Longshot
An Avatar: the Last Airbender fic
by Tobu Ishi

It starts like this.

He is six years old, and this is his world:

The bright polished yellow of the gallery floor. His own feet slipping on it, barely reflected in white cotton socks split at the toe.

The smells of varnish and paper, of sweat and washed cotton folds, of dusty rosin and powder, of musty leather and glue, of musky fletchings and clean split bamboo.

The anticipatory k-kk-kkkk-kk of the bowstring being pulled. The snapped tangk of release. The thup of the arrow in the target, or the soft dusshh as it strikes the sand.

The callus on the back of his mother's thumb, where the arrow rests. The callus on the inside of his father's fingers, where the bowstring is nocked and held.

The many strong callused hands with their long clever fingers that hover over him, patting him on the head, calling him a fine lad and a credit to his parents, pulling his elbow back and twisting his arm firmly to the right angle when he plays at shooting invisible arrows at the straw drum in the corner. They will not allow him to grow into bad habits, even at play.

The swish of long pleated trousers passing by with measured ritual steps, belted higher than he is tall. Large enough to hide two of him under, one inside each leg.

The heat of the gallery stove in winter, with gray-haired masters and lanky apprentices warming the kinks out of their hands while they await their turn at the snow-season shooting windows. The swelter of the air in summer, everyone beading and running sweat, men and women stripped to the binding around their chests and the wide always-swishing trousers.

The faded wood of the walls, their rows of bow racks nailed down stout and notched with time, echoing back the centuries of knowledge, laughter and camaraderie.

The reverent moment as the bow is drawn, when the only sound is the fletching passing over twisted string.

The word, Yu Shin. "The straight bow." The crest over the door of the gallery, crossed arrows and a sheaf of rice beneath a star. The shrine shelf on the wall, with its sprigs of sacred leaves and folded white paper offerings, and the white porcelain cup of spirits for the ancestors who drew their bows here before them. Their accumulated wisdom has made them nearly the best in the world, an outside world he knows little or nothing about, and doesn't care to.

He is six years old, and this is his world.

His name is Yasu. It means, "at peace".

Time passes, and then.

He is seven years old, and his father takes him by the hand.

They go to a field tall with waving grass, yellow with shadows in between, the color of new wood and the gallery floor. His father points across the sky, blue overhead, a vast arm outstretched above him.

"See the target, over there? Not the near one. The far one, by the trees."

He follows the arm with his eyes, across the long leap to a black and white circle, tiny in the distance.

"This," his father says, "is the farthest we shoot. One hundred yards. When you're grown, you'll be able to strike a fly without killing it at that distance, if you've learned well--and I know you will learn well." His smile is a white half-circle, bared proudly in a dark weathered face.

"What if I can shoot farther?" he asks, chin tilted up, eager to please.

His father laughs. "Farther than that, and there are no promises left," he says. "Farther than that, and all a man can do is aim the best he knows how, and trust to luck for where he'll strike. That," he says, his hand descending to rest on the small shoulder, "is what we call a longshot."

"Can you make one?" he wants to know, eyes pinned to that far-off target.

"I can always try," his father says heartily, and catches his arms to swing him up onto his back where he can hand him his arrows from the quiver strapped there, and they shoot at the distant trees until the leaves rattle and the quiver is empty.

Then, they walk across the field and gather the arrows quietly, into a fat rustling feathery sheaf, with the branches shifting restless over their heads in dappled shadow.

He is only seven years old, but he clutches them in his two small hands, close against his chest at the proper angle. He follows behind that vast warm presence as fast as he can on short stumbling legs, though he has no hand free to reach up and be held.

His father stops and rests a hand on his head, silently, looking out across that field to the waiting gallery.

He leads them home.

This is how it ends.

He is ten years old, and when he wakes up, there is firelight dancing on the walls of his room. Outside is a cacaphony of crackling and roaring and screaming and the twang-thump, twang-thump of arrows.

He thinks it's a dream, and he grabs his bow from its peg on the wall and goes to investigate.

Just inside the door is his mother, crouched with a quiver of arrows by her side. Standing in the doorway is his father, taking an arrow from the stack on the floor at his feet. Their bows are two tall slashes, dark against the fire outside.

His father sees him, the small slim figure at the foot of the stairs, clutching his bow and arrows to his chest. His eyes are wide and dark and soft and confused, angry and frightened.

"Go," his father says. "Go!"

He goes. He runs down the path, which is well-lit with a reddish glow from behind him. The tall grass in the field waves around him softly. He does not look back, until he hears the crash and roar, and turns in his tracks.

The gallery is burning. Its roof has fallen in. He can smell the varnish as it sizzles and pops. Dark shapes swarm around it, the thin lines of arrows flitting between them in silhouette. They stagger and fall, one by one.

He stands, frozen. He watches from the long grass as they come with their broad shoulders in armor when the rain of arrows has thinned, throwing loops of rope around the wrists of the villagers who haven't found friends to turn their arrows on them. He watches them leading his mother away, alone. She walks with dignity. An arrow flies from somewhere, and she falls...

There is an arrow in his hands, nocked to his bow. He pulls, feels the feathers soft against his cheek, closes his eyes and lets it fly away.

Far, far away, he hears the faintest thud. He hears a rising clamor of shouts. He hears pounding feet, trampling the long grass. He turns, and he runs.

They chase him at their disadvantage, through the burning fields, until they come to the river. He does not hesitate. Clutching his bow in one hand, he closes his eyes, and lets himself fly.

When he wakes, someone is bracing him around the shoulders with strong arms, encouraging him in soothing tones to finish spitting up the water inside him. He makes a faint distressed sound. His bow is still clutched in his hand, but his arrows are not. All his arrows are gone.

"Are you all right?" says the young man, bending over him with concerned eyes under dark, winged brows. A strand of wheatgrass tucked between his teeth bobs as he speaks. "Where are you from? What's your name?"

He coughs. His voice tastes like vomit and ashes, and he spits it out with the water, mouthful by mouthful. When it's gone, there will be nothing left but his bow.

"Longshot," he whispers, with the last of it.

He is ten years old, and he will never speak again.

A/N: Please omit spoilers for the Sozin's Comet book from your reviews, loves. There are plenty of people trying to avoid them, including me. Share the fandom love, and tell the corporate jerks at Nick to go jump in a lake by supporting your fellow fans!