Fandom: Legend of Korra

Pairing: Makorra

Rating: T

A/N: Because the first story was a success, and heck, why not make another one? And angsty plot bunnies are making my head overload, so here is Makorra fanfic number two. Hope you like it~!

You're always busy, he sighs, closing his eyes. You never have time to talk to us anymore.

You smile, apologetic, and reject another outing with the three of them. You wonder what was the difference. You let them live here in the island. You always see each other at breakfast. You still smile at them, greet them, ask them if they were comfortable.

It's not like they still had a damn tournament to win for, anyway.

But you don't say anything.

He wouldn't understand.

You throw yourself in your training with a vengeance.

Every time you conjure a wind from your palm, however small, makes your master smile. You're finally learning, he says. But you reply that it's not enough, that it won't let them win the war, and he frowns, but you don't see it because you close your eyes and repeat a stance.

You pour yourself into the air, until the air becomes you.

Every pulse, throbbing.

Surging.

The wind wrapping itself around your body.

You take it in, and push out your arms to make a small gust of wind.

And you bend.

After all, you remember, every form you've learned is meaningless unless it's practiced and perfected, down to the pulse. Half-assed attempts won't get you anywhere.

You have to be in tune with your element. You have to BE your element. Show them what you got - and most importantly, don't you dare hold yourself back, because holding back means getting killed.

But then mid-way you bump and you fumble. The gust of wind disappears.

You used to complain every time you don't get it right. You still remember what they told you when you bitched about it: what is wrong with you? Avatar Aang did this in his first try, now stop whining and do it again.

You wanted to throw a tantrum. You wanted to scream and cry and curse in frustration.

I'm not Aang. My name is Korra.

But you don't say anything.

They wouldn't understand.

But that was then, you tell yourself. That was then and you're different now.

So you steady yourself again.

Breathes in.

Hold out your arms.

Closes your eyes.

But then your eyes snap back open when you hear your name is called.

Tenzin is struggling and complaining, hands clamped hard on Tarrlok's shoulder. Korra is still in the middle of her training, you hear him say, can't this wait? But the younger man shrugs, addresses you, and ignores your master.

We found another hideout of the equalist. We're planning an ambush. Can you come and help us, Avatar Korra?

You want to complain. You've been having your airbending training for the past two hours, and you skipped breakfast since you slept late and Tenzin wanted you to meditate in the god-awful hours of the morning first before teaching airbending stances. And didn't they ambushed another equalist hideout just yesterday? You have the cuts, abrasions and bruises to prove it.

You're tired and exhausted and you wanted nothing but to lay down in your bed and sleep.

But you shut your mouth.

Nod.

And Tarrlok smiles. Excellent.

You drop your stance and follows his retreating figure, but you halt when Tenzin blocks your way.

His eyebrows meet in the middle. You're still injured, he says, worried. You don't have to do this, Korra.

You know he's lying. Because you have a duty and the city needed it's Avatar and spirits, I don't want to be one anymore but you have no choice because you're already knee-deep in this and no one could stop Amon but yourself.

You lose yourself in your musings —comatose, senseless —slow. It doesn't take long. And now you can't feel anything anymore. Daze. You slump and avoid his eyes, looks up at the blue blue sky.

And that sun.

And then you close your eyes so you don't have to see it all.

You drop you gaze. I'm fine, you snap, and follows after Tarrlok.

Tenzin wouldn't understand.

He passes by you in the hallway. Stops.

Reaches for your arm.

The gold in his eyes —his fingers flutter over the blunt angry red thing on your face —a tease. Butterfly touch. Blood floods to your cheeks.

Hold your breath.

Slow.

Warm.

Delicate.

His mouth slopes into a frown. What happened to you?

Reality crashes, and you raise your hands to feel the scar that mars the side of your face.

Another fresh cut from another ambush. Insignificant —just another little nothing, in the long run —and all you ever wanted to do was be stronger, to maintain the balance. And besides, you never really felt it, anyways. You weren't supposed to feel it. It isn't supposed to matter.

You laugh it off, draw back his fingers hovering on your face, and feel cold again, you missed the warmth of his touch. A second flashes, and you wonder what it would be like if he knew about the continuous ambush, if he really knew that she was tired and exhausted and she still loved him and that she wanted out. What would happen then.

You turn away.

It's nothing, you say; smile and laugh. It's nothing.

Mako wouldn't understand.

She's punctuated by every step. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. Her mouth is like sugar and summer days and everything that was pretty —and it lifts, inviting. She leans forward and tugs at his arm. Urgent.

Words you are too far away to hear.

Something stops and reanimates the color in his eyes anew and he throws his head back and laughs.

His laugh sounds beautiful.

Her mouth falls over his.

Your heart shatters.

This is the end, you think.

Amon is in front of you, and both of you know that the last one standing would be declared the winner. And strangely enough, you're not afraid. I've been ready for this, you think. For the final battle. And you call on all the previous Avatars: Yangchen and Kuruk and Kyoshi and Roku and Aang. You feel the Avatar State residing in you, and willingly, you give them free rein on your body.

You attack.

Savage.

Feral.

Ruthless.

Someone else entirely.

You lift your gaze, eyes blazing pure white light and bitterness.

Die.

You are slumped on the remains of the warehouse when the cavalry comes. Blood is pouring out, and there's a lot of it, forming a lake of red around your body, so you barely feel it when someone takes the wood and debris off your body. And then Mako is there, cradling you against his chest.

His voice is faint, but still there. A harsh pathetic little echo ringing in your ears.

Korra... Korra.

You are broken, but a little part of you hopes that you can be fixed.