Anghraine

title: the edge of darkness (3/6)
verse: the edge of darkness (bloodbending backstory+f!Tarrlok)
characters: Noatak, Tarrlok; Yakone
stuff that happens: Noatak and Taraka's training manages to get even worse, and Noatak comes of age.
previous sections: one, two


CHAPTER THREE

Taraka continued to struggle with bloodbending, but Noatak kept prodding at her and she kept working at it. She had none of Yakone’s glee—but then, even Noatak didn’t. For him, bloodbending was a minor thrill, pride and satisfaction in his own control. For Taraka, anger had to be good enough, and hers seemed to be growing.

She smoothly concocted stories to justify their frequent absences to their father, who only much noticed Noatak’s. Yakone regarded any suggestion of autonomy on his son’s part as a dangerous rebellion to be crushed. Taraka, though, had a distinct knack for talking him down and seemed to be getting better at it, her face sweet and guileless except for her cold eyes. When Yakone turned away, subsiding into mutters, Taraka’s mouth curled into a smile, half-exultant and half-smug: exactly what Noatak felt when he was bloodbending. Now and then, she looked the same when she bloodbent—she’d surreptitiously glance at Yakone as if she were seriously considering poisoning his dinner, then turn to face the animals, her eyes lowered. Actually closing her eyes, Noatak had warned her, would be a touch too obvious, even for Yakone.

Their father, of course, was hardly satisfied by her progress, but he was sufficiently encouraged by it to continue her training. He stopped talking about grandchildren, and the question of marriage was, to the relief of everyone, quietly dropped.

The siblings had little opportunity to relish their victory. Within a few months, Yakone declared that they had both demonstrated enough mastery of basic bloodbending to train in the next level. Noatak and Taraka hadn’t realized there was any other bloodbending; they did their best to look politely interested rather than blank (Noatak) or horrified (Taraka). Noatak did feel a little anticipation at the idea of some new technique he might explore, but it quickly faded when Yakone provided details.

As waterbenders, they had the power not only to move water, but to shape it and to shift it from one state to another. Freeze it, heat it, evaporate it. The same principles, Yakone said, applied to bloodbending. They could crush organs, boil blood.

Noatak, hardly overburdened by scruples, quailed. Taraka looked like she might faint. Neither could formulate a response.

“It’s rarely useful except as a threat,” Yakone allowed, “but if you ever need to kill quickly and quietly, you’ll be grateful you can do it without much effort.”

Noatak opened his mouth, then shut it again. He only recovered himself when Yakone led them towards their prey, and Taraka let out a small moan. Noatak grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into it as tightly as he could.

“Don’t,” he hissed. Don’t let him hear you. Don’t let him see any weakness. Don’t give him any reason—

“Noatak.” It was all she said, his name a hopeless prayer in her mouth. Noatak looked away, into the cave their father was leading them towards.

“It’s—it’s just rats,” he said helplessly. Even he felt sick.

When his time came, he forced himself to concentrate on the rats’ dimly-felt organs, crushing them as quickly as he could. He still shut his eyes right before he did it. Taraka was shaking so badly that her rats took fifteen long seconds to die, squealing all the while.

That night, Noatak dreamed of blood, actual blood spilling over his hands and soaking his furs, and the two of them walking through the village and killing everyone they met, and animals’ screams that turned into Taraka’s. He woke up with his heart still hammering against his ribs, his face clammy with sweat. Their father was sleeping peacefully; Taraka was gone.

After a brief moment of panic, Noatak caught sight of her at the edge of the camp. She was sitting with her knees pulled up, rocking a little back and forth. He walked over and sat beside her, imitating her position.

Taraka looked over at him. “Today was awful.”

“Yes,” said Noatak, swallowing bile. “It was.”

She seemed slightly relieved, then miserable again. She leaned her arms on her legs and rested her head on them.

“Four more years,” she said.

They stared ahead blankly. Four more years of this, he thought, even his mental voice bleak.

Suddenly Noatak had no difficulty at all in wrapping his arms around her. His eyes were hot and itchy, and her hair clung uncomfortably to his cheek, but he didn’t move. Distantly, he thought that his grip on Taraka’s back had to be hurting her. If it was, she didn’t seem to care, but just hung on to his waist. She was shaking, making small gasping noises that she tried to muffle in his shoulder. Crying.

