ephemera
She is born into a world of darkness. She is born into a world of sound and of touch. And what she has heard and felt, since the day of her birth, is the earth.
The earth has always spoken to Toph Beifong, has always sung for her like it has for none other in her generation. And Toph always listens.
Maybe it's the earth that leads her tiny feet away from her large estate. Years later, she will not be sure why she ran away that day, for the first but never the last time. But she does run. Perhaps because nobody else seems to hear the earth like she does. Why don't they understand? They don't understand the earth, and they don't understand her. She runs, from one world of darkness to another, but the enduring earth gives her all the light she needs.
The badgermoles understand.
In darkness, she finds light, and in loneliness, she finds companionship. In the firmness that is earth, she finds trust and solace.
She runs away a lot after that. For all their talk of protecting her, would her parents ever even notice if it were not for the servants notifying them of her disappearances? Bitter thoughts circle each other in her mind, but she always finds what she is seeking in the rocks and the ground—sight, stability, excitement. She crushes the earthy chunk in her hand into a million jagged shards. Bitterness can be forgotten.
When she's young, tears that never fall still manage to seep into the ground beneath her feet.
Time passes, she grows up, fights a war, finds friends, finds students, and she listens to the earth. Because earth is the only thing that never shifts. It never bends to her will, either—only lends her a helping hand. She knows that real problems can't be evaded, that you have to face them head-on, head-on, head-on. She knows this is a lesson that the Avatar must learn, a lesson that she must teach to him.
But for all her talk of facing everything head-on, it's peculiar how running away was always her solution in the past.
Toph Beifong can't see, but she can watch. She watches the world slowly piece itself back together again, watches as peace struggles to blanket a world that remembers only war. Watches as wounds heal and scars twinge from time to time. Watches as her friends build a city and as her students learn to listen to the earth.
Still, nobody can listen like she does. Not even the Avatar. The earth has always sung for her.
Time passes, she doesn't just grow up but she matures, and she knows how to bear the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. It may not be her weight to bear, but it is unquestionably her obligation to take some of its burden from her friends, to share it with them. The weight of the world, after all, needs the sturdy earth to support it, and who is there to provide that but her? She watches as the ground around the world's nations at last becomes level, as broken shards learn how to fit together. It's not perfect, but it's close enough for some happiness to be found.
Then, there's him to be found. He seeks trust and solace in the rocks and ground. Earth sits in his palm, lending him a helping hand. The earth speaks to him, too, sings for him in a way she has always thought was reserved only for her. And yet he says that there are certain problems that can't be faced head-on, problems that she can't solve by chucking a rock around. That perhaps some lessons aren't meant to be mastered.
He understands.
And as their bodies move together, she can feel the measured pulse of the earth inside his laughter, can hear its steady and familiar rhythm resound in his heartbeat. Solid and sure.
The earth speaks to them, sings for them, and she never imagines that one day it will stop doing the same for their daughter.
I wrote this before I watched the Korra finale, and even though I saw it coming, I never really wanted Lin to get her bending back.
And to clarify, the "he" at the end isn't referring to any character from the show. Guess you could call him an OC, despite the fact that he appears for all of two paragraphs and doesn't even have a name.
Thanks for reading,
SumerianScribe