Where Words Fail

Book 4: Threshold Guardians

Chapter 5: Spatula, Part 3: Take all our friends and the life we're growing used to, and just send us away

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:

sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-4-5-143224085

SCENE DIVIDE

Now

In this place between one checkpoint and another - traveling along the shore of a lake, azure and vast and rife with fish as long as his forearm - Longshot sat, alone, on a rock half-swallowed by the surface of the water. The boulder's rugged texture was cool against the bare skin of his calves, through the cloth of his pants beyond the point where he'd rolled them up. Water, still frosty in the morning sunlight, caressed the soles and arches of his feet, all the way up to his ankle; he flexed his toes, allowing the water to swish around and between them, but dared not kick for fear of scaring away this morning's breakfast.

He wasn't the hunter that Smellerbee was, but he sure as hell could land a fish when it came down to it. Besides, Longshot wanted to surprise her when she woke up; she loved freshwater salmon lobsters, and he knew for a fact that they populated this area of the Earth Kingdom and were at their easiest to catch when the sun had only just peeked above the horizon.

Smellerbee wouldn't wake up for another hour or two, and that was okay. It gave Longshot time to make his catch, then clean, gut and shell it for eating.

Holding the fishing pole in one hand, Longshot leaned back against the rock; the front had been carved out by years of water splashing away at it, fashioning a nice slant perfect for lounging. As spring melted and gave way to the warmer summer months, this would have been the perfect day to put in for some time off in the Freedom Fighters. When the Fire Nation stopped pressing so tightly against the borders of the forest, Jet would unwind enough to act like a normal teenager, allowing the rest of them to loosen up as well. The mute archer had particularly fond memories of visits to the lake at the forest's edge - who else could forget moments like Pipsqueak cannonballing from the diving cliff so hard as to throw Smellerbee, Longshot and The Duke clear to the shore entirely? Jet had laughed so hard when it happened, and Longshot himself had cracked a very rare, open and completely unmasked smile.

(Thinking about Jet...didn't hurt so much anymore, and Longshot wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing. Freedom Fighters died; that was an absolute, an irrefutable truth, because they were fighting a war and lived in the wild. Battle, bad weather, food shortages...it never got easier, it just happened, but by the same token, none of them had been Jet. The only consolation was that Jet had moved on - had gone to the Spirit World for all the good he'd done, and he at last had some peace. He deserved that much.)

From behind him, several yards away from shore, where sand and rocks gave way to grass and hard-packed dirt, Smellerbee made a great, ferocious snore; Longshot let an amused grin tug at the corners of his mouth. He twisted his upper body enough to get a glimpse of his sleeping more-than-a-friend; when he had roused himself this morning, she'd had managed to squirm out from her sleeping bag in the duration of the night (how, Longshot had no idea - their bedrolls only opened at one end) and twisted over so that her face pressed into the ground, her arms flat to her sides, and her rear stuck up in the air. While not too much time had passed between then and now, she still held that position, and Longshot made no effort to suppress how precious he thought it was.

Occasionally, Bee would wake up in the weirdest positions, and never felt sore or stiff on waking up. If that wasn't cute, Longshot didn't know what was.

(Okay, her rear was cute. Smellerbee would admonish him and tell him that she was too bony, but he would have responded with the fact that it was a matter of opinion, and that his opinion was that she had an adorable butt.)

(That, or she'd punch him.)

In this time, where Jet had moved on from the world and Smellerbee was more than just his best friend, things seemed - on average - to be going their way. Longshot didn't wholly mind that if he overlooked all the tiny negatives nipping at his heels and trying to drag him down. Omashu lay a day down the road, where they'd meet up with Pipsqueak and The Duke; then it was back to the forest to try and win over Sneers. Plus, there was always Smellerbee at his side, and he couldn't have asked for better company.

SCENE DIVIDE

Then

Three years ago

"No, no, absolutely no."

The mission had taken place at the far end of the forest - all he needed was a day to scout the area. He'd be back before the sun came up tomorrow.

Longshot crossed his arms over his chest and met Sneers' narrowed gaze, keeping his face neutral in response. The young monk, acting as leader in Jet's absence (a coveted role he and Smellerbee often disputed between themselves when the situation arose), gave a deep scowl that yielded the origin of his namesake. With a jaw wider than his forehead, Sneers' face was the perfect shape for flaunting his favorite attitudes: aggravation, irritation, and cockiness, this current display a mixture of the former two.

