[IF OBJECTS COULD SPEAK]
by. phel-from-grace
Between the north and south wings of the United Republic Museum of Civilization, a single pedestal stood in the center of the dimly-lit hall that bridged the two main collections together. During the museum's busy hours, the flow of traffic rushed from both sides, with visitors overlooking the artifact that resided behind its glass casing in the lonely spotlight. It held an intimidating aura that drove people away, their feet scurrying faster to reach the opposite end, to escape from the fear of its hollow eyes. It was a mask, visibly cracked like bearing the deep scars of its age, with the faded traces of markings that embellished its stoic features. Propped upright like a proud leader with perfect posture, it could be viewed from all angles, but the young woman who visited almost daily only observed its front, never mustering the courage to look at the inside lining of the aged ceramic.
After a few minutes of concentration, her brows would dip into a frown, and she would stalk off with heavy steps towards the south entrance where she entered from. Every day, it was the same routine.
The mask had another regular. An older man of faint aboriginal descent would enter the hall from the north wing, and calmly study the artifact with a vacant stare that mirrored its empty eyes. His hands clasped behind his back would always stay firmly in place, even when his stance shifted to inspect the pedestal, searching for a description plaque that never existed. On his way out, a defeated sigh would occasionally escape his lips.
If the mask could talk, it would plead for the impatient girl to stay a little longer. It only needed to whisper one word: wait.
To the man, its speech could not be as brief. It would tell him everything, from the supernatural world that once existed, to the great strife of its era, to the sounds it heard from the bedside table while it wasn't being worn...
But the mask didn't need to channel its memories because the man was diligent and clever; he would learn the truth on his own. Over the years, he had finally narrowed his search to a southern aboriginal tribe where a shaman was rumoured of possessing the ability to manipulate rain. He didn't care for the sorcery- it had little correlation to the mask- but he heard that the elder's mind was like an ancient library, carrying all the knowledge of the past.
Intuition was never one of his strong points, but the words pouring from the raspy throat of this wise woman filled him with a familiar feeling, much like the nostalgia that he would experience when looking at the mask. A single tear rolled down his cheek and fell onto his lap, soaking deeply into the fabric like the weight of his repressed emotions. He somehow knew that this story matched with the memories of the artifact, and he was so entranced by the tale that he did not notice his fallen tear forming back into a droplet, and dissipating into the air.
The moment he stepped back in Republic City, he rushed straight to the museum, for once not obsessing over his strict schedule of visiting in the evening. He didn't care that he was running early, nor did he pay attention to the curious glances at his disheveled appearance, completely oblivious to his own alarmingly wide smile gracing his normally blank face. Out of habit, he entered the hall from the north.
He glided across the tiled floor like a spirit from the elder's tale, his light footsteps making no sound in the presumably empty space. His tunnel vision was so limited that he did not register the only other visitor in the room, a young woman of rivalling sloppy attire, facing the south with her legs fidgeting indecisively on-spot like she had been waiting for quite some time. Leaning closely to the artifact with his nose nearly pressed against the glass, he peered through the eyeholes, to wear the mask for the last time, bidding farewell to the years of mystery.
In that same instant, with an exhausted exhale of breath, the woman decided to turn around and take one parting look at the artifact. His pale blue eyes from behind the mask met her gaze, and she screamed in shock. Stumbling back, her rear met the cold floor.
A hand reached out to her and the warmth of his palm eased her fear. Her knees straightened into a standing position as he pulled her from the ground; her thank you was uttered with her eyes, unable to use her vocal cords. They lingered in each other's touch before reluctantly breaking apart.
"Do you know about the Legend of Korra?" he asked, his deep voice echoing in the vast hall.
She stared in disbelief, once again caught off-guard. "Y-yeah. My mom named me after it."
"Care to hear if our stories match? The myth isn't well-known."
"Sure."
The story was accurate to what her mother had told her long ago, and the mask would also agree. Not a soul had entered the hall whilst he spoke— perhaps they were momentarily shielded by the spirits, to share this moment in privacy—and she hung onto his every word, in the same manner that he had once done with the elder. It brought her to tears, they trailed down her face and his fingers twitched to catch them, but she wiped them away before they could fall any further.
"They say that he succeeded, bending was purged, the Avatar was destroyed. He killed his own lover for equality, and committed suicide in the end."
"That's it? That's how the elder ended the story?"
"Yes. After that, her voice choked up and they told me to leave. She had apparently overexerted herself, but I was already satisfied with the myth, so I easily complied."
"My mom told me some extra details. Amon wasn't blessed by the spirits, he was a waterbender."
The man did not shed any visible emotion, but his back straightened.
"He was so good at it. He could bend blood, and that was how he took people's bending away." She paced around, finally stopping behind the mask. While she stared at the inner lining for the first time, she smiled wanly. "The Avatar sided with him and used the real method, energybending, to purge some people, but even that method couldn't take away the ability for future generations. It needed to be discredited, so he had to kill her, not just to cut the Avatar line, but to use it as the ultimate symbol. In time, bending would wither with disuse and humanity forgot about it."
He settled behind her, also looking inside the mask. "Sounds like quite the manipulative liar. Maybe your mother was trying to teach you a lesson?"
"Pfftt, I wish! I'm not sure what she was trying to tell me. Mom always said that the Avatar not only accepted it, but made it happen. She went into her crazy powerful mode, the Avatar State, and basically forced him to kill her. He had no choice, and then he was so grief-stricken that he killed himself."
"It still sounds like blind faith, and highly impulsive. I'm sure your mother just wanted to teach you to be more vigilant over whom to trust, especially with men."
She shook her head, turning to face him. "But in the story, Korra knew all of his secrets. She knew about the truth, he told her every detail of his past, and he showed her a side of him that no one has ever seen. He even told her his real name."
"Oh? If not Amon, what was it then?"
"Noatak."
He placed a hand on her shoulder, his head jerking back in an obnoxious laugh that could shake the pedestal off-balance and shatter the mask. She frowned, mildly insulted and ready to give him a piece of her fists since Korra was the type of person to act before thinking, always the first to strike. But as Noatak beat her to the punch, his lips crashing down onto hers like the heavy impact of the myth, she realised that she had finally met her match. Gripping his hair, she fought for dominance.
A/N:
In case you're curious, the 'myth' in question is basically a mesh of all our amorra fanfiction (and what canon LoK should have been, lol!)
I really enjoyed using the mask as one of the 'characters', and it was interesting writing in a neutral perspective. At first, I had a long story fleshed out with extensive background info on Korra and Noatak... but then I scrapped it all and condensed the content. This story is marked as complete, but I might continue it if the inspiration hits, perhaps with smut from the POV of a museum security camera. Never underestimate the narrative possibilities of objects.