except when Sato had called the politician a corrupt and evil man… But even then, Tarrlok had made no move to physically attack his captors…  Instead he’d simply said horrible things about them…

Right up until he pushed Amon too far…

But none of it made any sense to the lieutenant.  The councilman had said nothing that, on the surface, seemed particularly inflammatory, but the way Amon had reacted to the politician’s words… It was like Tarrlok had spoken in some sort of code.

With just a few words the ex-blood bender transformed Amon into a stranger, a terrifying figure that Zhen did not recognize and would never have recognized as his esteemed commander.

But Tarrlok had known the man that Amon had become.  There was something in the way he cowered and in the way he smiled as soon as Amon’s expression turned to horror—like he’d just seen an old friend after a long absence… He’d known that the Equalist Leader had that horrible persona in him.  He’d known how to draw it out…

He knew Amon so well…

… and Amon knew Tarrlok.

They had to have been lovers.

Nothing else explained the intimacy that existed between the two men.

The thought made Zhen’s blood boil.  A muscle in his face, just beneath his right eye, twitched as his mind began wonder how close the two men had been.  Just how far had this relationship progressed?

Had they embraced?   Shared a few passionate kisses…?

Oh, it had to have gone much further than that.  This was Amon after all!

The lieutenant’s face flushed and bile rose in his throat.

They had to have been intimate.  They’d probably shared a bed… probably regularly…  They’d probably lived under the same roof for months!

Tarrlok probably knew every intimate detail about Amon’s personal life and preferences…

Zhen’s grip on the files in his hand tightened as his mind conjured images of the intimacies the two men had very likely shared.  Tender moments, affectionate touches, soft smiles, laughter… all the things that the lieutenant had longed to share with his commander for years.

He’d always felt that to some degree Amon had shared that desire for a deeper relationship between them. The thought of the Equalist Leader sharing those quiet, private moments with another… with Councilman Tarrlok!...

It hurt.

It hurt so badly.

Amon had probably fallen prey to Tarrlok’s striking, Northern looks and wicked charms.  He’d probably doted on the blood bender and adored the other man… But Zhen couldn’t imagine Tarrlok reciprocating Amon’s feelings. How could a man as vain and hateful as the ambitious blood bender possibly love the scarred visage of the Equalist Leader?

Or could it be that Tarrlok was the reason that Amon hid his face behind a mask and resisted every overture of a real and lasting connection?

Zhen stared down at the files in his hand and forced himself to stop squeezing them so hard.  He took a few deep breaths and tried to reign in his imagination.

The lieutenant began to carefully adjust the files and papers to make sure they were all facing the same direction as he reassured himself that there was no way that Amon could ever wrong a blood bender!  Perhaps he’d briefly loved Tarrlok, perhaps he still felt a lingering connection to the evil man, but Amon couldn’t possibly have wronged the politician.

No, Tarrlok was a manipulative abuser.  Whatever had happened between the two men… the councilman had to be the one who was in the wrong.  Or if Amon had wronged the councilman, it was probably something pathetic and mundane. The politician was notoriously petty after all…

And really, it was completely unthinkable that someone as noble and good could love a man as terrible as the ex-blood bender.

Perhaps Tarrlok had once saved Amon’s life and asked Amon to fulfill his obligations with a deep and personal favor?  Perhaps, due to extenuating circumstances, Amon had failed to live up to his side of the bargain?  A man with Amon’s sense of honor would feel deeply responsible if such a debt existed and went unpaid.

Maybe they’d been friends once and Amon had accidently caused harm to someone in Tarrlok’s family?

Really, his exhaustion was getting ahead of him.  All those little moments during the meeting were probably nothing.  Just his over-active imagination!  It was much more likely that it was an unfulfilled debt or a matter of honor.

Amon was just trying to restore his honor, protect his followers.

But now that he thought about it…

Zhen could recall times when the Equalists had pushed Amon to make an example of Tarrlok.  The Equalist Leader had resisted his subordinates’ pleading. He’d insisted that there were other, better targets.  When the Equalists had demanded that the northern councilman be forcibly removed from power and laid low, the masked commander had turned their attention to other proud and ruthless benders.  There were countless other instances when the Equalists had spoken out against the politician and his vicious tactics, and yet Amon had dismissed every attempt to prioritize the removal of the vile councilor and his bending.  Instead, the Equalist Leader had targeted other men and women in Tarrok’s place…

Zhen froze.  His eyes widened sharply.  He stared at the files in his hand in shock.

… he’d been protecting him.

By the spirits, Amon had been protecting that vile and ruthless man all this time!

What had happened between them to cause Amon to pursue such outrageous and blind efforts to protect that vile monster?

Zhen’s eyes slid closed as he thought back to the exchange he’d witnessed earlier.  Tarrlok had gone after each of them in turn, exposing how much he knew and twisting the truth to suite his ends.  What he’d said about Sato had been shocking, horrible, and clearly malicious slander.

The councilman had turned on Zhen once he was done with Sato.  The lieutenant had been surprised when Tarrlok had chewed him out for not having ambition.  Of all the wicked things that the Equalist had expected to have thrown in his face, his loyalty to the revolution was not one of them.

In the end, Zhen had chalked Tarrlok’s view of his choices up to a natural difference between the them. After all, the councilman was evil and selfish.  How could he possibly understand the nobility and good inherent in the Revolution?  Did he really expect the lieutenant to be ashamed of his choice in supporting the greater good?

But then Tarrlok had turned on Amon and his demeanor had changed drastically.

The councilman had been cruel when he’d addressed the industrialist and the lieutenant, but his expression had been akin to that of a wounded animal striking out at its attackers. Zhen found himself viewing Tarrlok’s words as a last, desperate assault against his enemies.  But when he’d gone after Amon, he’d looked less like a wounded dog and more like a rabid one.

The lieutenant still couldn’t quite make sense of the councilman’s words.  The politician had asked Amon when he would be ‘satisfied’—as though Amon were insatiable.  But the Equalist Leader was hardly a demanding man.  Zhen had been with his commander long enough to know that he was reasonable and asked for very little for himself.  His greatest demands were reserved for society at large, and they were simple enough.

All Amon wanted was a world where everyone could live without fear of violence, oppression, and persecution.  An equal, fair world, where there were no benders to terrorize the non-bending populace.

How could it be wrong to make such demands, when they were in the hearts and minds of so many people? Was it evil of him to seek to spread this great and noble dream to other nations?  Was it so wrong to mandate that all places in the world become safe for all people?

Tarrlok had rattled on, calling Amon the ‘rightful King of Republic City,’ but that was ridiculous. Republic City had never had a King. Unless the Equalist Leader was secretly related to an ancient, noble lineage in the Earth Kingdom there was no reason for the politician to call him a ‘king.’

Zhen paused in the midst of his paper shuffling.

And yet Tarrlok knew so much about them all…

Was it possible that Amon was… a prince?

He considered it for a moment, and then rejected the idea as he continued to shuffle the files into a new order.

Seeing Amon’s reaction to Tarrlok’s terror had given Zhen pause, and he couldn’t help but hesitate as he recalled the expression on his commander’s face.  For a moment the normally powerful, unflappable, and formidable man had been shaken.  He’d looked vulnerable and afraid, like a child who’d just been caught doing something wrong…

A chill ran down the lieutenant’s spine.  He cast another cautious glance across the table at the man who remained in his seat, still cast in shadows.  Whatever Tarrlok knew, whatever secret he kept… Amon feared its revelation.

For the life of him, Zhen could not understand why.  What could his commander possibly need to hide from his followers?  What secret could be so dark and dire?

His eyes narrowed sharply as a new question occurred to him.

Why spare the secret keeper?

He studied the councilman pensively.  His brow furrowed and pinched his lips into a thin line.

Why would Tarrlok willingly agree to keep Amon’s secret?  After all that, the politician said that he would not share the information. But why?  The councilman seemed to have so much power over the masked commander. Why would the politician bury this truth when they both seemed to know that it could destroy the Equalist Leader by the hands of his followers?