"Look, I know you're concerned, but I think you're overreacting." Sneers searched Longshot's eyes for something, anything - but he couldn't read Longshot like Smellerbee or Jet, and he wasn't enough of a people person to get on with him like any of the others. While Longshot respected Sneers as a teammate, he didn't necessarily like him as a person; too stuffy, too full of himself despite his best intentions, and he would oftentimes cross unspoken lines in his eagerness to spite Smellerbee. It was habit now more than anything that Longshot made Sneers work for input when they had to coexist outside battle situations, and while it made the archer feel a minute, lingering sensation of guilt, he brushed it away quickly, dismissing it whenever Sneers did something unruly or brash. As he was prone to doing. A lot.

Didn't he realize that Jet's team had been taking too long to return? They left two days ago. Even if the mission was on the opposite end of the forest, they should have been back within a few hours.

"Yes, the mission has taken a lot longer than he figured it would. But you know what he's like; I'm sure they're all being as thorough as they can, making sure no Fire Nation soldiers are left alive and that there aren't any orphans that need to be taken in." Sneers gave up trying to pull anything from the archer, snorting and casting his gaze out towards the whispering blanket of shifting, crimson leaves and the unyielding, knotted branches that held them, the sky filtered pink where it filtered through the mesh. "And you know how hard it can be to get kids to cooperate with us. Especially with Smellerbee around, who's prone to scaring 'em more than comforting 'em."

Longshot felt his eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth tightening - even though Sneers wasn't looking directly at him, the venom in the archer's expression was enough to cause the monk to flinch. Smellerbee was wonderful with kids and Sneers knew it; she and Pipsqueak were the most popular with them, and he defied the monk to utter such slander to Smellerbee's face. As it stood, he was lucky enough that Longshot was more reserved than his friend, and only earned ire in the place of a good slug to the jaw.

Besides...this was a good excuse as any to keep Piper and Spike up on their tracking lessons, and it wasn't like he had a shortage of combat-ready Freedom Fighters at his disposal should something happen.

Sneers grunted, winced, his train of thought as easy to read as a scroll; of course Longshot would bring that up, the necessity to keep the other Freedom Fighters skills up to par. If nothing else, Sneers had the best interests of the group as a whole at heart, something which undoubtedly tore him up. On one hand, sending three Freedom Fighters out to scout for three more weakened the group, but at the same time, Spike and Piper knowing additional survival skills was more effective for the long term...

Longshot would have allowed himself a smirk, but doing that would tip the scales against his favor; Sneers would, ultimately, forbid him from leaving, telling him that the search party was unnecessary, and that the trio would make their way back on their own accord. The lack of foresight irritated the archer more than anything else; Sneers was a passable leader, but he had a lot to learn. He was too afraid to send any of the Freedom Fighters away in order to preserve their safety; this sheltering attitude would have to change, something Longshot would gladly bring up to Jet as soon as he found him. Staying on a constant defensive only got you so far, especially since their food and supplies came from raiding Fire Nation convoys.

Besides, wouldn't losing three of the most skilled combatants Freedom Fighters be reason enough to send out more to hunt them down? The archer never claimed to want to be in charge and would be the first to admit that his skill in the field was lacking at best, but some strategies were so basic and sound that even he saw their necessity.

It'd be a hell of a lot easier if he could do this with Sneers' consent. Not to mention more time-effective.

The monk sighed, lowering his head - relented. "Fine, have it your way. Take Spike and Piper and report back to me before sun-up tomorrow."

Longshot nodded, turned, and made his way into the hideout to collect his charges.

SCENE DIVIDE

This wasn't good.

Longshot cast a glance to Piper beside him, perched on a branch just a notch lower than his; she met his gaze, eyes wide and round, concern flitting across her face, all four pigtails wafting in the chill, spring breeze brushing through the trees. The leaves hissed and whispered to each other, as if objecting to the brutal slaughter that had taken place below; even the usual poignancy of syrup had been stifled in protest, adding to the uncomfortable dread that had started to knot up in his stomach.

"Well - I mean - the only bodies are Fire Nation...that has to count for something, right?"

Longshot felt his brow furrowing, his mouth curling into a frown. Something, yes, but he wasn't sure he liked what that something entailed. The path cutting a swerving, serpentine path through the forest's floor had been splashed with puddles of blood that, from this height, looked like nothing more maroon-and-black speckles, with Fire Army corpses strewn all over the place, like a handful of confetti.

"I...I dunno, Pipe." Spike murmured, perched on a branch above and behind the two Freedom Fighters; Longshot heard a series of tiny, wooden clicks as Spike tapped the butt end of his spear against his seat, a tell that he was trying to puzzle something out that he couldn't really grasp. "This looks pretty gruesome...it's possible that they walked away, but the battle damage was too much..."

