An Ideal - Part 1 of ?

[Garnet]

I... don't know what's going on here. I watched the Korra finale, it broke my heart into little bitty pieces. The Lieutenant proceeded to stomp all over said pieces with his "I devoted my life to you!" speech to Amon.

And then suddenly, I wanted to know way more about their relationship. So this is just me exploring and BSing that, and I'm basically just in INTENSE DENIAL MODE that they're dead. So I have decided... they're not. I can't handle it 8C That's what fanfiction is for, right?

This will likely be heavy on the plot and FEELINGS with sneezing just added in for flavor. Heavy on the angst. But I'll try to be nice to them. Eventually.

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At the outskirts of Republic City, skid row turned to suburb housing turned to agricultural villages. Beyond that, the breadbasket of the Earth Kingdom. But here, on a small farm at the edge of the former colonies, the Lieutenant could stand and watch the city burn. There was something bitterly metaphorical about that, and if he squinted his smoke-stung eyes he could imagine his life going up in flames as well. If only his body had joined in the ascent.

But laying there in the pile of wreckage, his arm, weapons, and spirit crushed, he'd had the thought to struggle free. At first, he tried to quell it. It wasn't worth it, the jig was up. His esteemed leader was nothing more than a false prophet. His mind willed him to lay there and wait for death. The blood pooled sticky beneath him from a wound he couldn't see or feel, and every breath sent spikes of pain tearing through his chest. If he didn't die on the spot, they would find him, execute him. Even from the location of his fall, he could hear the explosions and shouts outside, and knew that the tides were turning.

His brain spoke, but his heart didn't listen. In a daze, he'd dragged himself inch by inch from beneath the shattered beams. One arm had gone limp and he was bleeding freely from a large, shallow wound on his side, maybe he was bleeding internally but he felt no tell-tale bulges in his abdomen. His spine was intact, and his legs pushed him upright. They staggered him, unbidden, to the abandoned infirmary, and while the revolution raged and his mind screamed, he bound his wound in wrappings and his arm in a sling. Why, why. The word echoed like a heartbeat in his ears. Why.

Ruination at Amon's hand was not his first brush with death, not by any stretch of the imagination. At the bottom of his cups or in the path of a fireball, he'd danced the edge enough times that he didn't fear the embrace. He'd never been much invested in the spirits, but eventually even he wondered if they were saving him for some glorious purpose. A few short hours ago, he'd thought he'd found it.

Shadows and lies. Now he didn't know which way was up, much less how to re-evaluate his life after having it so violently uprooted. But he knew he was alive, and he knew enough to get away from the city. Far, far away.

The next few hours passed in a haze of blood loss and betrayal, and distantly the Lieutenant was aware that the escape probably put all of his skills to the test. But by day's end, he was still alive enough to watch Republic City turn over a new regime. From a distance.

Perhaps it might surprise some, but Amon had paid him very handsomely for his services. It meant little now, except that he could buy food, first aid supplies, a cart and an ostrich-horse from a farm at the edge of the city, with no questions asked. He had no doubt it was most of what they'd had, but the yuan he'd stuffed in the old woman's hands in exchange would be enough to buy the same stock thrice over.

The animal was old too, but healthy, and it still stirred at the reins with impatient steps. A wiser beast than he, who was waxing poetic and lingering too long. Already he'd have to ride all night to reach the next safe waypoint.

"Hey-ya," he muttered with a one-handed jerk of the reins, surprising himself with the hoarseness of his own voice. The animal spurred into motion.

Each jerk and bounce of the cart over the terrain wrenched his arm and ribs painfully. If he hadn't fractured any bones, he'd at least bruised them, but the Lieutenant was accustomed to pain and it was better to stay off the main roads. Few people would recognize him even now, he knew, but he wasn't going to risk any hindrance to his flight.

For a while, he rode along the bay, keeping the water in sight and the fading horizon of the city to his left. It was a smart move for a while, but ultimately proved to be a catastrophic mistake.

Three miles along the shore, he found a body.

By itself, this was disconcerting but not entirely unexpected, and he had a mind to keep riding. The sea would soon be full of bodies. And yet, something compelled the Lieutenant to halt the ostrich-horse and slowly, wincingly dismount. He would check for a pulse, that was all. Maybe salvage any money and weapons, then resume his own escape.

The body's clothes were dark, but torn and waterlogged beyond recognition. Probably an Equalist, maybe a United Nation marine not dressed in the regulation red. He didn't know or care, until he brushed back the hood and turned the face towards him.