Did he hope to use this great and terrible secret as leverage?

If so, he was a fool. No matter what sentiment lingered between them, Zhen was certain that Amon would not protect Tarrlok forever. After all, no man willingly protected his blackmailer.  He couldn’t imagine anyone’s passions running so deep as to cause a lasting affection between two enemies…  Amon’s marriage to the Avatar was going to be quite an interesting farce for that very reason…

The Avatar.

Zhen’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath..

The day that she’d been publically humiliated she’d made a grand stand of announcing that she knew the truth about Amon.  The lieutenant had dismissed her words outright, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He blinked rapidly as he struggled to remember exactly what she’d said, but the words weren’t coming. He frowned.  She’d mentioned a secret, though…

A secret…

The air left him and a terrible chill settled into his bones.

The Avatar knew.

Tarrlok and the Avatar had been sharing a cellblock.  Had he…?

He’d told her Amon’s secret.

He’d shared the Equalist Leader’s dark past.

The councilman had given the Avatar the same advantage that he enjoyed.  That was two ex-benders with the power to use their knowledge against the Equalist! And he was taking both of them with him on this mad journey to escape from the forces of the Water Tribe!  Was he insane?!

Or did he expect Tarrlok to… comply and help him control the Avatar?

But that made no sense! How could Amon believe that Tarrlok would change sides so easily?  Why would the councilman comply with the Equalist Agenda?  They’d never given him reason to favor them and the politician had clearly hated Equalists!  Why, he’d been ready to lock away even the lowliest chi-blocker for life and there were rumors that he was looking to abolish many of Avatar Aang’s laws against capital punishment for non-blood bending prisoners!

But then why had Tarrlok been so compliant today if he hated Equalists so much?

He hadn’t fought or resisted at all.  The councilman had meekly followed Amon throughout the day and obeyed every request without the slightest opposition.  There’d been no need to restrain him or subdue him, he’d acted like a well-trained dog…

Tarrlok had said he knew Amon by a single touch.

The lieutenant clenched his teeth and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat as he recalled the councilman’s comment about how well he knew the Equalist Leader.  His mouth twisted into a frown of intense bitterness and disgust—as though he’d just swallowed something truly vile.

They had to have been intimate in the past!  How else could the councilman have recognized the Equalist Leader by a single touch! To think that the noble and honorable Amon had been seduced by that vile, despicable monster… it was too horrible!

Poor Amon!  Scarred by a fire bender, trifled with by a blood bender—probably tortured by the cruel man!  No wonder the Equalist Leader was filled with so much rage!  To have been abused and betrayed so viciously!  It was unimaginable!

If only Zhen had known sooner, he might have been less aggressive in his overtures.  Was it any wonder that his commander rejected his advances after having suffered at the hands of the evil councilman?  There could be no blame laid upon the Amon.  He was a victim of Tarrlok’s evil passions!

But if they were intimate… if they had been that close…

Then of course Tarrlok would know Amon’s darkest secrets… … and of course, Amon would know Tarrlok’s darkest secrets!

It all made sense now!

The councilman’s docile behavior, his impotent threats of revealing Amon’s secrets!  Tarrlok still had a dark secret he hoped to bury, but the Equalist Leader knew his secret!  He would behave as long as the scarred man kept his peace!

The lieutenant snuck another glance at the ex-bender across the table as he turned the stack of files and papers in his hand once more.  He’d been a blood bender until Amon had purified him.  It was hard to imagine that Tarrlok had secrets darker than his horrible abilities, but there had to be something that the Equalist Leader held over him.  Something that he could use to force the politician’s compliance.

… but compliance wasn’t guaranteed on the road…

And it was clear to Zhen that Amon still had feelings for Tarrlok.  The lieutenant couldn’t help but worry about what would happen when the councilman realized that there was no one to hide from.  Would he kill his scarred ex-lover and make off with the Avatar himself?

Amon clearly didn’t think Tarrlok would hurt him, but men had been blinded by love before.

“You’ve been shuffling those files for the past twenty minutes.”

Zhen jumped at the sound of the councilman’s smooth tenor.  He looked up to see a pair of icy blue eyes staring at him curiously through the flickering darkness.  The mustached lieutenant glanced down at the large stack of files in his hands.  “I suppose I am finished here.” He said coolly. He set the files down on the table and rested a protective hand on them.

A heavy silence settled between them.  The lieutenant felt tense as he stared at the handsome water tribe politician seated across from him.  After all, Tarrlok was very likely Amon’s ex-lover.  If things had been different, Zhen might have been Amon’s new lover…

He felt like a character in one of the trashy novellas he wrote in his spare time.  Zhen was the good wife.  Tarrlok was the specter of ‘the other woman’—an intimidating and seductive figure who was everything the good woman could never be; the living embodiment of the hero’s darker lusts.

If things were different, if Zhen were Amon’s lover, then this would play out as a triumphant moment.  Tarrlok would goad and taunt him, but the lieutenant would remind the proverbial ‘other woman’ of his triumph.  But the unfortunate reality was that they’d both lost.

There was no happy ending…

Though perhaps Tarrlok would seduce the emotionally vulnerable Amon on the road and they would become lovers again… making the Avatar twice as vulnerable and alone.

Was that what Amon hoped for?

For a moment Zhen thought his heart would break.

Did Amon really hope that Tarrlok would come back to him?  After all this time?  Was he still in love with him?  Had all those subtle comments and kind words—those brief moments of passing flirtation when Zhen had felt truly certain that Amon saw him as more than a mere loyal follower—had that been nothing but a passing fancy to the Equalist Leader?

The councilman broke the silence again, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but…?” Those cold blue eyes continued to peer at him with great curiosity.

Even in the flickering darkness, Zhen could see that Tarrlok watched him with one brow raised.  But the lieutenant had no kind feelings for the blood bender.  “Spit it out!” he snapped.

“What exactly is your relationship with Amon?” The politician asked.  His voice was soft and he sounded concerned.

Zhen tensed, his jaw muscles clenched and he glared viciously at Tarrlok.

That wasn’t a question! That was an admission!  There was no other reason he’d ask that question, unless they’d been lovers!  He was assessing the presumed ‘new blood!’  He was sizing up his rival!

Zhen’s mouth snarled and he bared his teeth in anger.  “None of your business.”

Tarrlok’s face pulled into something between a grimace of disgust and a smug sneer. “That close, huh? Didn’t think he’d go for that, considering his interests back then.” The politician snorted in a way that wasn’t entirely dismissive and looked away.  “I guess that shows what I know.”

Zhen bridled at the insult. Did Tarrlok think that Amon’s unspoken preference for a non-bender, such as himself, was in bad taste?  But then what else could he expect of a blood bending tyrant!?  The councilman grimaced in disgust at the very thought of love between two non-bending men!  It was astounding that the haughty politician had ever deigned to lower himself to be with the scarred man!

The lieutenant was so busy being outraged that it took him a moment to notice that Tarrlok was making choking sounds.  But as soon as he heard those soft noises, he realized that what he’d taken for a grimace of disgust was the closest thing to a smile that the northern politician could manage.  The councilman let out a dry, unpleasant chuckle—it might have been a soft, broken cough—as he leaned forward.  His noble, handsome features slid into the dim, rapidly blinking light, even as his pale blue eyes fell into shadow.  Nevertheless, Zhen could feel the councilman watching him.

“That’s rather unsafe,” Tarrlok said.  “Don’t you know that men like him just use people up and toss them aside like they’re nothing?”

Zhen tensed, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave the room or strike out at the man across from him. In the end he kept his temper in check by reminding himself that Amon trusted him to watch Tarrlok.

“What would you know about it?” The lieutenant did his best to sound unaffected, but he couldn’t quite keep the strain out of his voice.