The archer suppressed a shudder; it was a quick, brutal summary, and until they got closer, they wouldn't be able to tell any better. He gestured for the others to follow, and he started descending, dropping from one tree branch to the next, each impact sending dull, quivering vibrations up to his knees, his boots scraping the bark each time he pushed away. About halfway down, he leapt from the trees, free-falling the rest of the way down, the wind sweeping past his face, ruffling his clothes - landed in a crouch, rolled, pushed back up to his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust. Piper and Spike landed behind him, and he lead the two Freedom Fighters to the heart of the battle.

Okay, now - what did they see? Take a look around, get a rough idea of what went on here.

Spike stole a quick glance at Pepper, hiking his eyebrows so they disappeared beneath his headband; the pair moved forward, past Longshot, and began hunting around for their clues. Longshot didn't need to get up close and personal to see the fight unfurl before his eyes, though...scuffed footprints in pretty much one solid line, following the contour of the path; little, crescent-shaped nicks fell around and between the footprints, from the top end of the trail and going a few yards back.

The mission had been to intercept a slave line and liberate the prisoners - so many meshed-together footprints in a single file accompanied by the marks of shackles impacting the dirt as they fell free. Narrow, ovular marks sat near each impact mark, tapering off at one end - knees. Smellerbee, probably, since she was the best lock-picker the Freedom Fighters had, let alone in comparison to Jet and Pipsqueak.

"Got a body over here that's not Fire Nation," Spike called; Longshot whipped his head up, snapped out of his reverie, and for a second his chest drew tight - but the man lying on the ground at Spike's feet was not a Freedom Fighter, a slave wearing the charred remains of the same once-white, overlarge, tattered suit that Smellerbee'd been wearing when they first met, so long ago. The archer let out a low, hot breath before making his way over to the spearman, careful to pick his way over any marks on the ground.

The body lay face-down, its face and bare arms turned a pale, almost blue hue; its back bore a tremendous, charred burn mark, exposed through the shirt which had been partially burned away. Longshot didn't know why he hadn't noticed it from the trees - but then again, this whole mess had his mind on edge. He glanced up at Spike; what could he tell by looking at this guy?

Spike furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. "He...he got caught by a Firebender, obviously - one of the slaves. He must have gotten away - there's...there's a lot of footprints around, so it's hard to tell which direction he came from...but he stopped short about a yard away before getting flambéed. The only thing I can - "

"Hey - hey! You guys! Come check this out!"

Longshot saw Spike's eye twitch, an irritated frown scratching his face; he whirled to Piper, who stood near the side of the road, inspecting a disturbed patch in the foliage, and yelled, "Hold your ostrich horses! Longshot's helpin' me out first, you're gonna have to wait your turn."

The archer rebuked the urge to grit his teeth or face palm - Spike was a good guy, but he had the bad habit of talking about Longshot in front of him as if he weren't there. Instead, he drew a slow breath through his nose and held a hand up to Spike - it was okay, there was plenty of time to examine the site. Piper, just hold on a moment, okay?

"I - " she furrowed her brow, glanced away, before turning back to Longshot with her eyebrows hiked. "No, this is important. Pipsqueak and Jet were here."

Oh. Before he realized, Longshot had crossed over to her - his chest tightened again, breath hot and sharp, teeth clenched. It had been kinda silly, coming here under any other pretense than dragging Piper and Spike along had been for training purposes; it had just been a cover, one just convincing enough to even fool himself. Gah, so stupid! He crouched and narrowed his eyes, the grit of the path digging into his knee; yeah, the way the brush had been bent and crushed underfoot...too clumsy for an animal, and the footprints leading away from it were definitely human - broad, scuffed, hurried. Panicked? Rushed, definitely, moving forward, doubling back a couple yards out before going back again. Overlapping the third set, narrower prints dragged through the dirt; Jet's. He had been limping, definitely injured, little flecks of dark maroon spattering his path. Looked as if Pipsqueak had let Jet lean on him.

He dropped a mental curse and pushed up to his feet, following their path, heart thundering against his ribs, his pulse hot in his ears; they came to a stop near a Fire Nation corpse with a sword stuck in its back, another kneel mark, then things got - muddy from there. He could make out some finger prints - then, the person kneeling (Jet, knees were too thin to be Pipsqueak) falling forward; more scuffed Pipsqueak footprints, and, and from there, a jumble, indecipherable. Too much activity - they'd stopped here for some reason, and - it looked like Jet had been laid down on his back, and...

