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This isn't what you'd had in mind. You're committed, though, so bottoms up.
Ty Lee passes you the cup, thick as mud and steaming, it makes your eyes sting just holding it, and she's expecting you to drink this stuff?
“Yeah,” she nods, and at least has the decency to look sorry.
“It's just-” you splutter, you're not backing out, you just want to explain- “it's not like it's my field?” Which might not even be true any more, much as they'll never get you to confess it. Spirit Nonsense has definitely technically happened to you, at least once. “All I did was look for a bathroom,” you mutter, apologetically. She just gives you that look, and you cave. You caved hours ago. You caved as soon as you got the letter.
You wish Aang was here. But he's not, and it's all down to you. Things have never gone well when it's all been down to you.
“Don't worry,” Ty Lee says, as you finally decide to stop stalling and do this, sitting back so when you fall over you probably won't knock anything important onto any hard surfaces, “I'll be here the whole time.”
That is a lovely sentiment and even though there is absolutely nothing she can do it still kind of calms you down a little, so before you have time to freak out again you take a swig of the stuff- it tastes like cloves and burning and you almost choke- and you're out.
–
They used to say a king slept under that mountain. This is, in your opinion, because a lot of people are not big on thinking. Of course there isn't a king sleeping under the mountain, waiting for the right time to wake up and save the land.
What there is, unfortunately, is a dragon. Wings, fire, lizard face, the whole set.
The knights went charging at it, because as far as you've been able to tell your basic knight has two ways of dealing with any situation and both of them start with charging from horseback. They died, which you could have told them was what would happen.
You're not a knight. You wanted to be one, once, before you saw them up close and realised they were a bunch of stuck-up jerks in hauberks, but you're just some guy.
After today, either you'll be the world's first real life dragon slayer, or you are going to be incredibly dead.
No armour, because yeah, chain-mail, renowned for its fire-stopping abilities, sure. No sword, because, again, getting close enough to stab- bad idea. Incredibly bad idea. You've got a bow almost as tall as you are, and you've got a Plan. They'll have to do.
You step over the threshold, into the dark of the cave.
Your footsteps echo obscenely in the soot-black darkness, every breath hitching in your throat and you round a bend and see a blue light and you're so twitchy it takes you a good few seconds to realise you're not dead yet.
The cave widens and expands into a cavern, echoing like an empty church, a large, wide-mouthed brazier dominating the centre. A distinct lack of dragon.
This is not exactly comforting.
Then one of the rocks moves, unfolding and uncurling itself into the shape of a person, hunched by the fire. Dressed all in rags, hair unkempt and wild, slick with grease and sweat. They- she? She- looks seriously unwell.
You clear your throat, out of a sense of politeness, but you keep your arrow nocked. She looks up, too quick, like she was waiting for you to move this along, and grins, wide and unsettlingly sincere-looking.
“It's coming,” she hisses, and that was the absolute last thing you wanted her to say.
But you don't hear anything. It's a giant lizard. You're going to hear it coming.
“It's coming,” she says again, with a kind of glee you'd call childlike or maybe completely creepy .
“...Now? Or, in an hour or so? Minutes? Come on, give me something to work with here.” If it's a while you might have time to set up, this could be an unexpected- she's moving now, stumbling to her feet, that grin not moving one inch and she looks you dead in the eyes, gold on blue and you couldn't look away if you tried and the change isn't subtle it's huge and monstrous and the last thing you think before blue fire sublimes you into a shadow on the cave wall is what -
–
You know they're coming. There's nothing you can do any more. They even built your towers, and your towers even worked , so you can't even say there's anything you could have done better.
You gave this city everything you had in you, and it wasn't even close to enough.
You know when you're beat. Might as well get this circle thing down. Maybe someone'll read it, think 'hey, this guy wasn't so dumb after all, he could figure out circles pretty good'.
It'd been good, though, hadn't it? Watching their triremes go up in flames like that? Totally worth the fact that you pissed them off enough that now they're burning your city , your home , and someone's kicked the door in. Great, just great. With any luck they'll let you finish this circle thing before setting fire to your house.
“With you in a second,” you tell the invader, without turning around, because hey, you're dead either way, might as well make the most of it.
“You have to move!” a voice screeches, and you can't help but turn to look.
She's armoured- polished grey metal, red cloth, clutching one of their short swords (and why does that look so wrong? Your palms itch just looking at that) helmet lost, hair tied up and out of the way, but sloppily, like it was done in the heat of the moment, and she is about to kill you, why are you taking note of this . You might as well take note of the slope of her cheekbones, which are lovely.
“I said, I'll be with you in a minute.” You make to turn back, but she grabs you and throws you to the ground, okay, this you were expecting.
“Move! Get up! Run! ”
The sword arcs through your neck, cutting through what would undoubtedly have been some incredibly profound last words.
–
You stop your horse easily, and dismount, keeping your pistol levelled on the poker-faced stage driver the whole time. You are so professional at this. You practically could do this for a living, which is good because technically you do do this for a living.