Tarrlok was quiet for a moment.  The shadows around him seemed to deepen and some tension or energy drained from his flesh, because it looked like he was sinking into himself.  Then he said, “I know him.”

Zhen turned away sharply, his eyes searched the darkness behind him, but it offered no easy distraction. He walked to one of the Future Industries lanterns and toyed with the dials, adjusting it so that the light stopped flickering.  As he worked, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, collecting himself.   Then he spoke, “You keep saying that, but really, you have no evidence.”  He swallowed and cast a glance over his shoulder at the politician across the table, “There is no reason for me be to believe you know anything about Amon at all…”

“I suppose I can’t convince you.  You clearly don’t trust me, but the truth is that I know him.” Tarrlok gave him a smirk, “And I know him far better than you. I mean, really, what has he shared with you?  His ideals? His tales of a terrible past?  His bed…?”

Zhen flinched and turned sharply away.

“Oh.  Good enough to keep around, but not good enough for that.” Tarrlok chuckled.  “You’re lucky.  He must actually respect you enough not to use you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean!?” Zhen snapped.

“You really don’t know him at all, do you?  For all his lofty ideals he’s quite a despicable man,” Tarrlok said coldly. The lights flickered out of time causing the shadows to move strangely across his face, making him appear more like a grim specter than a human.  “The kind of man who chews people up and spits them out when he’s finished with them.”

Zhen bridled, enraged by the councilman’s cruel words about his esteemed leader.  “That’s a lie!”

One of the lanterns went out, shrouding the upper half of Tarrlok’s face in shadow.  But Zhen could clearly see the politician’s smirk and the glint of his blue eyes as he said, “And how would you know?  You know Amon, but you don’t know the man behind the mask, do you?  He likes that, doesn’t he?  When people are just far enough away that he doesn’t seem entirely human?  When people admire him?”

Zhen’s head swam with rage. He swore that the room was tilting onto its side.  He gasped, struggling to draw air into his lungs, which seemed to have seized up. “You…” he panted, “You disgusting, despicable, vile, evil…!”

The politician watched him struggle with a quiet smile.  “Does it really bother you that much?  The thought that you’re wrong about him?”  The lights flickered again, lanterns coming back on as others switched off, so that Tarrlok’s eyes became visible as he looked down his nose at the lieutenant, “Or are you so consumed by jealousy and pent-up lust that you can’t see how he’s using you?”

Zhen had been born in Republic City.  His parents had kept a flat near the docks in the middle of Red Monsoon territory. Whenever the triad felt pressed or troubled, they buckled down on the non-benders in the area.  Every few months, members of the triad would cycle through and extort payment from the families living in their region of the city.

Zhen had been a rebellious boy and something of an upstart as a young man.  As a result, he became quite familiar with their various techniques for forcing compliance from those who lived under the authority of the local triad.  Now, the Red Monsoons kept several blood benders in their number, but none of them were anything like Tarrlok.  They could only bend during the full moon.  So, the gang had to come up with methods of torturing non-compliant non-benders when there was no full moon.

Zhen had tested them repeatedly and learned exactly how creative the thugs could be.  There was a particular form of torture that the lieutenant had become quite familiar with in his late teens that the triad reserved for ‘special thorns in their side.’  It involved letting droplets of water fall upon a single point in the middle of the victim’s forehead.  Over the course of long hours, even days, those droplets would continue to fall at a steady pace.

Claustrophobia set in after an hour from the restraints alone.  After three hours the pressure would begin to build.  The pain came gradually after that.  A slow, gradual creep that built into skull-splitting agony. Zhen had been left under the drip for eight hours once.  He’d been cold and wet and half-mad from the agony.  There were nights that he woke to the sound of the drip of water and he’d be unable to return to sleep.  He knew men who’d sat under the drip far longer than him, who’d gone mad from it.

Tarrlok’s presence at Amon’s side was like that torture.  Every overly curt exchange, every subtle insult—insults Amon permitted—every show of disrespect, every quiet glance exchanged between the two men, every breath they drew in the same room, every second that Amon treated the councilman like he belonged at his side was like the slow drip of water onto a single point on Zhen’s forehead.  The pain had built up so slowly that he’d barely noticed it, but now he could not deny the nearly blinding pressure in his skull.

The blood bender’s comments about knowing Amon, the slanderous comments, the digs about Zhen’s feelings… they were the metaphorical ‘final drop’ that sent him over the edge.

Zhen spun and slammed his hand down on the table, “How do you know him?!” he howled.  “How can you know him?!  What would a man like Amon want with a vile, despicable, cruel, evil blood bender like you?!” He leaned over the table, his hands clawing at the surface between them.  He watched Tarrlok shoot back in his seat, hands grabbing at his chair to keep himself upright as he recoiled from the lieutenant.  Zhen felt his bones had burrowed through the fleshy pads of his fingers and into the wood.  “You asked me what I am to him, well, I can tell you that I’m clearly nothing compared to you!  So, now it’s my turn to ask, what are you to him!?  Why would he trust a monster like you?!”  He bit of the words with the ferocity of a tiger bear and when he was done speaking his teeth were clenched so tightly that he didn’t think he’d be able to pry them open ever again.  His lips were pulled back in a furious snarl, his every breath shuddered with explosive rage, and he felt as though his brow was furrowed so deeply that his eyebrows had merged into one long, steep ‘v’ on his forehead.

Across the table, Tarrlok cowered in the dim shadows.  His eyes were wide with fear and every part of his body was as tense as a deer rabbit that’d found itself in the sights of a jackal cat.  The lieutenant could just see the councilman’s white-knuckled grip on the seat of his chair.

Zhen calmed and straightened, retreating to his side of the table.  He was troubled by the look of abject terror on the other man’s face.   Tarrlok was a blood bender.  There was no reason for him to be afraid of a non-bender.  After all, what had a non-bender ever done to him?  What could a non-bender do to him?

As soon as the lieutenant calmed and withdrew, Tarrlok began to uncoil.  He sat up straight and forward in his chair and carefully arranged himself so he looked more presentable.  It was, Zhen realized, a bid to make himself feel a little more like he was in control of the situation.

“I…” the blood bender began, but he paused, his eyes darted nervously, and he fidgeted in his chair. It seemed he was having difficulty collecting his thoughts or even guessing at where to begin.  Then he looked up at Zhen, incredulous, “Trust me? You think this is trust?” he asked.

Zhen growled and brought his fist down on the table.  “Why else would he keep you with him throughout this mess?!”

Tarrlok looked away sharply, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “I believe…” he swallowed and drew into himself, “it’s because he promised…” his eyes widened again and he stopped speaking abruptly, as though he’d just realized what he’d been about to say.  He shook his head sharply.  “No. It’s been too long for that to hold any meaning.  I’m thirty-seven.  I’m not a child anymore.  He couldn’t possibly be thinking…” he muttered.

Zhen realized that the councilman was speaking more to himself than to his captor.  Nevertheless, the councilman’s comments were revealing. Amon had made a promise?

To whom?

To Tarrlok?

What had he promised?

Zhen leaned forward again, his body clenched with restrained rage.  “Promised what?!  What secrets are you keeping for him!?  Why does he trust you!?”

“This isn’t trust!” Tarrlok snarled as he glared at the lieutenant and leaned forward in his seat.  The shadows shifted around him, deepening the lines on his face and lending his already haggard appearance an aged, malevolent quality.

“What is it, then?!” Zhen was seconds from throwing the table at the blood bender and trying to crush him beneath the heavy wooden piece of furniture.  “Why else would he let you walk free?!”

Anger left the councilman again.  His eyes dropped to the floor, narrowing pensively and giving the man the appearance that he was struggling – struggling! Hah! – to find the reason behind Amon’s actions—as if he didn’t know!

