The first thing I noticed of course, when leaving that damned tent, was undoubtedly, the grand extent of the camp around me. There was no doubt that this host had been here damn near year longer. More experienced, better fortified, and far more organized. It put ours to shame in a matter of seconds. Or rather, it put the 5th to shame, in a matter of minutes. It was no wonder the 5th fell and Crimson didn't. Just a quick walk, or, more accurately, a slow shuffle around that camp was enough to point out that simple fact.
Of course, that shuffle didn't last long. Soon enough, the strength in my left arm gave out, the crutch fell, and I collapsed. I still had no feeling in my right arm. My left leg was a concentrated mass of pain and suffering and my right was barely able to support a portion of my weight. Luckily enough for me though, the camp's attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. I had no intention to return to that medical tent. It wasn't for a lack of trust in their abilities, but a mere sense of impatience. I had no time to go back in there. I had to make this recovery on my own, as futile as that effort seemed. I collapsed not 10 feet in front of the tent.
Then, at that point, it was a cycle of trial and error. By the 6th attempt, I hadn't miraculously healed a leg or unbroken my arm, no, but I did find a better way to support my weight on that crutch. And by my 7th fall, I was at least 50 feet away from that tent, no air left in my lungs, every muscle in my body aching, my mind telling me just to go back to that damned tent.
The camp activity began to return, and I crawled my way to the nearest tent I could find, leaning against it as the sky began to darken, and eventually, to add insult to injury, the rain began to fall in a manner hell bent on making me as damned miserable as possible.
I moved my helpless carcass in the "alley" of sorts between two tents, leaning back on the sturdier one, devoid of protection, still being in my underclothes, dirty, blood and piss-stained, smelling like shit, literally, alone in that camp.
It had been months since I last cried. I felt my eyes begin to water, unaware of whether it was me or the surrounding climate and told myself that nobody would notice. I was hidden, and I could just tell them it was the rain. Then, however, I told myself that I would know. That I can't give in to those kinds of emotions. Those of pity, worthlessness, and sadness, but to replace them with something else. Something productive. Useful. I remembered what Jeong Jeong had told me about fire. I abandoned those feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness and let them fade away. Something new burned in me. Something brought about by my memories. Memories of all the death around me and the source of it all.
I remembered Gan, and Gi Gu. I remembered myself and what had been done to me and those I cared about. I remembered who had done it and allowed those new emotions to take over. Anger. Hate. Words with such negative connotation, but these emotions are not inherently negative, not with the potential they carry: dedication, resilience, stubbornness.
Ignoring the pain that shot through my arms, legs, spine, and torso, I grabbed that crutch, and rose onto my feet. The world was a blur in front of me. The rain was coming down hard now, but it wouldn't stop me. I took one step after the other and moved. I knew where I was going. I needed that sense of worth back beyond all else. I needed a sense of purpose. I was no use as an infirm and immobile carcass in that tent. Not when I could still be a soldier. A killing machine when put on the field.
So I turned towards that command tent, ignoring the masses of soldiers that gathered around me, and kept on walking. I heard their murmurs behind their closed helmets marking more firebenders and kept walking. Going uphill, I ignored the pain shooting through my legs and merely put on in front of the other and leaned forward. I heard the masses gathering behind me as I walked, unsure if they were readying themselves to catch me if I fell or laugh in my face if I did. I had no intention to meet that prerequisite though. I reached the top of the hill, where the man who held my fate in his hands was situated and threw my crutch away. The tent was guarded by two crimson clad royal guards, but they, for some reason, parted ways for me. Was I expected? Was I really that hideous to look upon? I didn't take the time to think about it. I fell against the tent, using it to support me, and, with all my strength, opened the flap that led to the tent, and stumbled inside.
I saw two figured with unrecognizable faces thanks to the blur in my eyes, but all the same, recognizable figures, and saw them as the father and son duo responsible for the carrying out of this war and could hear the jumble of their voices, but above all, heard the questioning sound in their voice as they turned my name into an audible ejaculation of surprise and concern.
I had been working on that same speech as I lay in that tent, about how I would plead for reassignment, begging them not to have me transferred, but I was tired of begging. I was here to demand. And so I did.
I stood as straight as I could, faced the shrouds at the back of the tent, and as loud as I could possibly speak, I said the only possible cooperation of words that I could form in my head to relay my desire and demand from them. "I'm tired of hiding. I'm going back out there."
And then, having done all I intended to do in that span of consciousness, I felt at peace, and let my world go black as I collapsed to the ground, finally satisfied with having done something for myself, and for having, after so long, taken my life into my own hands.