The features were mangled and burned, likely from an explosion, and for a beat or two he didn't note anything beyond the person's gender and the severity of the damage. The Lieutenant put a hand to the man's neck and felt for a pulse. To his surprise, he found one weakly throbbing, barely more than a flicker of motion against his fingertips. While he was counting the beats, he swept his gaze over the face again, noting the skin tone, the bone structure beneath the superficial burn wounds. Then recognition sparked, white hot in his brain, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

No.

The Lieutenant reeled hard enough that he collapsed over backwards. He scrambled away from the limp body and putting his head between his knees, breathing hard and fast.

No no no no no.

Before today, he'd seen Amon unmasked a grand total of once, but that image was seared slow and savoring into his mind's eye forever.

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He'd been a newly promoted Lieutenant, but long enough in Amon's service that he had to stop and think to recall his birth name. They were bent over a ledger in Amon's offices, and he was keeping carefully filed mental notes of his leader's words, when all at once Amon paused and turned.

The Lieutenant looked at him queerly a moment, then jumped when his leader promptly sneezed. It was a single, subdued "hit-sssh!" that didn't sound especially satisfactory. He watched strangely rapt as Amon sat there with head tilted back and breath fluttering softly behind the mask. Distantly, the Lieutenant was aware that the probably should have looked politely away, but his commander hardly seemed to be paying attention to him.

A moment later, he sat sharply forward into an upraised hand, with a louder sneeze that seemed to bring greater relief.

"Heh-ISSHuh!"

"Bless you, sir," the Lieutenant murmured automatically, trying to keep the humor out of his tone. He promptly failed at Amon's disgusted sigh, a slight tremble of laughter trembling his own shoulders.

"Thank you. Something amusing, Lieutenant?" Amon drawled, cool and calculating as ever despite the fact that it was punctuated with a sniff.

"No, sir," the Lieutenant recomposed himself and drew up to attention, leaving only a small smile. He was typically an intently serious man, or had been told as much several times. However, he'd been with his esteemed leader since the Equalist movement was a tiny matchstick flame of an idea. His respect for Amon was one born of trust, not fear. He knew when to be a loyal subordinate, and when he could speak his mind freely. "I merely imagine that sneezing inside a mask is unpleasant."

Amon studied him for a long moment, then sniffed pointedly and chuckled when the Lieutenant presented him with a neatly folded handkerchief.

"It's remarkably unpleasant."

The Lieutenant watched, still at easy attention, as Amon took the handkerchief and unfurled it in his hands. "Shall I turn?"

Amon seemed to consider that for a moment, still sniffling quietly. The Lieutenant half-wondered if he was coming down with something.

"No, it's alright."

The Lieutenant... had not been expecting that. His heart seized with a sudden queer feeling of panic and anticipation alike as Amon reached up with one hand to brush his hood back. Really? Here? Now?

"I trust you to know, by now, that some parts of my past are... fabricated," Amon commented. The Lieutenant was busy studying the fall of thick, dark hair combed back from his brow to just past the nape of his neck. His brow furrowed in mild confusion.

"Sir?"

He went silent in stark, wide-eyed surprise a moment later when his leader untied the mask and lowered it.

Amon didn't make a show out of it, and the handkerchief was at his nose in a moment to clear his sinuses, but still the Lieutenant stared with clear understanding. There was no scar, no missing face. There never had been. Beneath the mask, there was only a man. He'd always known as much, of course, but it was still odd to try and parse the human face and the mask he associated with Amon's persona. In the end, he opted to file them separately for now, and merely took a long moment to observe as his leader wiped his nose, folded the cloth over, and then dabbed the inside of the mask discreetly dry.

"... how much of it was fabricated, exactly?"

The unfamiliar man narrowed his eyes slightly. He was handsome, heartbreakingly so. Before his partnership with Amon, the Lieutenant had never been drawn sexually or romantically to another man, but even so he felt his heart beat a little faster at the smooth, broad planes, strong jaw and dark skin that denoted Water Tribe heritage. He swallowed.

"Just this part," Amon replied, and gestured to his face. "Do you understand?"

The Lieutenant considered that for several long moments, composing his thoughts and trying not to be distracted by memorizing every line of those features. He didn't think he'd get to see them more than once.

"I... think so. The mask is a symbol, an ideal," he began slowly, searching Amon's face for confirmation. It was as still and calm as his painted guise. "And ideals are easier to follow than a person, sometimes."

Amon nodded slowly. "Go on. Why is it easier?"

The Lieutenant took a breath and continued. "The mask... has no mortality, and no one nation. It's just... there. Something that anyone could relate to."

"Good..."

He ran a thumb over his mustache for a moment, then added, with increasing understanding. "But..." He paused, nodded to himself, and resumed. "But a personal connection keeps it from being some unattainable pedestal. The missing face... and then putting the mask on. It's like giving something up, transcending from a mere man to a higher existence," he summarized at last, satisfied with this logic. "It wouldn't carry the same weight without the flaw."