The acrid odor of dried blood and burnt dirt scraped at the inside of Longshot's nose, and he clenched his eyes shut. No signs of Smellerbee after kneeling near the slaves, nothing noteworthy anyway - but, but, Pipsqueak and Jet were still out there, and - choices, try to look for anything Bee could have left behind, or follow Jet and Pipsqueak, who left a clear path. The archer hunched his shoulders up and opened his eyes again, following the latter's trail; just Pipsqueak, no sign of Jet, but definitely heading back towards the hideout...

Ugh. He hated this! There were too many things that needed his attention, Smellerbee and Jet and Pipsqueak and only one Longshot to address it all. He should have come here sooner, Sneers be damned, should have...

Too many 'should have's. Longshot didn't like those, because it meant his focus wasn't on what was actually going on; it wasn't like he'd known the mission would go pear-shaped any sooner, and judging by the decent amount of animal foot traffic overlaid against the marks of men and women in battle, this massacre had ended days ago.

It was only now that Longshot realized how hushed the forest had drawn around him; no chirping, no buzzing, even Piper and Spike had fallen silent, standing side-by-side, watching Longshot with their brows folded in concern. Just the leaves rustling, hissing some sort of eulogy for the fallen, those here and those not.

...okay. Okay. Jet was definitely injured and Pipsqueak might have him. Smellerbee was...well, he couldn't tell, and as much as he wanted to, Pipsqueak might have a clearer answer than what the scattered remains of the trail they'd left behind. He pushed up to his feet, let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, throat tingling; turning to Spike and Piper, he furrowed his brow and pointed at the ground. Keep searching; find out what they could and report back to the hideout when they were finished. Consider it an open-ended exam.

"What about you?" Piper asked, frowning. She walked over to Longshot and set a hand on his shoulder, her pigtails bobbing. "You look really stressed. Do you want one of us to go with you?"

The archer sighed and, despite himself, felt a small grin tugging on his face; he'd be okay, he'd just move faster alone. Jet and Pipsqueak could be in trouble, and he had to hunt them down swiftly.

He didn't let her know that he wasn't okay, that he was on the verge of panicking and distressed to the point of stomach cramps, because - well, Jet always said that in times of stress a leader needs to appear strong, and as crazy as the concept was, he was technically the man in charge of this little scouting party. Being a tutor and being a leader had that vague overlap where only some responsibilities were mutually observed, and playing this teeth-gnashing, body cramping situation off as no big deal was not part of that deal and ought to've been mutually exclusive.

Piper pulled her hand away; Longshot nodded at her and ran, keeping low to the ground as he followed the trail Pipsqueak had left in the underbrush.

SCENE DIVIDE

Fortunately, the trail Pipsqueak had left behind him was obvious enough for Longshot to follow from the trees; running along the branches, each footfall jarring up his ankle, his knee. Breath hot and short, he pushed off from one branch, tucking his legs up into his chest, and landed hard on the next, a stream of constant, fluid movement. He leapt away and grabbed another branch, the bark rough and harsh against calloused fingertips, his shoulders and elbows jerking; swung, flipped in the air, landed in a crouch, and - the trees parted just ahead, and through the tree trunks Longshot saw Skillet's kitchen, set at the edge of a clearing, and, and Pipsqueak, pushing through the last line, Jet cradled in his arms -

"HELP!" The giant surged into the clearing, stumbled, landing hard on his knees; Longshot couldn't register moving anymore, just the fact that his surroundings had reduced itself to a gold-and-scarlet blur, the wind raking him, ruffling his clothes, blowing back his ponytail. Then, no more branches, launching out into open space, freefalling; he landed, rolled, shoved to his feet and rushed over to Pipsqueak, skidding to a halt and kneeling down beside him.

Pipsqueak's eyes widened, deep bags pouching beneath them, his mouth pulling back into something that was too tired, numb, to be a frown. "Longshot - how?"

The archer shook his head. It wasn't important right now. He turned his attention to Jet - pale-skinned, dried blood clinging to the side of his face, clumps of the stuff matting down his hair. A dirty, white bandage had been wrapped around his temples, and he stared up at Longshot with distant, half-closed eyes.

"H-hey," Jet rasped, a feeble smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like - like we're gonna be okay, Pipsqueak. Longshot's here. I think."

The archer felt something cave inside him, crushing and leaden. Pipsqueak set Jet down, and Longshot leaned over him, fingers brushing over his throat; he found a pulse, but it was weak, reedy, and if the swordsman didn't get proper care soon -

"Oh, Spirits!"

Skillet was beside them instantly, kneeling on the ground (the grass stains would take forever to wash out of her apron), panic scrawled onto her face. She glanced up at Pipsqueak. "What happened? You guys were supposed to be back days ago, and - and where's Smellerbee?"