“I’m…”  Tarrlok hesitated, “He made a promise to someone we both cared about…” he spoke slowly as if giving every word great consideration, “It was a long time ago and I guess he’s trying to keep it… in spite of everything…”

Zhen felt some of the tension drain out of him.  What Tarrlok said made sense.  It was just like Amon to try to keep some old promise he’d made long ago, even if everyone else involved had long forgotten about it.  Nevertheless, it was very strange that Amon might keep a promise regarding Tarrlok.

The lieutenant couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What, did he promise to protect you or something?” He’d never heard of something so ridiculous.

A non-bender protecting a bender?

Really?

Tarrlok, however, looked away.  The wild curtain of dark hair obscured his expression, but the mustached lieutenant could just make out a grimace of humiliation and shame on the other man’s face.

Once Zhen realized what the councilman’s expression gave away, he took an involuntary step back.

Amon had promised to protect Tarrlok.  But who had coerced such a promise from the Equalist Leader?  Why had Amon agreed to such a ridiculous thing?  How had any of this come to pass?

Most importantly:  Did this mean they hadn’t been lovers?

Aloud, he asked: “Who would ever ask anyone to look after you?  And why would Amon ever agree to such a thing?”

Zhen could just barely see Tarrlok’s face contorting into a mask of pain as the councilman said: “It doesn’t matter, she’s dead by now.”

A woman.

The tension drained from Zhen’s body.

Oh, thank the spirits.  This was about a woman.

What a relief!

It all made so much sense! In the early years of the Revolution Amon had intermittently taken lovers; young men and women who’d recently joined the equalists and shown their devotion to the cause.  He’d never remained with them for very long—never more than a week—and he never developed any attachment to them.  Zhen had always found his commander’s attitudes toward intimacy strangely out of character, since the Equalist Leader seemed like a man of deep feeling and attachment.

If Amon had lost someone he cared for—such as, say, a woman he might have otherwise married—then he might have trouble becoming intimate again.  Particularly if she’d met a terrible end and Amon feared suffering such a loss again.  And of course he’d want to honor any wish or promise they’d made together, even if it meant protecting a blood bender!

Zhen knew that Amon was a sentimental man, the sort who cared about principle and righteousness. It was something that the lieutenant admired about his commander, but it was the Equalist Leader’s greatest weakness. Amon was, after all, more honorable than most men.  For as long as Zhen had known the masked man, he’d never turned his back on a comrade and he’d always been fair and just to friend and enemy alike—he even gave benders a chance to fight back before he removed their bending!  That was more than anyone else would have ever done!

Of course Amon would keep a foolish, idiotic, promise to the woman he’d once loved!  That was just the sort of man he was!

Zhen was halfway thought imagining the woman and how she’d died, when Tarrlok’s voice cut through his imaginings— “You’ve completely misunderstood everything, haven’t you?”

The lieutenant glanced up to see the blood bender studying him with cool blue eyes.  The councilman had shifted slightly in his seat so that nearly half his face was visible in the dim light of the room.  He seemed to have regained some of his confidence, he was sitting up straight and leaning forward in his chair.

A wicked smirk spread across the blood bender’s face and he leaned forward to rest his arm on the table. There was a cruel spark of amusement in his eyes.

Zhen’s blood ran cold.

Tarrlok arched a brow and let his head fall to one side as he studied Amon’s lieutenant.  Then he said, “Let me explain a few things before your head runs wild with torrid tales of romance.”  He grinned like a fox cat that had just discovered an unguarded nest of turtle duck eggs.  “Now, I can’t tell you everything.  That would land us both in hot water with your… beloved Amon.” The smile vanished from his face.  His mouth pulled into a sharp grimace as he hunched forward over the table and hissed, “Let me assure you that there is nothing romantic about my relationship with your master.”

Zhen’s head jerked back at Tarrlok’s tone.  He’d said the words, ‘your master’ like it was a grievous insult.  Like the councilman had just called him ‘dog.’

“I suppose I haven’t been clear.  I told you, I know Amon, but it’d be more correct to say that I knew the person he was a long time ago.” The councilman snickered, “Why does he trust me?” he asked, mocking Zhen’s demanding question.  “This isn’t trust.  This is how he really is.  He’s a man who keeps his friends close and his enemies closer.  He guards those who threaten his power and position fiercely. After all, it’s easier to keep your enemies in line when they’re in easy striking range.”  Tarrlok laughed again.   “Oh no, he doesn’t trust me at all; but he trusts you.  He trusts you enough to leave you alone with me.”

Zhen felt his cheeks color, even as his heart clenched with worry.  What Tarrlok said made sense.  But what he said… it wasn’t…

That wasn’t who Amon was…

He’d never keep someone close just to… to make sure they could be quickly disciplined!

That wasn’t who Amon was!

Tarrlok’s mouth twisted into a deep and bitter frown.  “Ah, nothing’s really changed has it?  What? Twenty?  Twenty-five years?” The councilman shrugged, “He’s never trusted me with anything.”  He shook his head, “I guess he still sees the same pathetic, worthless failure.” Tarrlok’s gaze tilted toward the floor, letting the dark curtain of his disheveled hair obscure his features. “Who can blame him?”

Failure?

What was Tarrlok talking about?

He was Councilman Tarrlok. He was the man who’d nearly ruled over all of Republic City.  He was the man that the Equalists had consistently named the greatest threat to their Revolution…

And he believed that Amon thought he was a failure?

Zhen’s eyes narrowed.  This had something to do with the woman, didn’t it?

But Tarrlok had said that it wasn’t a torrid romance… but what else could it be?  What other relationship could possibly cause such strife and turmoil?

And anyway, it wasn’t like Zhen could trust a single word out of Tarrlok’s mouth…

But, then… why not put it to the test?  “You know, you’re right.  I have a hard time believing anyone could ever trust you, let alone love you.”

Tarrlok looked up at him in shock and then his face split into a wide, manic grin.  He burst out laughing.  “Of course!  You’re right!” he chortled, “You’ve got me pegged, Lu Zhen!”  Tears began to leak out of the corners of the councilman’s eyes as he continued to chuckle manically, “I’m the loser!  It’s like they say, second child, second best! Even my own parents thought I was a waste of time!”

Zhen looked away, embarrassed by the gross display of emotion.  The man was weeping in front of him.  Ranting about family and his own status as…

Second child…?

Zhen’s eyes were drawn back to Tarrlok as his mind spun with this new information.

Could…?

“Spirits, after everything was said and done, after all that…” the councilman’s face contorted into an expression of agony, “even my own father couldn’t bring himself to look at me…  And I was all he had left!”

Had Amon been in love with Tarrlok’s older sister…?  But of course!  The sort of family that Tarrlok probably came from… what with him being a councilman and all… They wouldn’t have approved of a scarred farm boy like Amon…  Their love would have been forbidden.

Tarrlok would have followed his father’s lead and looked down on Amon.  He would have denied any romance between his noble sister and the good man…  Had he played a role in the loss of Amon’s beloved?

Zhen stared at Tarrlok quietly, brow furrowed in concentration, as he tried to figure him out.

“What did you think of Amon when you knew him?” Zhen asked.

“I loved him and I hated him,” Tarrlok replied tiredly.

Zhen’s eyes widened in horror, “You loved him!?” But Tarrlok had said-! Had he been lying?!  But the woman-!?

“We used to be very close,” Tarrlok continued, “There was a time when we were inseparable.  I looked up to him.”

Zhen’s eyes narrowed in anger.  “Inseparable? You looked up to him?!” He couldn’t believe it!  “Why would Amon have anything to do with a bender? How could he have tolerated a vile monster like you!?  Didn’t you say that you were raised in the North Pole?  What the hell was he doing in the North Pole twenty-five years ago?! He was born and raised in the United Republic!  His family was killed by Fire Benders!”

The councilman nearly leapt out of his seat as he slammed his hand onto the table, “That’s a lie!”

Zhen slid back, his hands rose defensively.  He watched the bender across from him warily.