If he was surprised by Amon's naked face, it didn't feel like betrayal. It felt like another piece of the puzzle fitting slowly into place, a clearer understanding for himself as well. It was queerly honoring, too. He was reasonably certain that no other Equalist had seen this. That level of trust...

"And you are familiar with giving things up for a higher purpose."

It was like being prodded with cold iron. The Lieutnenant closed his eyes and nodded, once. "Yes, sir. I don't regret it."

Amon was smiling now, faintly. "An excellent analysis, Lieutenant. You continue to impress me."

"Thank you, sir. For... showing me." The praise felt good, but the confidence felt better. Rather than swelling with pride, however, he watched with quiet interest as Amon sat back and held the bundled handkerchief before him, breathing in steady anticipation for a few moments.

At last, he snatched a quick breath, nose wrinkling open, and buried himself in the cloth for an indulgently unhindered sneeze.

"H'ESSH-oo! Ah."

It must have felt marvelous without the mask, though Amon only wiped his nose once with a sigh and breathed a quiet 'excuse me'. The mask settled back into place.

"Bless you, sir. Are you unwell?"

"I'm fighting something," Amon agreed, drawing the hood up. Thus covered, the Lieutenant tracked his smile only by the slight crinkle of his eyes behind the cut-out holes of the mask. Was it a conscious or subconscious decision that he found himself standing up a little straighter in the presence of the mask? "Mortal flaws."

"Indeed."

Amon didn't swear him to silence about either matter, it went unspoken. The moment was gone, and though the Lieutenant would keep that burned image of his leader's human face in the back of his brain, he didn't think he could ever reconcile it as his 'true' face. Amon was Amon, mask and hood and all. The rest was merely an insight into an ideal.

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This broken body was neither ideal nor a man. It was a shell, barely alive, and if the Lieutenant had any gall or shred of mercy in him at all he'd end him here. It would be easy. He'd killed men with his bare hands before, benders and non-benders alike.

Slowly, he crept back over to Amon, or what remained of him. One-handedly, he pressed a hand to his throat. The skin was cold, hypothermic. He could strangle him like this. Even if he were conscious, he doubted his former commander had the strength to bend a puddle, much less every vein of blood coursing through his body.

But there his hand lay limp, unwilling to tighten.

Damn it.

As if on cue, there was a weak twitch of movement behind seared eye-lids, the red and twisted flesh already promising to harbor infection fast if it wasn't treated. It was some small miracle when, a moment later, the battered man managed to crack his eyes open. Blinked once, twice, three times in half-blind confusion. The Lieutenant doubted he could even see well enough to recognize him. He leaned back as Amon curled slightly to flinch with a weak, watering 'kxssst! sneeze, clearing the water from his sinuses. A pause, a catching, quivery breath, and then a wet, retching cough that brought up lungful of seawater. And another. He coughed hard and long enough that the Lieutenant was sure he'd either asphyxiate or shake himself clean apart. He didn't touch him, but didn't break his eyes from the pathetic form either.

Finally, nearly a full minute later, the fit subsided and Amon managed to croak out a hoarse, whispered plea.

"Kill me."

The request gave the Lieutenant pause. And then slowly, painfully, but with bitter conviction, he struggled the half-dead corpse into his arm and heaved to his feet. It was awkward and clumsy, but he managed to haul Amon onto the back of the cart, draped unceremoniously between a change of clothes and two heads of cabbage.

"I wouldn't do you the honor, " the Lieutenant sneered, then swung himself back up to the reins, and resumed his... their flight from the revolution.

[pinknose]

OH MY GOSH THE FEELS

Just when I thought I was done freaking over the finale, you bring this beauty into my life! ;___; So... so... beautiful...

PLEASE tell me you'll continue this! I approve with every fiber of my being!

[Gypsy]

Beautiful. <3 Superbly written. And Amon is really way too attractive for a cartoon villain.

[iety]

I think I need to lay down for a minute omg. I'm such a sucker for this kind of scenario and your characterization of Amon is so excellent (as well as your development of the Lieutenant's character).

[SweaterWeather]

I finally got to watch the season finale (AMAZINGLY EPIC, btw) and I admit, I read this before I actually saw the finale. Loved it then, am completely, utterly, obsessively infatuated with it now. No, Amon did NOT DIE. It's.....it's just not possible (neither did Tarlock. Nope. Didn't happen). I'm still a little bit shaken by the whole ending, but this is a such an insightful look into the relationship between these two, even though we really knew didly squat about them until the very end. Looking forward to part two!