Noatak lifted his head.

“We’re not murderers, okay?” he whispered. “We’re not going to kill any people, ever.”

Taraka detached herself from his parka and looked up at him. “Promise?”

Noatak nodded firmly. He thought, I’d like to kill Dad—but it wasn’t true and he knew it. He didn’t want to kill anyone. And Taraka, he thought, would sooner kill herself than anyone else.

The following months were some of the worst of their entire lives—and even once his life took a turn for the consistently miserable, he never rescinded that assessment. They killed, and hated themselves, and hated their father still more, and for the first time, Noatak thought his bending more curse than blessing. At home, their mother fretted over them; she couldn’t understand why they picked at their food, and when they did try to eat a full meal, she found both of them throwing up afterwards. They promptly pretended to be sick and, working together, very carefully gave themselves slight fevers. Even the two days’ respite it bought them was worth it.

In a small mercy, Yakone—while far from understanding—seemed at least to tolerate their squeamishness more readily than usual. Even he took little pleasure from personally murdering anyone, and admitted that he’d considered it a failure of sorts to be driven to it. Once they had proven their abilities on various animals, he required nothing more: certainly not the mass slaughters that they had both dreaded. In retrospect, Noatak supposed that Yakone was too dedicated a hunter to really consider decimating entire populations.

Before long, the times when he required only basic bloodbending were neither a thrill nor an ordeal, but simply a relief for both of them. Noatak dreamed of escape. He knew that if not for Taraka, he would have fled long ago.

Nevertheless, those months, too, passed away. Taraka turned thirteen, Noatak sixteen. He was now of age. Yakone began to make sounds about sending him away: to the capital, he said, or even further abroad. Noatak was immensely gifted, after all; he should have a chance to try his fortune someplace where his talents would be appreciated. Omashu or Ba Sing Se, perhaps. Or Republic City.

When the siblings were alone, Taraka said, “Maybe you should go.” She stood straight and tall as she spoke; she’d grown another three inches, outstripping their mother. “You could get away, at least.”

Noatak just glared at her. He was all the angrier because he’d already thought of it, and was far more tempted by the idea than he let on. He could clear the way for her, write letters—no. She was barely holding up as it was. They had to do it together, like they’d always planned.

Taraka exhaled. “I guess I’ll have to talk to Dad, then.”

He didn’t hear what Taraka told their father; he didn’t need to, since she’d prepared it ahead of time and they’d actually practiced the conversation. Taraka was to suggest, very tentatively, that Noatak needed her help to properly carry out Yakone’s revenge. Not so much with the bending, of course, they all knew he was by far the superior bender—though he could use someone to watch his back, and who better than another bloodbender?—but the little things, he didn’t think of details, and there was so much to distract him in the city. Some things he’d let slip even gave her the idea that avenging their father might not be his primary concern at the moment. Of course, when Taraka came of age, she’d follow after him and do her best to keep him focused, but—

Yakone had, himself, repeatedly warned Noatak that he would need total commitment to his plans to have a hope of carrying them out. Noatak, though dedicated enough in his way, had a longstanding tendency to get distracted halfway through his tasks and wander off, leaving his chores half-finished behind him. It was Taraka who either dragged him back or did his work for him, darkly informing him of the favour he now owed her. Yakone—Taraka gloatingly told her brother—pretended to endure rather than listen to his daughter’s earnest, stammering speech, but later he agreed with Sura that there was no need to rush things.

That night, Noatak and Taraka crept out of the village—not Noatak slipping away and Taraka following, or vice-versa, but the two of them leaving together. The full moon hung high above them, lighting their path. It was the middle of the night and their parents had long since gone to sleep. Still, they hadn’t dared talk openly in their vicinity, and didn’t want to worry about waking them up, anyway. He and Taraka had caught a few hours’ sleep, then woken themselves at midnight, heading to the recess under Noatak’s cliff. He flopped back against the snow, arms crossed above his head; Taraka sat down, stretching one leg out and pulling the other up, draping her arms over her knee.

“—so then Mom said maybe next year or the one after that, and he told her that he’d feel better about it if you had me looking after you.”

“I’m a delicate snowflake,” said Noatak lazily.

Taraka grinned down at him, still smug.