The weight in Longshot's chest grew heavier, and the archer felt his mind start to buzz - that's right, Smellerbee wasn't here, he wasn't with them, and, and, one of his best friends was injured, the other missing -

"Pickle - go get Sneers," Skillet barked. Longshot glanced up - the younger boy, five years old with mussed brown hair had followed Skillet out of the kitchen, clutching a dust rag in one hand. Pickle nodded, turned, ran, grabbing the nearest dropline and vanishing up into the trees, and, and -

"Heh." Jet heaved an expression that was part grin and part wince. "Such a good kid. Proud of him. All of you, you're my - Freedom Fighters."

Longshot furrowed his brow and glanced at Pipsqueak. Get him into the kitchen; they'll use one of the tables in the cafeteria as a bed. Skillet, make some soup and get some water; Longshot would go topside to grab a medkit and other supplies. Stay with Jet.

He didn't wait for the others to acknowledge, but he felt electric as he turned, ran, feet hammering the ground; was this what it felt like to take charge? Leaping up, grabbing another dropline, Longshot soared up into the crimson canopy overhead.

SCENE DIVIDE

Bedroll, because Spirits knew how long this journey would take.

"There wasn't anything I could do - I ain't any good at that tracking stuff like you, Longshot. I'm sorry."

Skinning knife, because he'd run out of Skillet's beef jerky at some point.

"It took this long for me to get us back here; we had to stop every hour or so, so I could get my strength back and Jet could rest. We didn't have much to eat."

A full quiver, because any number of enemies loomed out of sight.

"Smellerbee...Jet said they took her. I had to get him back here...I had no idea where she could have gone, but he figures they went east, advancing to meet with whoever they were bringing the slaves to."

A sword from her sword rack (dust and sweat and blood and lilacs), because she might need it. Only one; it was all he could carry without overburdening himself.

"I think we'll be okay if we stay on the defensive," Sneers had said, cutting in over Pipsqueak's explanation. Longshot remembered Skillet shooting the monk a death glare as Pipsqueak nursed the cut on his arm, rubbing it down with alcohol and wincing. "With Jet down, Smellerbee M.I.A. and Bigguns here on the mend, the Freedom Fighters will need to keep ourselves safe. It looks like my stay as pro temporem leader has extended indefinitely...that is, unless, there are any objections from the peanut gallery?"

Skillet's kitchen had never been as stifling and oppressive beforehand; Jet had been laid on a table in the opposite corner of the cafeteria, Toad hovering over him, applying bandages to their unconscious leader's torso, hunting down chi lines to intuit any further, subliminal injuries. Holding that conversation with Jet in such a state had brought an unfamiliar gloom to a place of eating and socializing and music, one that had made Longshot want to fidget. It wasn't right...but then again, what the hell was about this situation?

He had felt Skillet and Pipsqueak's eyes on him with Sneers' question hanging unresolved in the air; they were the four oldest if you didn't count Mama Marlin, who didn't work as close to Jet. There was a special significance behind turning towards the archer, though; out of this select group, Longshot had seniority. He'd known Jet before there had even been a Freedom Fighters, and he didn't need to be as good at reading people as Smellerbee to know that this thought pulsated the most vehemently in their skulls. Their answer would bank on his; for Skillet it was a matter of what would be wisest, while Pipsqueak just didn't want to make waves, which was a smart thing when dealing with Sneers on such a sensitive topic.

While answering directly to Sneers appealed to the archer less than guzzling a bottle of hot sauce and it was hard enough putting up with him as it stood, it wasn't like Longshot had what it took to be in charge. Sneers could keep his precious role. Besides...

So, he'd held his hands up and closed his eyes, absolving himself of the responsibility that hadn't been his to begin with, a gesture simple enough for even Sneers to glean its message; Skillet had let out a visible sigh, saying, "It makes the most sense. You've got more skill and experience than the rest of us."

"I ain't really cut out for that sorta thing either," Pipsqueak added. "'A guy's gotta know his own limits.' Whoever said that was a smart man."

Longshot loved when Pipsqueak's philosophical side broke through. There was just something warm and welcoming about it, alleviating the gritty thrum that had overcome the room.

"Alright, then here's my plan. We'll have somebody on watch at each key point at all times; this might require some of us to double-up on shifts and will probably put a hold on any classes that need to...hey!"

The archer had heard his fill; Sneers could make any plans he wanted at this point. He'd already started drowning the monk out, pushing up to his feet and walking towards the cafe's front door; he'd need to prepare.

"Hey, get your scrawny ass back in here! You have priorities!"

