fandom: avatar: the legend of korra
characters/pairings: amon, eventual amon/korra
summary: A man awakens, the world unravels from there.
When he opened his eyes he was nothing.
Breathe. Breathe. In, out, steady.
Wreckage (of a boat?) surround his still form. He did not recognize it, though he feels he should.
Nameless. Without identity, yes. There is nomenclature in this world. To answer the question of who was…was…
(Don't panic, never panic. Breathe.)
There is nothing immediately familiar about this shore, or the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, his blood. In the murky twilight, he could make out lights in the distance, muffled noises, and an odor at odds with the soft smell of the sea: smog. A city. There is a city. His instincts tell him that that is a city, there are people, and he must not been seen. Why? Not now, not now. It feels as natural as the twist of hunger in his stomach, the sting of thirst in his throat. Hide and heal. Instincts necessary to survive in this world made new to him.
A fit of coughing overtook him then, knocking him back to the situation at hand. Pushing aside the lingering thoughts of who and why, he went about assessing the damage.
He had feeling in his limbs, no obvious broken bones. From what he could see in the dark, the wounds on his body were minimal, save for his backside, which pulsed with pain as he leaned forward off the ground (nothing immediately felt broken, at least). Moisture still clung to the heavy cloth that remained on him. Boots covered his feet. The light armor (for what purpose did he wear that?) underneath the outer layer of fabric on his torso that he wore seemed to have shielded him from the worst of it.
Whatever 'it' was.
His exposed skin was not as lucky. Light burns and harsh scratches were interspersed on his hands. He could only imagine the horror his
face must be.
With that thought, he raised a shaky hand, intending to touch his face to feel for damage, but stopped, shuddering. Do not panic, you will survive, you have faced worse. The thought of not being in control of his body disturbed him deeper than not knowing who (or what) he was.
Gritting his teeth, he again raised his hand, willing it to be steady.
Using his middle and forefinger, he traced upward from his chin, flinching when a flash of pain struck him. There was a major gash starting next to his mouth, cutting across his nose, and ending just below his eye. Dried blood was caked on his hairline and on his sideburns (he had sideburns). Running a hand through his hair revealed a nasty bump on the crown of his head.
His neck felt no better or worse than his hands. Light burns and scratches, the worst of it all gathered at his nape.
Unconsciousness clawed at his mind. Pestering and impatient. As if it wished to draw him back under the dark waves of the sea that even now broke on the heels of his feet. No, he would rest when the appropriate moment came.
With both hands now he returned to the injury on his face. The other, smaller cuts would hopefully fade (and he must have had some prior experience with injuries for the knowledge came easily to him). The large slash laced with burns, however, would most certainly leave a scar in its wake.
He doesn't know why, but the thought of the possible scar feels strangely ironic to him.