“And they just said all this with you right there?” he asked.

“I might have overheard them.”

Noatak lifted his eyebrows. “Overheard.”

Taraka just tossed her hair and looked up at the moon, her usual solemnity creeping back over her face. Noatak followed her gaze. It had been years since either of them were weak enough to submit to the moon’s whims, depending on the boost from the full moon or faltering under a new one. But they were still affected by the moon’s power, their bending waxing and waning with it just like every other waterbender’s. The brilliant moonlight irradiated him, soaking into his blood, his bending soaring within him until his body seemed little more than a container for it. He could feel his body, too, his and Taraka’s both, feel the veins and vessels and organs and muscles, all in exquisite detail.

Taraka was strong enough: she must feel something of that, too. He turned to look at her, sight and bloodbending blurring together. Taraka-as-he-saw-her fit neatly over Taraka-as-he-sensed-her—different but the same, like a reflection in a broken mirror. She set her chin on her arms and looked back at him.

“What are we going to do when we get to Republic City?”

“I don’t know,” said Noatak, unconcerned. “I don’t know much about Republic City, so there’s not much to prepare for. Everything I thought of before—that’s not going to happen now, anyway. We’ll have to learn everything we can on the way there. We’ll need a place to live, too, food and clothes and things.”

“Money,” said Taraka.

“Dad says benders can always find work somewhere.”

Taraka looked thoughtful. “Legal work?”

“Probably not. But we’ll find something. You won’t have any trouble, anyway, since you can heal.” His voice took on a lecturing tone. “The important thing is to be ready for anything, and take advantage of every opportunity we can find.”

Taraka gave a decided nod of her head. “All right.”

They talked a little more, in the same sleepy, drawling voices, not saying anything of consequence. Noatak knew they should get up and return to their tent. Tomorrow would be a nightmare if Yakone woke up to find them missing, and afterwards he’d undoubtedly keep a far closer eye on them. But lying here was so pleasant and comfortable: the overhanging earth broke most of the wind, and Noatak instinctively kept them warm. Best of all, their parents were a safe distance from them, not only out of earshot but out of sight. Unusually contented, he found himself drifting into a half-doze.

Taraka was staring at the moon again. Noatak, his mind meandering between mundane senses and bending and dreams, turned his head in her direction, resting his cheek on one arm. His vision was clouded with sleep, the images before him indistinct; in the place of his baby sister, he saw, dimly, a different girl, one nearly grown. Her features were half-obscured by the hair falling out of her loose braid and everything was blurry anyway, but he could make out strong, sharply angled brows that seemed oddly out of place on her soft face. With a sigh, she dropped her gaze back to the earth, to him; her eyes were wide and a clear light blue, like—

Like his. His eyes, yes. His nose, his thick dark hair, his sister. Taraka.

She looked at him uncertainly. “Is something wrong?” She pushed the stray hair out of her face.

“I—” Noatak scowled up at the moon. For as much thought as he’d given to Taraka coming of age, he’d never thought of her growing up. Not really, just ... just getting taller and, maybe, a little more capable. She’d always be younger, of course, always his duty, always his little sister. But other people would see something different when they looked at her. A flash of alarm woke him the rest of the way.

“We can’t tell people we’re from the Northern Water Tribe when we leave.”

“Uh,” said Taraka. “Why not?”

“Anybody who knows anything about us will know you’d normally be ready to get married. We don’t want people bothering you.”

“Oh!” She wrinkled her nose. “But what about you? You’ll be plenty old enough too.”

Noatak hesitated, thinking. “People don’t bother men as much,” he said finally, and darted a glance at her.

She was flushed with annoyance. “It’s not fair!”

Her tone was little short of a childish whine. It was true, though. They’d never been treated equally, by their father or mother or anyone else. Taraka still got odd looks when they walked back through the village with their game; other girls had started avoiding her well before Yakone forbade his children from wasting their time with outsiders. And as horrible as Yakone was, if not for his plans, Taraka would never have learned anything other than healing. Their mother hadn’t. Sura would never have made a bloodbender, but she was perfectly competent for what she was. She could have been trained as a proper waterbender.

And Noatak had nothing to fear from strange women. He would only marry if he wanted to. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Someday, they would change that, he and Taraka. They would make everything fair.