Longshot had come to a stop on hearing that; he glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at the monk. Yeah, he had priorities; Sneers had everything well under control here, intent on curling up like an armadillo tiger so nobody could hurt the Freedom Fighters. That was all well and good, but Smellerbee was out there somewhere, in enemy hands. She needed help, and if Sneers wanted to stop Longshot from going after her, he was damn well welcome to try.

A scowl curled on the monk's face; whether he had understood the message or just cringed at the venom behind Longshot's gaze, he didn't much care. He turned again, walked away, leaving the kitchen behind.

So, here. Smellerbee's tent, his second-to-last stop before departing the forest on his quest; Skillet had come chasing after him and given him the beef jerky before he'd retreated to the trees, and he had that in his knapsack along with his other supplies. While he knew he had everything necessary for the trip, standing in this place - also familiar, yet with an atmosphere inappropriate to the context - something felt missing. Longshot had been in here an innumerable amount of times, lounging with Bee in the shade during the sweltering summer months, bringing food and eating in her company when she'd become sulky, sitting with her when she had the flu...every tent in the forest was pretty spartan, but Smellerbee had managed to put her own charm into hers.

He hated the feeling of incompletion gnawing at the back of his skull. He was forgetting something obvious, yet still subtle. A dichotomous luxury item that needed to come along. He sighed, shrugging the knapsack from his shoulders, the weight easing away as he let it drop to the floor. The tent, draped over Smellerbee's personal platform, blocked out any direct sunlight, although the wood and trees and leaves beyond glowed, thriving on the exposure. He heard the leaves sighing, branches creaking, birds chirping - other nature sounds, those that had become hushed at the battle site restored to their full glory, the aroma of syrup once again flooding the air.

Her sword rack, loaded with her most prized bladed weapons, stood in the middle of the tent, acting as the anchor. Spread out around it were her few other personal belongings: a thatched mat serving as a bed (the Freedom Fighters hadn't been able to obtain anything of a higher quality), and a short, wooden cabinet with a handful of scrolls and loose sheets of paper thrown haphazardly inside. On top of the cabinet sat a jug of the strong Fire Nation whiskey she'd taken such an affinity to, half-drained of its contents, as well as the items Smellerbee used to maintain her swords: a sharpening stone and bottles of oil and rags.

Something about the cabinet drew Longshot's attention, as if the missing item were somehow inside...but neither the sword care materials nor the whiskey stood out as something that was and was not necessary all at the same time. He walked over to it, boots clopping against the floor, before setting himself down in front of it, the wood cold and unyielding beneath his butt. What kind of mysteries did it have to show him...? The archer pursed his lips and, after a moment, reached for one particular sheaf of parchment with frayed, soft edges, something that had clearly seen a lot of handling. He couldn't explain quite why the cabinet, this paper, had attracted him, but something about it felt...

He turned the paper over, skimming the scrawled, crude words, and it only took half a second -

Longshot jolted, his eyes stinging, the paper shaking in his grasp. Oh, Spirits, she'd actually - actually held onto this...? His cheeks tingled, felt his mouth curling up into a smile, and he lost himself, engorging the paper's contents with a weighted tingling in his chest.

"My nam is Smelurbe. I am a Freedum Fiter. I am nin yeers old. I like sordz and dagers and nifes and stuf."

He remembered Smellerbee, scrawny and hair cropped short, narrowing her eyes and glancing up at Longshot. "This is hard. Why do I need to learn to write and read anyway? It's not like I'm gonna need it."

Longshot had crooked his head and shrugged, rolling his eyes; well, if she didn't mind Sneers teasing her for being illiterate...

He didn't need to finish his thought; the bait had made itself pungent enough, and the gangly little wild child lunged for it. She had bunched up her bony shoulders, hair standing on end, a scowl pulling down on her face, and it had just been so cute. "I do not like that! I'll show you, an' I'll show Sneers, too! I'll write the bestest sentences ever!"

The archer had to keep his expression even until Smellerbee's attention had been drawn with new fervency to the paper, a quill pinched between ink-stained fingers; as soon as she wasn't looking, he'd let himself smile, because if she had seen it, then she'd think Longshot was joking and wouldn't dedicate herself to the task. That smile...it was just like the one he wore now, warm and melty and humbled in the presence of something so fresh and stubborn.

"Lonshot is kwiet. I can still heer him. Jet sez I do it bestest. Beter then Jet. Beter than Sneres. I like being bestest. The Freedum Fiters are my frends. Lonshot is my bestest frend."

