Avatar: The Legend of Korra
Followers of the Black God
Prologue
(This fanfiction will be a rather darker take on the events in the first season of Avatar: The Legend of Korra. There will be a fair amount of violence in this piece, and some of it will be quite graphic. However, since there won't be any sexual content or foul language, I think this is on the very edge of a T rating.
I intend for this piece to be have some haunting parallels to modern-day sociopolitical issues, but I will try not to press my particular opinions onto you. Other than that, please look for more of the cultural influences that make the whole Avatar universe so wonderful.
Let's press on.)
It was just before dawn when the blizzard finally began to subside, taking just enough mercy on a harsh, windswept valley to increase visibility beyond that which was necessary to see one's own hand in front of one's own face. It had, after all, been a particularly brutal, cold blizzard, one which had raged on for days on end until the need for food overwhelmed the need for shelter and forced some of the community's men out into the blinding snowfall to hunt.
It was probable that some of them—many of them, even—would never come home. Some were probably frozen solid already, and some others had probably become meals themselves for the wolves and other predators that stalked the cold distances.
But he would come home. She knew that he would come home, for he was the greatest hunter in the whole community, and that was why she loved him. That was also why she had arisen several hours before, to get their shared home warm and cozy, and to prepare his favorite meal so that it would be steaming hot when he returned to her.
"I'll be back on the dawn of the second day," he'd told her. He had paused, as if to look at her, or perhaps even to kiss her, but in the end, he had walked out and vanished into the darkness without another word. All she'd had to remember him were her memories, and the warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that came whenever she thought about their first night together.
It had only been a month ago. Since then…
She sighed. So many things had changed so rapidly since then, and not all of them had been good. But now… it was impossible to say that she was unhappy with her life. How could she be unhappy, when she had a husband and a home—an actual home—and a community, and the guaranteed right for her husband to use the community's territory for hunting and whatever other purposes he had to.
It was true that her first family was dead. And it was also true that there was a definite hardness in her husband's eyes when he looked at her.
But it was also true that he was taken—that he was enchanted—by her beauty.
That was no surprise. And that was because women of her race were renowned for their beauty, and she was one of the most beautiful of them all.
She was tall, though not overwhelmingly so, with a slim frame but broad hips that oscillated tantalizingly no matter what she wore. Her skin was fair, her eyes were green, and the vibrantly red hair that was typical of her nation spilled down from her shoulders to the middle of her back easily.
From a young age, she'd attracted a great deal of attention from the boys in her original community, but now that she was spoken for… and now that the only boys left in her original community were miles and miles away, she didn't have to worry about hiding her face from the world when she went out of doors.
It was almost dawn. He'd be back soon.
Already, the hut was starting to get warm, but there were more preparations to be made yet. Everything was clean—he had had few possessions when they'd been married and she had had nearly none at all, and so it hadn't taken much doing to make their home completely spotless. The food was still cooking; it was simple but nutritious stew that was starting to come to a boil over the hut's central fire and it would be ready within a few minutes.
That meant that all that was left to prepare was her.
So, she washed herself with a small tub of water in a corner of their home allocated for just that purpose. It didn't take her long to remove the small amount of sweat and dirt that had accumulated on her over the past few days, and after that, it took less time still for her to dry off with a thick animal skin. After she was finished, she rose, slowly, but not with anything less than athletic precision. She was a woman, certainly, but nothing about her was weak or defenseless at all.
It was time to dress, though—and quickly. Already it was twilight; multicolored rays of light were reflecting off the gathered clouds and gently falling snow to cast a diffuse glow into her home. She'd have to hurry.
After using a small leather cord to tie her hair into a single, shimmering shock that ran down the back of her neck almost to her waist, she put on her undergarments. Then, she put on her best clothes: a thick pair of furred pants, a dyed, longsleeved shirt, boots, and the black leather vest that was the national dress of her people and always had been.
She had no mirror. But just by running her hands over her face, her body, she knew that when he lay eyes on her again, it wouldn't be so very easy for him to look away. Everything she'd prepared—the house, the meal, her own body—were certain to put him in a good mood, a relaxed mood, and that was perfect, because she had major news to tell him. Major news indeed…
She felt warmth on her shoulders. The Sun had risen and was shining through one of the small east-facing windows installed in her home. And that meant that he was only moments away…
And so she stepped outside and looked across the seemingly endless landscape of snow and ice.