You're the Boomerang Bandit, or you would be, except nobody else seems to realise what a thoroughly incredible name that is.
“Alrighty, ladies, gentlemen, honoured guests, this is your scheduled highway robbery, please have any and all convenient loose change and other valuables ready for collection-”
Which is as far as you get before the coach door explodes outwards, and a narrow figure leaps out, tackling your dumb ass into the dirt- your pistol goes skidding off into the undergrowth, and your horse shows its true colours and bolts.
It's a lady. That's got you pinned to the ground, that is, and- she punches you in the jaw.
Her face presses up close to yours, close enough to be nearly brushing eyelashes, and she hisses at you “why are you here ?”
“I love you.”
Wait. No.
That's-
–
You stop your horse easily, and dismount, keeping your pistol levelled on the blank-faced stage driver the whole time. You are so professional at this. You practically could do this for a living, which is good because technically you do do this for a living.
The Boomerang Bandit is well on his way to being a household name, which should be easy, since he has such a stylish and memorable moniker.
“Alrighty, ladies, gentlemen, honoured guests, this is your scheduled highway robbery, please have any and all convenient loose change and other valuables ready for collection-”
is as far as you get before the door swings open, revealing a pair of hands holding a rifle.
The bullet passes clean through your skull.
–
The beat pulls through you, thudding and shuddering and grabbing you by the spine, pulling you through the blank crowd. Someone gave you a glowstick, and you put it around your neck. You are officially the Party King right now.
You know she's here somewhere, you know it.
The crowd parts like the ocean before a desperate prophet, and there she is, in the centre of the floor, somehow alone among dozens of people, radiating an aura of stay away so strong your back teeth vibrate with it.
She's about the most beautiful thing you think you're ever going to see.
Sidling up to her is the easy part, a nod and a bob and a duck and a weave, you're up next to her before anyone has the chance to notice you slip past them.
You open your mouth to say something appropriately smooth and charming, but you catch yourself short before you recognise why.
She's shaking. Hands locked into fists, eyes screwed shut, back ramrod-straight, she's vibrating- her nails digging into her palms deep enough to cut, blood running down and over her white knuckles.
Your heart's stopped, and you duck into what would be her line of sight if her eyes were open, and clap a nervous hand on her shoulder, and her eyes open.
Snake-quick, she shoves you- hard , and you fall back, crowd vanished like smoke, and in the instant between hitting your head on the ground and sudden oblivion, you just have time to see her turn and run.
–
"You don't have to do this."
She's just a voice in your ear, no way she can see you, but you try to grin anyway.
"Pretty sure I do, Princess." The old handle annoys her, you can tell, because you have steadily become world expert in reading her silences, and that was definitely an annoyed pause. "Look, I slice in, change a few dates, you suddenly have an alibi and I walk out of here completely relaxed. They're not gonna find me."
"It's not worth it," she snaps, and now it's your turn to get annoyed.
"It is! It absolutely is! Don't say stuff like that!" She's in trouble, real trouble, and she knows this is the only way to get her out of it, but she's too proud or too sad and it breaks your heart over and over but the only way to get her through it is to argue it out so you turn up your collar, stride over to a bench, sit down, and go subvocal.
You hate going subvocal. You're pretty sure it makes you look like a crazy person. Also it hurts your throat.
"Princess, listen. Please?"
"...Fine."
"...I'm scared." Shit, no, you hadn't meant to say that-
"What?"
-Roll with it. "I'm scared. I know you're in deep and you think you've got to deal with it by yourself but I want to help you and I can! I'm here, I can do this but I won't if you won't let me." Please, please let her listen.
"...Do not get killed."
"Of course." Thank you.
–
The hacking bit's easy. Insultingly easy. Easy enough that you can do it even with all the bullet holes.
The voice in your ear is not at all happy about that.
"You need to move," she snaps.
"Nope!" You have lost so much more blood than you would need to successfully walk out of here. Sitting still and bleeding to death seems like a fantastic idea. "Think I might just sit here, if you don't mind."
"I mind."
"Yeah, I know." You are bizarrely cheerful. Probably all the blood loss. "Job's done though. You can go home now."
"You. Are. Impossible!" If you didn't know her better you'd think she was upset. "Now get up!"
"I have been shot so many times you could use me to strain vegetables. I am not walking anywhere. You just... go home. Okay? For me?” You should be scared, but mostly you just feel numb. Like you've had practice at this.
You die with her shouting in your ear, and there are probably worse ways to go.
–
“Poetry,” she announces, slumping down next to you, “is idiotic.”
Is she making fun of your definitely-not-a-beatnik goatee? She might be doing that. So instead of rising to her jab, you just lean back against the tree and watch a knot of anonymous first-years scuttle past, probably on their way to the library. Good for them.
“Poetry,” you eventually say, feeling you should probably come to the defence of an ancient and venerable art form, “is pretty cool.”
“It is not,” she scoffs. “It's nothing but a pack of whiners with no real problems complaining about how their lives aren't terrible enough to be interesting.”
You shrug. “I guess. There's good stuff, though. Like, taking stuff you don't know how to express and putting it into words.”