He wanted to - wanted to keep reading it, to soak in everything, the memories, the heartache, the times when Smellerbee had not yet been so tainted by the battlefield. When she was just a boyish little girl with scabby knees whose biggest concern was antagonizing Sneers. His vision didn't want to cooperate, though - blurred, stinging, he had to let his eyes slide shut, drown out the sights with the sounds and smells, the trees and leaves and syrup, and - something warm, wet, tracing down his cheeks, and -

He sniffled, setting the paper down on his knees and wiping his tears away. Okay - okay, enough, you big softie. Reminiscing could wait; he couldn't figure out what that missing piece of important something was, but it wasn't direly necessary, whatever it was. It could wait until he came back. Drawing a deep breath, opening his eyes again, Longshot slid the parchment back into the cabinet...only for another loose sheet to fall free, landing face-up on the ground.

Longshot's fingers quaked, wouldn't stop - this one was a picture, just as well-loved as the sheet full of adorable misspellings, but newer because Smellerbee had definitely made this after that afternoon. He reached over, clenched his teeth to quell the shivers running up and down along his arms, and picked it up - examining it, soaking it in, and again the nostalgia hit, all the good times crashing over him like a tidal wave.

It wasn't anything fancy; just a picture of two people, little more than stick figures, standing against a red and orange background. The entire picture had been done in chalk and it had smudged over the years, but it couldn't be more obvious that the people in question were himself and Smellerbee, holding hands; above them, a bright yellow sun hung, pushing its way through the trees, their names scrawled between it and the caricatures.

"Smelerbeee and Longshot."

Her handwriting and spelling had improved, but had not yet been perfected. He could remember the day this had been made as clearly as the day with the writing - sunny, blistering hot, but she laid flat on her stomach, immune to the oppressive heat wave, her legs kicked up and crossed at the shins, her tongue poking out between her teeth as she concentrated on the task at hand - drawing herself and him standing side-by-side, holding hands, identifiable only by Longshot's hat, and Smellerbee's war stripes -

Oh!

So, that was why the cabinet had called to him. Smiling, Longshot slipped the drawing back into the cabinet and reached further inside, digging around for the small, leather pouches that hid behind the scrolls and papers. The first - a little bag full of salve, she used it for her wrists when the rain came down, and the second full of red, water-proof paint that she applied to her face every morning, without fail, regardless of the day's planned activities.

There. Now he had everything. He just needed to make one more stop.

SCENE DIVIDE

In the cool darkness of his leader and friend's hut (Jet was the only one that had a hut, but the project had been labor-intensive and counter-productive...still, for all the work he put into running the Freedom Fighters, nobody really complained that he had such an exclusive luxury), Longshot set his bow and knapsack aside and stared at the tanned, passive face lying on the pillow before him. The normal frame of shaggy, brown hair had been parted by fresh, white gauze tied around Jet's forehead, the dried blood cleaned from his hair and cheek. His armor and clothes had been peeled away, exposing the older boy's bare chest - toned, muscular, as tan as his face. More bandages wove their way across his torso; the leader of the Freedom Fighters was lucky to come away from a battle as thrilling as the one Pipsqueak had described with just a concussion and some broken ribs.

He slept now - waking up once or twice since Pipsqueak's return, but never for long, and he always seemed...out of it, for lack of a better term. That sort of damage would repair itself in time, though.

The archer didn't have long, and he knew it; the trail left by that Fire Nation slave line would only grow colder the longer he waited, and he didn't want to run into Sneers before taking off. So, sitting over his slumbering friend, Longshot felt a warm smile tug on the corners of his mouth. He laid a hand on Jet's bicep - clammy, he probably had a fever - and murmured, "I'll bring her back. Wait for us."

SCENE DIVIDE

Letting a small sigh escape through his nose, Longshot closed his eyes and craned his neck backwards. The afternoon sun basked down on his porcelain face, where it peered through the branches - rustling in a slight breeze, whispering to the archer. He strained - trying to hear the familiar, golden sound of laughter, but try as he might, that joy eluded him. Longshot wasn't sure how many of the others knew about Jet, about Smellerbee. He knew he shouldn't linger - all he had to do was grab the dropline and ride it down to the forest's floor, but...

Sometimes...when they weren't fighting, training, wearing the skins and armor of warriors in the place of adults...they could unwind. Be children. Games of shadow thief, plate catch, or douse the Firebender were all too common, and Longshot would play with Smellerbee; sometimes against each other, but usually both on the same team, because Jet said they shared unique synergy. They operated as well together in play as they did in war.

Without Bee, though...nah. Probably best to leave such weight behind. She'll be okay; the image of a cornered tabby lynx wafted up into the archer's mind, and he allowed himself a grin. She was too strong, too stubborn and too feisty to fall with such melancholy. Besides, that sort of baggage would only slow down his travels (as if the literal weight of everything he carried wasn't enough - managing a quiver, a bow, a knapsack and a sword all at once had already proven itself to be a pain and he'd need to figure out a better way to arrange his gear once he was out of the forest), and Longshot needed to keep his wits about him. This would be his first solo mission, self-assigned at that; with a ghost's smirk, he thought, maybe he could be a leader, if all he had beneath him were his own too feet.