Their community was at the feet of a mountain range and at the behest of a valley known for its ability to channel wind, and perhaps the spirits that walked in it, with such finesse that it could strike with enough force to, at some points, throw a fully-grown man into the air.
Yet over the millennia, the men and beasts that lived in the area had come to recognize several areas within the valley that were relatively immune from the trauma. Due to minute fluctuations in the gradient of the land, the otherwise violent wind that defined the valley's climate soared twenty or so feet above the ground—leaving just enough of a gap for these areas to serve as resting grounds for passing herds—and, as such, hunting grounds for hungry men and other predators.
The nearest one was a four hour march away in good weather. In weather like this, who knew how long it had taken her husband and the others like him to get there?
He would come back exhausted, she knew. But she also knew that he would come back successful, and the fact underlying all other facts was that he would come back. He would come back because he was her husband, and the greatest warrior and hunter in the community—perhaps even in the whole world.
The Black God would never harm him. She knew that because not only was he powerful, proud, and deadly to the core, he was a good man, too. He just… sometimes didn't like to show it, that was all.
But soon, her constant efforts would pay off, and he would no longer shy away from her gaze or her touch. He would come to love her as she loved him, and then, all in the world would be perfect.
These were the thoughts going through her mind when she caught sight of a lone, shadowed silhouette, approaching from the frigid distances. Excitement rose within her—she tempered it, because it might be unfounded—but it wasn't.
Her husband was back.
By the time he was in the vicinity of his home and those that surrounded it, her head was bowed and her hands were neatly resting on and top of the other on her thighs. Her eyes were shut, too, for the most part, because from time to time she would glance up to see what he'd brought back for them, but apart from that, her poise was perfect. The humility and obedience she showed him was what he deserved.
In time, he was right in front of her. She could hear him breathing hard, in a tired, labored manner, as if he was exerted but not exhausted. She could smell the sweat under his clothes, and blood that she knew wasn't his, and she knew that he had fought long and hard to ensure his survival, and hers, through the dark days of one of the harshest winters anyone had ever known.
How proud of him she was. How honored she was to be married to such a man.
"Welcome home, husband," she said quietly, because although it was very early in the morning, someone else might be awake to hear her speak.
"Wife," he replied curtly. "It's nice to be home."
He took a step closer to her. She felt very small, which was strange, for her, but he was the tallest man she'd ever seen. He towered head and shoulders over her, and the dead animal slung across his shoulders made his muscles bunch up in a way that she would have found threatening if he had been anyone else in the world.
But he was her husband. He would never harm her.
As the custom of her people dictated, she let him enter their home first and only followed after he invited her in.
The feeling of waves of heated air washing over her was pleasant, and she'd only been outside for a few moments, whereas her husband had been out of doors for forty eight hours. He'd probably made shelter at least a few times to weather the worst of the blizzard, but it was doubtful that he'd have had any time to set up more than the smallest, most rudimentary of fires.
Certainly, the roaring blaze she'd prepared for him was a sight for his sore eyes. And that was to say nothing of the somewhat aromatic, lightly spiced stew that was just coming to a steaming completion in the center of the room.
It truly was nice to be home.
He allowed himself to feel a sense of satisfaction, even of happiness as he held his arms up and bent at the waist so that his wife could help him out of the thick coat he wore over most of his clothes. A moment later, he stepped back, his torso only covered by a longsleeved shirt not dissimilar from her own, and looked over himself.
He'd gotten much more muscular in the past few months. He'd always been strong, of course, but the recent struggles of hunting and war had done a world of good for him. Now, in his hands he held the power to grip, to control, to crush, and with his chest and core he could unleash enough energy to make even the sternest of warriors blink.
And then, of course, there was his bending.
Bending, he thought, was the true power in the world, as he sat down at a low-laying table not far from the center of the room. He had hung his kills on a hook at the side of the hut; the carcasses had already been gutted and could be skinned and prepared for consumption later. For now, it was time to eat and rest—because even warriors, even benders as powerful as he was had to know their limits.
Then again, stamina was another of his strengths. He was the first of his people to return from the hunt, he knew, and now that he thought of just how bad things had gotten over the past few days, he didn't find it at all difficult to believe that he might be the only one of his people to return from the hunt.