Tarrlok met Zhen’s wary look with his cold, dead eyes.  “Yes. Amon lied to you.  He lies to everyone.  He lied to me.  He lied to his followers.  He lied to you.”

Zhen’s face morphed into a mask of fury as he slammed his fists down on the table.  “That’s a lie!”  he shouted.  “You don’t know anything!  Why would Amon want to have anything to do with a Blood Bender like you?!”

Tarrlok looked away, shamefaced.  “You can’t choose…” Tarrlok choked on his words.  “Spirits, I can’t even say it!  I hate thinking it!” He buried his face in his hands.  “This is a nightmare!  I wish he’d stayed dead!”

Zhen’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Amon never died!”

Tarrlok looked at Zhen, his face a mask of pain and anger.  “We thought he’d died!” he shouted.  “It tore us apart!  He had the nerve to leave us behind and do… all this!  He left us to suffer!”

The lieutenant wasn’t sure what to make of Tarrlok’s words, so he stuck with what he knew, “Well he’s not dead!” he retorted.  It was all he could think to say.

The councilman let out a harsh bark of laughter, “Clearly!”

“I don’t know what history you think you have with Amon, but it’s meaningless now!” Zhen snarled. “You’re a filthy blood bender and he’s the leader of the Equalist Revolution!  You’re nothing to him!”

Tarrlok snorted and looked away.  “I wish that were the case.”  He grimaced in pain. “I wish he’d just killed me and been done with it.”

“Why?” Zhen demanded. “Are you ashamed of something you did? Did you betray him?  Blood bend him?”  The lieutenant’s blood was hot.  He was posed to strike at the barest hint of admission.  “Is facing his mercy the worst thing you can imagine for your crimes?”

Tarrlok looked at him, his eyes wide and empty, devoid of any emotion that Zhen could name.  The councilman looked haunted, like he’d seen or experienced something so horrible that nothing else could possibly compare…

It astounded the lieutenant how quickly that strange, disturbed expression morphed into a mask of rage.

“I blood bent him?  I betrayed him?!” Tarrlok squared off against Zhen. “You ignorant, lovesick, fool! You think I’m a monster, but you refuse to see that he is a thousand times worse than I am!”  The councilman’s hair fell around his face as he leaned forward heavily against the table.

Zhen recoiled, but he didn’t back down.  “You!?  Better than Amon!?  I’d like to see that!”

But Tarrlok didn’t seem to be listening, his head had dropped and he was shaking.  “He betrayed us, he left us behind…  After everything, he didn’t care at all!  We were nothing to him!  We were never anything to him!”

Zhen stepped back, his brow furrowed in concern, “What…?  Are you…?”

Tarrlok reached up and clutched his head, his palm pressing into the middle of his forehead.  “He abandoned us with our tormentor!”

The lieutenant felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at Tarrlok.  He recalled other ex-benders, prisoners, had become… violently unstable shortly after they’d lost their bending.  But he shook off his concerns.  He could take this ex-blood bender in a fight.

“Spit it out!  What are you talking about?!” he snapped.

“I’m talking about the real reason he hates bending!” Tarrlok snarled.

“A fire bender killed his family and burned off his face!” Zhen shouted.

“I don’t know how he became a… a…”  the councilman grimaced and faltered as he searched for words, “a scarred-up freak!”

Zhen recoiled in umbrage. He opened his mouth to berate the man in front of him, but Tarrlok kept talking.

“…but let me assure you,” Tarrlok gave the lieutenant a feral look, “a fire bender didn’t kill his family!”

“What are you talking about?!” Zhen snarled in fury.  “He has no reason to lie!”

But Tarrlok wasn’t cowed.  He leaned in until they were nose to nose as he growled: “Oh, he has every reason to lie!  He’s so ashamed of himself I’m sure!—Of his real history!”

The lieutenant jerked backward, uncomfortable with the proximity. “Right!  Like you know anything!”

“I know more than you, you pathetic, infatuated moron!” the councilman sneered.

The lieutenant glared at Tarrlok with barely restrained rage.  “How dare you-!?”

“How dare I?!” Tarrlok mocked, cutting him off. “He trusts you to watch me, but why don’t you find out what’ll happen if you cause me any harm!?”  He challenged with a cruel grin.

“You think he’ll defend you?!” Zhen sneered. His hands itched for his electrified kali sticks.

“I know he will!!” Tarrlok shouted, his voice cracking and breaking.  “…I know he will…”

It was Zhen’s turn to scoff.  “Why would he care about a filthy blood bender or his family!?”

“Why would he care about…” Tarrlok chuckled… “A filthy blood bender or his family?!”  The councilman doubled over and his body heaved as he laughed long and loud.

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed sharply.  “What do you know?”

It took a moment for the politician to catch his breath and calm down.  But once he’d stifled his snickering enough he said, “We grew up together.”

Zhen rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief.

The councilman, calm and almost melancholy once more, turned away as he wrapped his arms around himself. “He watched me and looked after me…” he murmured as he slowly dropped back into his chair, “We used to play together in the snow…”

“That’s a load of ox horse shit!” Zhen knew that if there was any kind of bender that could make someone hate bending, it was blood bending.  For years the Red Monsoons had relied on blood bending to rule the streets. He’d watched hundreds die at the hands of vile blood benders.  He’d been at their mercy… “If there’s one kind of bender that is more reviled than any other, it’s blood benders!” the lieutenant snarled.

The politician looked up at Zhen.  His empty eyes, once again growing hard and cold.  But the lieutenant didn’t care, he wasn’t about to let a blood bender lead him by the nose.

He tapped his chest angrily as he snarled, “I remember what the Red Monsoons did to people on the streets! I was one of their favorite targets! A man like Amon would never have anything to do with-!”

The councilman gave Zhen a sympathetic smile. “It feels awful, doesn’t it?”

“What?” The lieutenant snapped.

“Being blood bent.”

Zhen’s eyes widened, he reared back in fury.  “Don’t mock me!”

“I’m not.” Tarrlok grimaced and looked down at the floor.  “I was thirteen years old when my father took my brother and I out into the snow and tried to make us blood bend each other.”

Zhen felt all the blood leave his face.

“…what?”

“He didn’t even hesitate.” Tarrlok didn’t seem to hear him.  His eyes were vacant—like he’d been pulled back in time to the moment he’d been… tortured by his brother… “He just… did what he was told. Not a second of hesitation.”

Zhen felt the air leave his lungs.  He could not move.  He could not breath.  He couldn’t hear or think.

Tarrlok’s head dropped back, his arms dropped to his side and his back arched, his body bent into a backbend as if in supplication.  The councilman’s eyes widened as if in fear and pain.  His mouth fell open and Zhen swore he could see muscles twitching just beneath the politician’s skin as every part of him tensed—resisting the posture, even as he bent himself into it.

Every hair on the lieutenant’s body was on end as he stared at the politician.  The man was reliving torture visited upon him by his own brother…

The posture was like the one that Amon forced benders into before he took their bending…

Zhen stepped back.  His hand covered his mouth.  He turned away.

That thought… that Amon might have… based his technique on the torture visited upon a… a childhood friend… How many times had he seen the technique performed?  How many times had he seen it practiced…

Of all things, why would he choose that?!

Zhen shook his head and forced himself to look at Tarrlok.  “… your father… he was…?”

Tarrlok choked and gasped. He seemed to be struggling to move his limbs freely and easily.  But slowly he began to pull and twist himself out of the imagined blood bending grip.  His body bent forward sharply. 

The councilman looked up at the lieutenant through a curtain of heavy, dark hair.  “Bending… blood bending without the full moon takes years of grueling, rigorous training.  It’s a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

Tarrlok’s father… he’d… forced his children to…?

Zhen felt sick.

“I swore that I’d never…” Tarrlok’s voice cracked as he trailed off.  He reached up and covered his eyes with his hand.

Zhen looked away.  He knew the councilman was… breaking down. He wished he didn’t have to be in the same room as a man who was coming apart at his seams.

