Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender
Status: Incomplete
She had always been able to see them.
Of course, she hadn't known that she wasn't supposed to. She hadn't known that she wasn't the link; that her very existence threatened a peace and order long decided.
No, she hadn't known at all.
What she did know was that she didn't remember a lot from The Time Before. She knew that she wasn't supposed to have swooping dreams that brushed upon her eyelids like delicate butterflies, and never seemed to leave an imprint behind. She knew she wasn't supposed to feel as though she felt the heaviness of an unknown language pressing against her tongue, making her eyes crease and her mouth adopt strange, twisting words that left a bitter taste.
What she did know, was that...
She remembered the sun; high, and hot, playing against her skin like a warm blanket. The wide, open sea rushed against her legs and she felt the sand crackle underneath her feet, slipping between her toes. White, squawking birds chirped loudly enough that she could hear them even underwater.
The swell of the white, blue, green waves slapped against her brown skin and she was happy.
Jing-Li had never been to the sea.
What she knew of the sea—apart form the dreams that haunted her sleep—was from her mother's woven tales of restless brutality.
Mei-Ling taught her that the sea was harsh, and vast. That if she should ever find herself close to the roiling, choppy waves, she should run as far and as fast as her little legs could carry her. Mei-Ling wove stories of women who rose from the sea, eyes deadened by the thick salt, whose hair shone black and brown against the shine of the sun and sung songs that made men drown watery deaths. She sung songs of men in animal skins who stepped so quietly only the earth was close enough to hear; who raised bone weapons and swung hard on little boys' heads until the earth shone a dull red.
Mei-Ling spoke of the sea as an enemy, and yet, she could remember the waves against her skin like an old, gentle lover. She would wake and feel the itch of the salt against her tongue and its burn on her eyes, and her tiny tan fists pressing against her stomach as she squealed for the break of the water against her dry skin.
The sea wasn't the only thing she remembered.
Sometimes, if she was lucky, Jing-Li would...she would remember faces.
Blurred, broken faces and hurried, hushed voices that echoed in her mind like the slap of a whip on the wind. Clear blue eyes, boring down on hers, full of unshed tears. The feel of soft fingers carding through tangled brown curls. Lips pressing against her cheeks, the smell of roses filling her nose.
Jing-Li remembered having water and food every night, but when she woke, she felt the grime on her skin and the gaping yawn of her hungry stomach.
When she told her mother, Mei-Ling told her to stop dreaming so much.
"A lady cannot have her eyes on the clouds, Jing-Li." That was her mother's favorite saying, and she used it well.
Her Mother, unlike the faces in her dreams who remained tender and soft, was a sturdy woman with a heaving bosom. Her brown eyes—shining like newborn tadpoles—were hard in her wan face, but despite the pressed lips and the bitterness of her words, Jing-Li thought her mother beautiful.
It was the way Mei-Ling found pride in her appearance, as if there were no higher honor than to look as though one ruled their little corner of the world.
Every morning, her mother would stand in front of the dull, unpolished mirror in the hallway, and smooth back the hair around the nape of her neck and the flyaway strands that loosened at the crown of her head. Each night, she smoothed what little coconut oil they had left from their meager meals onto her hair, and left it there until she washed it the next morning.
Jing-Li would watch her comb through it with startling precision, her eyes catching on every tangle, working through every snarl and snag, until it shone bright and smooth, like the river stones that landed in the gutter. Then, she would watch as her mother would twist the dark, shining locks carefully into a traditional knot that sat at the nape of her neck, securing it with the only family jewelry they had left; their grandmother's dragonfly hairpin.
"You must be strong, Jing." Mei-Ling taught her as she made their breakfast out of millet and grain, leftovers from the rations of the week.
Jing-Li watched her mother's brown eyes with a reverence that made her face shine. It seemed as though Mei-Ling knew everything of the world, with her stocky, proud appearance and hard, tempered words.
"Please go to the City Officials today and ask for some more grain." Her mother held her hands in hers tight. Jing-Li could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint smell of sunshine and tobacco on her tongue. Brown eyes held her captive, and Jing-Li watched.
There were days where she found echoes there, in the depths of those dark brown eyes; echoes of dreams long lost, of paths once crossed.
"Jing, pay attention please." her mother scolded again, and she straightened, a remorseful gleam flickering in her wan face. "This is important."
"Yes mother," Jing-Li promised. She clutched at the hand-stitched potato sack in her hands and gripped it tight, knuckles turning white. "I will take it to the City Officials and ask for some more grain, like you have asked me."
"And what will you tell them?" Mei-Ling pressed, bending down to look her straight in the eyes.
"That the rations have finished for the week and we must receive the new ones, as the Queen has promised us." Jing-Li finished quietly. Her hair wasn't bound—Mother held all of the bobbles in her own long locks, and it was unwashed as they had used the rest of the clean bathwater to cook their rice this morning.
Mei-Ling watched her for another moment. Her dark, tadpole eyes swum with glittering tears and her red, red lips shone in the high, hot sun.
For a moment, Jing-Li was back in the sand, with the gray waves lapping at her ankles. Seagulls chirped in the background. She felt the warm breeze nip at her wet cheeks.
"Jing-Li."
She started. "I'm sorry mother."
A sigh, and then a calloused hand came to cup her cheek. Mei-Ling raised her chin and locked her eyes with Jing's.
"Bring your ye-ye with you."
"Alright, mother." Jing nodded.
Mei-Ling looked at her daughter; skinny hands, cloudy eyes, a sharp brow. She was too thin, and too pale even though she knew she played in the sun with the sticks on the porch. She thought of the mother from the next house over whose son had been born with the Illness of No Eyes and No Tongue.
Bitter, coppery fear gripped at her throat as she spoke.
"Please be careful, my little dragonfly." she whispered, and hoped that her daughter would hide those murky, clashing gray eyes and remember to keep her head down. "Don't get lost in your head."
She watched as Jing-Li blinked, as if reminding herself of the sun that shone on her skin, and the smog that filled the air, and Mei-Ling prayed.
"I will, Mama."
Mei-Ling closed her eyes and prayed that no one would take her away.
*Ye-Ye means father's father; grandfather