He registered this knowledge without anything more than a vague sense of disappointment. He'd grown up among his peers; they'd had every chance to push themselves to become supermen, as he had, and if they hadn't and if they died because of it, well, that was just the natural order of things.
Not that being at the top of his game was all fun, though. Certainly, that wasn't the case. There were drawbacks, he thought, as he bent a shimmering orb of water so that it circled around his hands, washing them in the most efficient manner. One of them was the incessant attention he got from the women and girls in his community; the badgering, the pleading that he'd take them to his hut and make them his. His people had somewhat strong taboos against polygamy, but he knew that if he desired it, he could have easily had several wives.
But he didn't want wives—in the plural or in the singular. It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea of being married in general, it was just that the women in his community tended to be a bit… homely.
He paused and actually frowned a little bit, and that was odd, given his disposition against displaying emotions on his face. His next thought would have been that another drawback of being a practical superman was that it engendered from others a sort of dangerous jealousy, and this thought would have perhaps led to resentment on his part toward his community elders. After the recent battle, after all, they had suddenly married him off to her, after all.
And… he still wasn't sure how he felt about that.
He looked at her for a moment, as she rapidly made her way about their shared home, putting away his clothes and preparing the table for a meal. The food she'd cooked… it smelled nice and looked familiar, not at all like the strange, nauseating dishes her people were known to create. In fact, it appeared to be rather similar to the traditional gift of food his sister had given to him on his wedding night—and that was his favorite dish, one that he'd grown up eating from when he had been a small boy.
Come to think of it, even as he watched she was garnishing it as his sister had.
Was it a coincidence?
He didn't think so. And that meant that perhaps this girl wasn't quite as stupid as her people were given to being.
And stupidity was just one of the reasons they had fallen against his onslaught, and the like punishments lain onto them by his kinsmen when they had come onto their community's hunting grounds. They couldn't fight right, these non-bending dolts, and they didn't have the brains to avoid clustering up when engaged in combat with multiple foes. They had clustered up, and for that reason, all it had taken was a few barrages to bring their warriors down and make the survivors beg for mercy.
They had been given mercy. They had also been beaten and then dragged all the way back to the village where they would be given the terms they'd have to accept in order to keep their lives.
His community's elders hadn't pushed very hard, he thought. These people were known for their pride, and their willingness to die rather than face dishonor, yet they'd had almost all of their warriors killed or severely injured. Banishment and the surrender of a few women was a lot less than he'd have asked for if he was a village elder.
But that was how it had turned out. And that very night, after he'd spent some time healing what few wounds he'd sustained in the battle, he'd been informed that his days as a bachelor were over. He'd been taken to the center of the community, and, in a daze, he'd performed the ceremonies and said the words of matrimony, and now…
He looked at her for a moment. He rarely did. It had been a month since they'd been married, but he barely ever looked at her. Because when he looked at her…
He bit his tongue and looked away. That feeling—that accursed feeling, one that he'd never felt when he'd looked at the women in his own tribe, came over him again, and this time it came stronger than it ever had before.
And he couldn't help it. Because no matter how pathetic and stupid and weak the non-bending people of his wife were, there was no doubt that they were the most beautiful people in the world. And among that super elite, his wife, doubtlessly, reigned queen. She was youthful and pleasant and fair and pretty with dainty hands and a perfect body and the sort of angled facial features that contrasted wonderfully with his own rugged, harsh visage. Ever since he'd seen her, he'd been stricken by her, and that was why, after their first and only night together, when they had consummated their marriage, he had taken care to not look at her, to not be around her, and to keep so busy that his mind never drifted towards thoughts of sex with her again.
It had always been hard, though. And now, it was harder than ever. He was tired from his journey, and sore, and by all rights he ought to be resting right now—that's what he'd always done in the past, when he'd returned from a hunt. But she'd woken up to greet him, and warm the house for him—and have a hot meal waiting on him, and now she was kneeling at his side to present to him a large ceramic bowl of food so nostalgic and perfectly prepared that it was a wonder that a person outside of his immediate family had prepared it.
As he took the bowl from her hands, his large, dark fingers just touched their pale, feminine analogues.
For a moment, he looked down at her. And for a moment, her eyes met his.
And then he took a sip of his meal and the magical moment was over.