But Tarrlok had brought it on himself.

Zhen remembered his own treatment at the hands of this vile man.  The councilman had gripped him and made him lie on the floor, prostrate before him.  It had been painful and humiliating.

He had no reason to feel sorry for this man.

The politician spoke up again.  “She was going to kill me.  I see now that I deserved it, because she was right… Amon and I are the same.” He swallowed sharply and loudly.  “I wish she’d have put me out of my misery.”

The lieutenant found his brow knitting in pity for the pathetic creature that sat before him.  “You hate yourself don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Tarrlok asked.

Of course he’d hate himself!

If he were a blood bender, he’d hate himself more than anything in the entire world!  He’d hate being a terrible and vile monster who terrorized the helpless and made people miserable!

…But if he were a blood bender, he’d be powerful… Powerful enough to put the world right if he wanted to… And no one would be able to stop him…

NO!  That wasn’t who he was!

He shook his head sharply and looked away.

He’d never considered it before… If he were a blood bender?  What would he do with that power?

It was an uncomfortable question.

He glanced at Tarrlok who sat, wrecked and ruined, in the chair across from him.

The councilman had sworn to never blood bend again.  And if what he’d said was true, he’d kept his promise right up until his confrontation with the Avatar…

Would the lieutenant have resisted using such power for so long?

Zhen wasn’t quite sure he’d have the strength for that…

His disquiet deepened. He needed to fill the room with sound again.  He didn’t want to be alone with these questions, these terrible thoughts…

“Your father made you blood bend your brother?” He asked.

Tarrlok made a soft hiccoughing sound and then said, “I refused.  I was a weakling and a coward.  I refused.”

The lieutenant frowned at the man across from him.  “You refused… and you were the weakling…?” No wonder he was such a horrible person! He’d been raised to believe that choosing not to be cruel and evil was weak!

“My brother was only three years older than me.  I’m thirty-seven.  He’s forty now.” The councilman said. He looked up at Zhen, accusation in his eyes. “Do you really think that benders are just born slinging fire and tossing boulders? That we just magically know how to control our powers?  Do you think I was always like this?  Is it impossible to imagine that there might have been a time before…?  Before our father decided that we were weapons not children…?” The councilman seemed to lose focus again, as if he were being pulled back to that time before he was a blood bender.  “He watched me, looked after me…”

The lieutenant felt sick with anger and… something akin to guilt.  “But you still went along with it!” He shouted.  “You still let him shape you!”

At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder…

If Amon and Tarrlok had known each other as children…

What would it have been like to watch a friend turn into a monster?  A child you looked after and played with?  What would it have been like to lose that person to a man who was so cruel as to torture his own children…?

A best friend…?

Someone like a brother…?

He couldn’t imagine it.

Once again, he was left with a terrible sense of discomfort.  He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about what he’d learned.  Nothing fit with his own understanding and experiences…

He tried to fill the silence again, “So your father was a master blood bender who tortured you?” 

Tarrlok didn’t even look at him.  “I was seven. He was my father.  He’d been kind and good.  I thought he loved me as his son before it all started.  I only wanted to make him proud of me.”  He spoke in a dispassionate monotone, as if he were numb to the information.

Were all blood benders like this? Frightened children eager to please a parent?

Zhen couldn’t believe that.

Tarrlok twitched, his eyes began to dart.  His fingers jerked and moved unsteadily.  He reached up to push his hair out of his face.  “But I could never compare…” He rocked back and forth, and his fingers began to pull at his hair.  “Not at all…” He murmured, more to himself than to Zhen. “I was the weakling.  The spare.  The worthless, unskilled…!”

The lieutenant frowned at the councilman’s behavior.  He seemed unhinged… or like he was becoming unhinged.  He tried to draw the man back into the conversation, “Your brother was that skilled?” he asked. “You didn’t need the full moon and he was better than you?” He found it hard to believe.

Tarrlok chuckled.  “He didn’t even have to move his hands.  He just needed to be able to see his opponent…”

Zhen didn’t think he could be more horrified.

“What does Amon have to do with any of this?” He demanded.

The councilman glanced at Zhen and smiled. The lieutenant realized that it was meant to be a nasty smile, but it came off as nervous and incredibly uncomfortable. “I was his first foray into protecting another person.  Practice.”

Oh spirits…

Tarrlok turned his eyes away and studied the floor to his right.  “He failed.  Fucked it up badly.”

No…

Amon wouldn’t have dared to pit himself against a group of blood benders who were strong enough to… to… And with a single look?

The councilman chuckled lightly.  “In the end he ran away.”

“…no.”  Zhen said.

“Do you know why?” Tarrlok asked.

Zhen shook his head.  “…shut up…”

Tarrlok grinned, this time he did manage to be nasty. “Because you can’t protect someone who’s able to stand up for themselves.”

Zhen looked up in confusion.  Those were the horrible words he’d been expecting...

“Oh?”  Tarrlok tilted his head to one side.  “Maybe I wasn’t clear.  You and all your little Equalists are only important to Amon as long as you’re vulnerable and helpless.  That’s how he is.” The councilman’s smile widened, “He likes people who are helpless, who are vulnerable, who can’t protect themselves.  He likes to feel like a savior and a hero, but that only works if you’re in peril!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Zhen snarled.

The politician snickered.  “I’m talking about what he does.  He goes out and finds someone helpless and he ‘protects’ them.  He ‘saves’ them from their tormentor...” Tarrlok chuckled, “Maybe ‘protect’ is too strong a word...

“He puts himself between the victim and the tormentor.  He antagonizes the tormentor so that life becomes completely unbearable for the victim.  And he’ll.. galvanize both sides until the victim finally puts up a fight.  And then, right when you really need him, right when you desperately need his support and protection... he will leave you.”

Zhen’s eyes widened in shock.  “That’s not true!” he shouted.

... but it was happening right now, wasn’t it...?  Amon was leaving them all...

No!  He couldn’t beleive it!  He wouldn’t be led by this evil man!

The councilman shrugged and said, “I lived through hell from the age of seven.  Even though he was in a position to put an end to our suffering, he never once raised his hand.  In the did what he couldn’t do.  I put my foot down and resisted.”  Tarrlok glanced away, his expression pained, “And that was when he left... he didn’t kill him or stop him or provide any other help.  As soon as I did what he’d never...!”  He jerked, his eyes shutting tightly and his face contorted as if in pain.

The ex-blood bender began speaking again, in a calm, low, level voice.  “He never once fought back.  He was like a wall, in some ways... He took the punishment, but he never really did anything to stop what was happening.  He made a martyr of himself at my expense.  He had so much power!  But he never once tried to fight him!”  The politician looked straight into Zhen’s eyes as he said, “I had to do that.  And when he couldn’t play hero anymore, he left me to rot.”

Zhen shook his head in disbelief, “You’re a bender!” he snapped. “If you’d had some guts-!”

Tarrlok shook his head.  “He was stronger than me.  But in the end he fled like a coward while I endured.”

“You make it sound like you’re the victim!” Zhen shouted.  “How could a blood bender be a victim?  You have all the power in the world!”

“I was the one who had to fight back.  He ran.” It was like the shadows of the room were swallowing him up, body and soul.  “I took the abuse and the beatings and he, sainted and precious, played at defending me.”

Tarrlok looked up at him with baleful eyes.  “You’re blind to think that men like him are capable of any goodness.  They put themselves up as defenders, but they’re all bullies and cowards underneath it all,” the councilman sneered.

Zhen took a step back. He’d had seen men and women with hatred in their eyes—all Equalists were angry, you didn’t join the revolution if you weren’t full of righteous rage.  Some were furious at their families, who rejected them for being non-benders.  Some hated the powerful benders who oppressed them and took their work opportunities, but all Equalists were united by their fury.

Once that fury was properly shaped and directed, the powerful wrath of non-benders spiraled outward to strike at the bending establishment and inward to root out weakness…

Those were Amon’s words.