Her mouth screws up, and she worries her lower lip. You smoothly knock her knee with your own.
“What brought this up?”
She huffs.
“I thought I had something important to tell you, but I don't remember it.”
Oh.
“Oh. Well, if you figure it out, let me know, 'kay?”
–
You get married in the spring, just after the both of you graduate. She asked you, for the record.
Neither of you are exactly made of money, so it's a simple service. None of her family attend, which you vaguely register as odd, but it's not like any of yours do either. It's just a few college friends in attendance, and a priest so bland you can't even remember his face.
For your honeymoon, you move out of your intolerably shitty quarters, into an apartment that has levels of shittiness that human beings can be reasonably expected to stand, and don't leave it for three days.
Time passes. You're both working, which isn't so bad on account of money being important, but it's not so bad to keep busy. She can't cook and you can't clean; you both end up compromising a little. She hates to sing but is kind of brilliant at it. You recognise the weird absence of knives jabbing constantly into the soft spots between your ribs as the weird emotional imbalance some people apparently call being happy.
If something feels off, if you feel like you can't remember something important, well. I'll come up if it needs to, you guess.
–
One evening, on a weekend close enough to your first anniversary to basically count, you go to the circus. Your idea, because she likes to pretend she has no sense of fun.
It's hot and claustrophobic and you've always liked acrobats, it's impressive stuff. She rolls her eyes and pretends she isn't having a good time, but she is. You can tell. You've got good at telling when she's having a good time.
Rakish grin and a wink, yes.
You lean over, and steal a handful of her popcorn. It's a warm night and the lights of the ring have dimmed, ready for a tightrope walker to appear, and on a whim you nudge her in the ribs.
“You know, Ty Lee would probably really like this.”
Her brow furrows, like she isn't sure what she heard. “Who?”
Wait, no-
–
One morning, as close as you can make it to your first anniversary without taking a day off work, you end up going to the beach. Her idea, because she actually does have a sense of fun, as much as she likes to pretend she doesn't.
You're almost back at the umbrella, drinks in hand, when she looks up from her book and looks at you like she just saw a ghost.
“...Who's Ty Lee?”
What? Wh-
–
You're looking in the bathroom mirror and you can't see your own face. Intellectually, you know that you have a face, it's just not showing up in the mirror and you blink too slowly like you're coming out of a long sleep and there it is, nose one eyes two mouth one all present and correct, but it's too late now, the dream's over. Time to wake up.
It's abrupt. It's like falling forwards. You remember.
The letter. She's been attacked. You need to come home. The explanation. Spirits. You've been to the Spirit World, you can get back out. Get her out. The dreaming. Thick cup, steaming and spiced, don't know what's in it but bottoms up.
The mission. I'll be here the whole time.
She remembers, she has to remember, you're sprinting out of the room that isn't really there into the bedroom and she's shaking and staring at you and she knows, she knows, you've made it you've finally made it and you grab her like she might vanish any second.
“It's here,” she whispers into your cheek. “It's here. It knows we remember-”
There's a noise like cockroaches scratching on a wood floor from somewhere behind you, a scuttling crunching rattle, edged with metal, like someone running their fingernails across a zither, and with an impossibly wet sound, the floor rips in half, black nothing pouring up and punching through the walls and the wind howls impossibly as you're plunged into a blank... nothing.
Even darkness would be something. You're not standing on anything but you're not falling either because where is there to fall to? You're officially off the map.
You're not letting go of her, and she seems fine with that.
“It wants us to forget,” she says, bizarrely academic. “That's how it takes you. It pulls you out. It tried to pull me out,” there, there's the fire rising, for a second you know this spirit centipede is fucked. “It tried to do it to you, too.”
“You killed me like five times,” you note, without heat. You're starting to forget, like a dream ten minutes after waking.
“That's what it wanted. Wanted you gone, as long as you were trying to find me it wanted you gone. And I kept forgetting,” she snaps.
“That's great and all but I don't think we're alone here.” That sound is back, hissing and crackling and she's about to turn around when you remember almost too late what you came here to say.
You grab her by the shoulders and hiss into her ear. “Don't look at its eyes.” The one thing you think you know for sure about this thing. The one thing Aang had time to tell you.
She nods, once, and you feel the thing creeping up your spine and you know exactly what she has to do.
She's got other ideas, and shoves you roughly aside, and as you tumble into oblivion you see it, the extent of it, huge and chitinous and coiled, but you can't help but grin, because the reason you can see it is because she's pumped it full of lightning.
–
Someone's kicking you in the shin.
Your head really hurts.
You think... you haven't got a clue what to think.
“Your name is Sokka. You were born twenty years ago, in the South Pole. You and your sister travelled with Avatar Aang, and helped end a war.”
You have to admit, that sounds right.
“I'm actually twenty-one.”
That earns you another kick, this time on your arm.
“You won't be twenty-one for another three months.” Your heart stops for just a second. You know that voice.
You open your eyes, and grin, exhausted.
"Well good morning to you too, Princess."