"You're leaving. To save her."

Sneers' voice snapped Longshot out of his reverie; opening his eyes, he turned halfway so that he could face the monk and stand-in leader. The stout Freedom Fighter stood a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest, his scale armor glistening in the sunlight. It hadn't been a question...and as much as Longshot had wanted to avoid this confrontation, there was no point in hiding the truth, either. The archer made sure it was clear enough that even Sneers would be able to read: yes, he was going, and yes, it was for the explicit purpose of saving his friend. That hadn't changed since their confrontation in the kitchen, and his offer remained the same; Sneers was invited to stop Longshot if he thought he could.

"Take it easy. You wanna know something?" Sneers' onyx hair fluttered as another breeze rolled through, and a thoughtful frown decorated his jaw. His gaze stuck to Longshot for only a second before glancing down at the wood at their feet. "I said before that without Jet and Smellerbee, we'll need to stay on the defensive. But...I think we can get by without you." He glanced back up at the archer and smirked. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do. You bring her back in one piece, okay?"

Longshot had to pause at that - of every imaginable reaction Sneers could have retorted with, sympathy was not one of them. He had to resist the urge to hike an eyebrow, to pose a silent, 'are you sure?' because giving the monk that much would invite disbelief between them, and the archer wasn't in any sort of rush to make this situation complicated. It was a rare gift for Sneers to let go of his pride for the benefit of individual Freedom Fighters (he always had his focus set on the whole), so better to take it and run before he changed his mind. He could be a jerk sometimes...most of the time...but, there were occasions where his heart found the right place to beat in his chest. Nodding at the monk - acknowledging his humbled surrender - Longshot turned away from the tree houses and his friends, grabbed the dropline, jumped, soaring downward into the abyss of gold and red.

SCENE DIVIDE

Now

The salmon lobsters had been cooking over a fire for only a few minutes before the alluring, salty-meaty scent began to waft upward into the air; Smellerbee, through the depths of her sleep (and much to her credit) picked up on the odor and managed to lurch up to her feet, a wet, glistening patch of drool smeared across her cheek.

"Mmm?" she mumbled, blinking blearily into the early morning sun. Puppetlike, her head turned in the direction of the fire - of the roasting fish and the archer perched behind it. Longshot felt himself grinning at her slothfulness - just like her writing, her drawings, her sleeping position and her butt, her not-a-morning-person nature was adorable. She hated waking up, and he knew it...but the nigh-buttery scent of cooking seafood was too great an allure for the swordswoman. With her usually unkempt hair a tangled mess of bed-headery, her clothes wrinkled and filthy, and her war paint smeared, she took a lurching step forward.

"Mornin'," Smellerbee grumbled, wandering over to the fire; her eyes firmly glued shut, the archer imagined her navigating her way by smell and grinned. She plopped back down on the ground across from Longshot, struggling to find the right presence of mind. "You go fishin'?" Longshot gave her a humble grin and prodded the meat with a stick. Still hadn't finished cooking; it'd take a few minutes more.

Smellerbee managed to pry her eyes open and took a deep breath through her nose. Longshot could see her absorbing the wonderful scent, imagined it empowering her for another day, her arms and legs becoming limber. She rolled her head to pop all the cramps that had built up in her neck. A featherlight, almost orgasmic smile played on her face and she leaned back, her face aimed straight up into the sky. Oh, Spirits - if his survival-cooking did this to the young swordswoman, Longshot could only imagine what would happen on the day he brought such pleasure to her with his bare hands. He swallowed in order to quell those flutterflies threatening to rise upward again in his stomach.

"I think," Smellerbee said, pulling Longshot's thoughts back to earth, "things are going alright, all things concerned."

Longshot grinned and quirked his head to the side. Did she, now? And what exactly gave her that idea?

She offered a content sigh to the clouds and sun. "We're almost to Omashu. We're making a difference. And...we get to move towards the future together. It sounds real corny, I know...but do you get what I mean?"

Longshot nodded. He knew...oh, he knew. He turned the spit the salmon lobsters were mounted on and sat back, drawing one knee to his chest. The future was looking very bright, indeed; and just like that time where he ventured out alone to find his friend, now the two ventured into the world together to reunite with old comrades and bring about a world where people could live in safety.

It was a beautiful morning.

Where Words Fail

Book 4: Threshold Guardians

End