The anger in Tarrok’s eyes—no, radiating throughout his entire body was so intense he could feel it. The rage was like an aura.  It was just like in those ancient stories where men faced each other in battle and described their opponent’s killing intent.   The lieutenant would have sworn that he’d never seen anything like it…

… but it was so familiar.

Zhen stumbled for a moment, but recovered himself, “You don’t know Amon!” he snarled.  “He’s the most noble and humane person I’ve ever met!”

Tarrlok snorted.  “Is he?  A man who thinks so little of terrorizing a teenage girl?”  he asked.  “A man who would think nothing of destroying a people and their way of life?”

“What?” the lieutenant snapped.

“Don’t tell me you think for a minute that he was going to spare the Air Nation,” the politician retorted.

Zhen shook his head in disbelief.  Of course they needed to be removed, “They’re benders!”

A lantern went out.  Tarrlok’s face and form were thrown into shadow. His voice, however, cut through the darkness.  “They’re pacifists whose entire culture was nearly annihilated!” He snarled.  “And you Equalists wanted to finish the job that Ozai started.  Can you justify it?” He demanded. “Can you justify harming children?”

Zhen felt a twinge of fear.  He wasn’t afraid of the ex-blood bender, but of what the man was saying.  His voice was too strong.

“They won’t be harmed!” Zhen reasoned.  “Their bending will be removed!  It won’t make that much of a difference!”

“Then you will complete Ozai’s work.”

Zhen flinched and winced. He shook his head sharply.  “This is for the best!” He shouted. “There will be some sacrifices, but it’s for the best!”

“Do you really think so?” The councilman jeered. “Do you really think you know him?”

“Of course I do!” Zhen snapped, but he didn’t sound as strong as before.  His voice was growing weak as his head began to fill with doubt and questions… There were so many little things in Amon’s backstory that didn’t quite add up…

“You don’t know anything.”  The councilman hissed.  “You know a personality.  A character he’s playing!  I knew him before he became Amon!  I knew him when he was just a boy with a chip on his shoulder and talent to spare!”

Zhen stepped further from the table, his hands came up to cover his ears as he turned away from the politician.  “I trust him!”  He shouted.

“You want to know something…?” the ex-blood bender asked in a soft, taunting voice.

Zhen didn’t want to know any more.  He wanted the damn bastard to shut up and quit… disrupting everything.

“The night I took the Avatar prisoner, we fought.  You heard about that, right?” The councilman asked.

Zhen nodded.  He wished he hadn’t.

“She came after me.  I was trying to keep my head, in spite of what she said, but she provoked me when she accused me of being exactly like your leader.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Zhen snapped as he turned on the politician once more.  “You two have nothing in common!  The Avatar is a fool for comparing you two!”

Tarrlok chuckled softly.  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?  I was so angry at being compared to him I attacked her.  We fought.  She nearly killed me and I gave in and blood bent her….  After all these years…  I never used it.  I swore I wouldn’t.  I swore I’d be better than both of them.  I swore that I’d never once…  But coward…. Monster that I am, I did it.”

Zhen could see the councilman’s blue eyes glinting in the darkness.  The Equalist couldn’t look away from those pale, glinting orbs.

“How do I describe my horror at discovering that her words were accurate?  We share so much your master and I.  Our lives intersect in so many ways…”

Zhen shook his head sharply.  “Name one!”  He shouted.  “Name a single way that you’re like Amon!”

“We would have torn this city apart to achieve our ends.”

“That’s not true!”  the lieutenant howled,  “You were tearing this city apart! Amon was trying to help us! Benders hurt us!  Terrorized us in our homes and on the streets!  You enabled them!”  Zhen snarled.  “We’re oppressed!  We’re making a stand!”

“But did you need a war?”

“What?  No!”  The lieutenant’s head hurt.

“You started a Revolution.  You began fighting in the streets.”

“We were striking back!” Zhen retorted.

“You could have put pressure on the council to bring on a non-bending representative, just like Amon could have reached out to be benders who are just as downtrodden and oppressed as non-benders and brought them into his revolution—making it a more effective and powerful movement.”

Zhen growled angrily.  “Why would any benders feel oppressed?!  They have all the power!”

“Triads don’t distinguish between benders and non-benders, but Amon does.  And Amon doesn’t care what happens to benders whose families are murdered by benders or non-benders.”

“Non-benders don’t murder benders!” The lieutenant shouted.

“Of course they don’t.  And your Equalists don’t overpower benders and terrorize them for fun when you’re not keeping them in line…. Your Equalists didn’t come up to the Avatar’s cell, looking for an excuse to get inside and have a bit of fun with an ex-bender girl that their leader had so recently humiliated.”

Zhen shook his head quickly; his hands came up to clutch his head.  “It’s different!”  He howled.

“Is it?”

“She deserved it!” He cried... he couldn’t believe he’d just said that…

“Are you sure?”

Zhen’s hands came down hard on the table, he gripped it, ready to assault the man in the dark, across from him.  “She needed to learn her place!”

Oh spirits, what was he saying? He didn’t really believe…?

“Just like non-benders had to learn their place?  Of course. Like looking in a mirror isn’t it? Same tactics.  Same view.  Different side of the tracks.”

The door hinges creaked.

Zhen gasped.  The lantern that had gone out flickered back to life and Tarrlok reappeared.

Both men stared at the door as it began to swing open…

Was it Amon?

Had Amon returned?

Or was it a chi-blocker?

The lieutenant snatched his head-gear from where it lay dangling off the edge of the table and pulled it on.  If it was a chi-blocker he needed to look ‘put together.’  They needed to believe their leaders were in control.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tarrlok smirk snidely at him.  The councilman seemed to know exactly what was going through his head.

A small, slightly built Equalist peered into the room cautiously.  “Uh… Mr. Esteemed Lieutenant, Sir?” she said in a soft, high voice.

It wasn’t Amon.  Zhen couldn’t hide his disappointment and anger at being interrupted by one of his subordinates.  He wanted to see Amon right now.  He needed to reassure himself that Tarrlok was lying aobut his commander.

Zhen glared at her sharply.  “What is it?” He growled.

The small Equalist stepped cautiously into the room. “Oh, good.  It’s the right room…  Ahem! Mr. Esteemed Lieutenant, Sir?  Amon would like a word with you.”

Zhen stiffened and turned sharply to, “I was ordered not to leave the councilman’s side!  Do you really want this man wandering around our base?! Exploiting our secrets!?”

The small Equalist nearly jumped out of her skin.  She stumbled backwards and immediately began bowing deeply, repeatedly, and profusely. “S-s-s-s-sorry Your Most Esteemed Excellence Right-Hand-Super-Manliness!  I-I’m just following orders!  Uh…! Amon-uh-!  Amon said that... um Mr. Councilor is to stay where he is...”

The small equalist cast a quick, nervous glance at Tarrlok.  “Umm... Mr. Councilor wouldn’t want to... to leave this room, because he, um, he knows what was good for him?” she offered.

Oh winged spirit of sky and sun give him patience, Zhen knew who it was!  Amon had sent one of the most inexperienced, flighty members of the organization to fetch him.  Yun was a sweet girl, she really was, but she lacked confidence.  And as much as he liked the girl—in a fatherly sort of way—he had been the one who’d put her on probation for delivering a certain, vital missive into the hands of a drunk Hiroshi Sato.

He pinched his brow and grimaced as he wondered what she was doing back in the base.  She was supposed to stay at home until she was contacted for review!  She was not supposed-!

They’d sent all the Equalists of Water Tribe descent home last night.  They were short-handed.  Of course she’d been called in…

He sucked in a deep breath and corrected her.  “You mean, he won’t leave this room if he knows what’s good for him, don’t you, Yun?”

He could almost hear the air woosh as the young Equalist nodded quickly. “Oh!  Also, I um…”

“Go on…” the lieutenant said through clenched teeth.