He shut his eyes to concentrate on the feeling of warmth emanating through his body from his mouth. That divine feeling was, perhaps, the only feeling that is in the neighborhood of the feeling of her eyes locked on his as their bodies, too, locked together.
Moments passed.
It came to his attention, in time, that she wasn't eating. She was simply kneeling at the table with her hands rested on her thighs, refilling his bowl whenever its contents grew too scarce.
His brow furrowed.
"What's the matter?" he said gruffly. "You don't like our food?"
She shook her head, not daring to meet his eyes. But before he could feel anger as a result of the apparent insult, she clarified her response.
"Among my people, it's traditional for women to not eat until after the men are finished eating."
Oh. Well, that explained it. But he wasn't about to let her off the hook so easily.
"So what you're saying is that our food isn't good enough to tempt you into trying some before I'm finished."
Hmm. That didn't come out quite right. But he'd said it, and there was no taking it back, so he gestured to her.
"Go on. Try some. Or is it really that bad…?"
He let his question hang in the air like a half-spoken threat, and so through the corner of his eye he shortly observed her filling her own bowl halfway with stew and then taking a bite.
She then said nothing.
"Well?" he prompted. "How do you like it? It's much better than that crap your people choke down, surely."
"Yes," she replied. But this time, she replied without looking at him.
He smiled to himself, having won the verbal battle. The submissiveness of the women of her race, it seemed, was such that it overwhelmed their honor and pride.
"Dumb bitch," he thought. "It's good that you're so attractive… without that redeeming quality, I wouldn't help you if I saw you freezing to death in the snow. In two minutes, I got you to violate your own traditions and insult your own people. Idiot…"
These were the words he told himself. But even as he repeated them in his mind, they rang empty, hollow, false—and that was because no matter what he had grown up thinking, no matter what he had been taught to think, and no matter that the murderous bandits she called brothers and cousins had killed his father when he had just been a child, there was no changing the fact that she was an innocent, beautiful rose.
If she had been of any other race, he would never have taunted her so. He would never have maneuvered her into either insulting her own people or denying him, either of which were horrible options for her.
But then, if she had been of any other race, he would probably never have looked at her twice. But she was of her race, and she was the most beautiful one of her race and that was why it took intense concentration for him to take his eyes off of her.
If he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure what he thought of her. He wasn't sure how things would turn out between them.
Curse the elders, he thought, for forcing him to marry a person like her. And at the same time, may the Spirits bless them forever, for giving him the opportunity to spend his life with such a wonderful woman.
It was lucky that she wasn't likely to perceive just how complex his feelings toward her were. Better yet, her people were so strict with their women that she barely seemed to be aware of her body, let alone the effect it had on men like him. If she had had any knowledge at all in the arts of seduction, he thought, it would only be a matter of time before she had him eating out of her hand.
Well, he thought, at least things were relatively simple. At least there were just the two of them—and for things to remain simple, that couldn't change. They could never have children, he decided then and there, and so he promised himself that the first night they'd spent together, their wedding night, would also have to be the last night they'd spend together, ever—at least, perhaps, the last night they'd spend together when the monthly cycle all women experienced allowed her even the slightest chance of becoming pregnant.
He could live with that. And she'd better be able to, because if he ever saw her with another man, he'd kill her himself and face whatever meager punishments his elders might levy on him for acting somewhat rashly towards an adulterous wife.
A childless life might have its drawbacks, he thought, but it was the best alternative.
He was just starting to nod to himself when he noticed that she was looking at him. She seemed to be looking at him… intently, and to maintain his own sanity, and to keep the promise he'd just made to himself, he didn't dare look back. He barely even looked up.
"What is it?" he asked.
And she answered. Her first six words would come to invoke revulsion, xenophobia, hate, and a cold, gripping sense of fear as strong as the revulsion, xenophobia, hate, and fear that her husband felt as a result of her last two words.
"May the Black God have mercy," she said, "I'm pregnant."
He gripped his bowl so tightly that it shattered.
And then he turned his back on her and walked outside.
For a moment, she looked after him. Save for a tear that came to her eye, her face was unreadable.
He didn't return, though she waited, and so, eventually, she went to clean up the mess he'd made as she'd come to live the rest of her life: alone.
(Chapter one will come along soon. Until then, please feel free to review.)