“I have a key to the room?  Amon wanted me to deliver it to you?”

He looked up and let out a heavy sigh.  She bent at a near perfect right angle with both her hands extended straight out in front of her, palms up, offering him the key like he was some kind of great lord or king…

… and she was shaking with so much nervous, frightened energy, that he thought she might collapse.

The anger and frustration drained out of him.

This movement wasn’t all about Amon, it was about people like Yun.  Small, nervous, frightened people who were so used to being abused that they’d come to expect it for even the smallest mistake.  It was about people like him, who just wanted the feeling of being trapped and helpless to end…

Whatever history Tarrlok shared with Amon, it didn’t matter.  His feelings for Amon, though important to him, meant very little in the grand scheme of things.  He needed to remind himself of that.  The Equalist Revolution was bigger than four men.

He smiled, shook his head at his own selfishness, and took the key from Yun.  She flinched when his fingers brushed her gloved hand, but aside from that she didn’t move.  Not even after he’d taken the key from her.

He frowned and sighed, “Yun,” he said.

She straightened to attention, saluting him like a good little soldier.  “Yes, Sir, Esteemed Lieutenant, Sir!”

“It’s just lieutenant, Yun.”  He studied the key and glanced at Tarrlok.

The councilman was eyeing Yun like she was the most outlandish and annoying thing he’d ever seen.

Typical bender elitist scum…

He turned his attention back to the young Equalist.  “I’m going to need some help carrying these files.  There’s quite a few of them…”

She sucked in a breath and he could see how she just… swelled at the idea of being helpful. “I’d be honored, sir!”

Zhen snorted and shook his head.  If it’d been anyone else saying that, he would’ve simply assumed they were kissing-ass. But he knew the new recruits and Yun was nothing if not completely sincere.

Yun turned, took a step toward the table and froze.

It took the lieutenant a moment to figure out what was going on.  It shouldn’t have.  Yun was staring straight at Tarrlok and he could clearly see the whites of the young Equalist’s eyes through her green goggles.

Tarrlok, meanwhile, was wearing an amused smile.  “Oh, what’s wrong?” he asked smoothly. “Are you afraid of the big bad blood bender?”

“Don’t worry.  You have nothing to fear from him now,” Zhen told Yun.  He smirked, “Amon purified him.  But…” the lieutenant gave Tarrlok a nasty, smug grin, “Ex-Councilman Tarrlok.  You’re standing between my young associate and those very important files. Move.”

Tarrlok glared at him.  “Of course.”

The councilman rose to his feet with a grace he hadn’t displayed since his capture.  As he stepped away from the table, he reached up and pushed his hair out of his face.

For Zhen, it was as though a curtain had been pulled back.  Tarrlok’s skin was darker than Amon’s, his face was longer, the nose was certainly not the same at all… but there was a terrible likeness in the form of the mouth, the shape of the eyes, the arch of the brow and forehead.  Even the color of those pale eyes… if not for the fact that Zhen knew it was Tarrlok before him, he would have sworn those eyes belonged to Amon.

How could Amon have the same eyes as this man?

Zhen’s mind spun.  He turned away, suddenly unable to bear looking at the man who shared Amon’s beautiful pale eyes.

Amon had said that he and Tarrlok could build a convincing history together.  He’d asked them to report that he’d taken his brother and the Avatar… 

His brother…

no…

A shared past…

No.

‘I know what you are…’

It couldn’t be…

‘I wasn’t my teacher’s favorite…’

NO!

There was no way this could possibly be true.  Amon’s family had been killed by a fire bender.  The fire bender had taken Amon’s face.  Amon’s whole family was dead.

But what if that wasn’t true?  What if he had a brother?  A brother who lived…?

The Avatar’s words rang in his head: ‘I know who you are, your brother told me.’

Oh, spirits, no…

“Mr. Esteemed Lieutenant, Sir?” Zhen looked up and saw Yun standing before him, holding a large stack of files in her arms.  “We shouldn’t keep, Our Most Exceptional Leader, Amon, waiting.”

[] [] []

A/N: I have hated scenes before, but I have not hated any as much as I hated this one.  It has gone through no less than 8 rewrites.  Half of those rewrites were in the past two weeks. Beta saved this scene.  Yun saved my f’n soul.

Equal Measure Navigation

2.1.6.3- Apologies 2.1.6.3.5- The Little Equalist 2.1.6.5- Shame

He was tall, strong, powerful, his attire was impeccable, his mask was polished, and at nearly eight-thirty am he looked to be in rare form.

It was Amon.

Omispirits!  It was Amon!

Amon was talking to her.  Again.  The last time this had happened he’d given her the best assignment ever--she’d even been able to make a new friend!  Aklaq was the coolest Equalist she’d ever met!  And she’d helped to bathe the Avatar!--it was such a privilege and an honor!

Now he was talking to her again, ohmispirits!  What should she do?!

Was he going to ask her to do something amazing and exciting and super-important again?

Did he think that she was worthy of the Equalist cause in spite of her mistake?

Had he heard about her role in the Sato incident?

Would he reprimand her?

WHAT SHOULD SHE DO?!

“Are you listening to me?” he asked in his powerful, charismatic, soulful voice.

“Ah!” she squeaked and bowed, “Yes sir, Amon sir!  Um... your esteemed, noble, and awesome spiritual-ness, Amon.  Sir.”

What should she call him!?  He was so important and so amazing!  What was she supposed to call him!?

His head tilted every so slightly to one side and she could just barely see his eyes narrowing... she was familiar with the expression.  That was how most people looked at her--like she was a weirdo... a freak... a waste of time, breath, and space.

Yun sucked in a quick, terrified breath, and clenched her fists.  She had no right to be wasting the Esteemed, Noble, and Awesome Mr Amon’s time.  She needed to rectify this situation immediately.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked in a tiny, terrified whisper.

Amon twitched, as if he were coming out of a trance, and reached into a pocket.  He produced a key. “I want you to go down to the lower levels and find the lieutenant.  He’s in storage room oh-eighty-four, sector six.”

Yun nodded.  “O-Okay.”

“Tell him I need to speak with him urgently.  He must bring the files we discussed earlier.” Amon offered the key to her. “Remind him to lock the door behind him.  And tell him the councilman can stay where he is for now.”

She dutifully took the key, nodding vigorously as she did so.  “Yessir.  Absolutely, sir!”  She saluted him like a good Equalist.

Amon shook his head at her and walked past her to continue down the corridor.  Yun turned to watch him stride along.  He looked so powerful, so majestic...

...so sexy...

She blushed hotly at the direction of her thoughts and shook her head quickly.  It was no good having inappropriate thoughts about one’s superior officer.  Especially one who was as awesome and amazing as Mr. Amon.  A little nobody from a nobody merchant family in Terra Triad territory had no place mooning over a man like him.

She looked down at the key in her hand.  It was a small, broze piece that glinted the promise of glory and redemption.  She sucked in a deep breath.  This was a really, really important mission.

She had to get it right!

“Okay... fetch the lieutenant.  He’s in storage room oh-eighty-four, sector six.  Tell him that he has to go and see Amon immediately.  With the files.  Remind him to lock the door.  Councilman stays where he is.”  She nodded uncertainly at the key.  “I think I’ve got it...”

She shoved the key resolutely in her pocket.

Yun sucked in a deeper breath.  “I guess I better get going!” She said.  And with that, she set off down the tunnels--muttering her instructions under her breath the whole way...

<> <> <>

A/N- The Lieutenant can tell every equalist apart, knows their names, home-addresses, family members, and pays close attention to their habits and attitudes.  Amon can’t tell one equalist from another in the middle of the day (except his inner circle), but he knows a cute butt when he sees one.

P.S.- Long Awaited Scene is getting final edits from Beta... expect it on Monday/Tuesday...

Equal Measure Navigation

2.1.6.3- Apologies 2.1.6.4- Unspeakable