Here's the thing about Avatar Korra—you don't know what kind of Avatar they are or how they look like or if they're a girl like you or a boy or anything like that—but you know that whoever they are, they're amazing because they're the Avatar—being amazing's in the job description. They were the only person who could bend all four elements, and at night, you stare at your ceiling, legs crossed at the ankles, and you think about what that might be like, to be that kind of person, to bear that kind of responsibility.

You smile in the darkness. Yeah, whoever the Avatar was, they'd really be something.

Sometimes, you draw the Avatar. You use the graphite and the thin papers that your father had given you to practice drawing your designs, the kind of instruments your father uses to design his satomobiles, the type of paper that you use to draw your satomobiles, and your ideas for cities and towns and trains and beautiful parks where people can play in or think in and it's still just right for them—but sometimes you use them to draw the Avatar, how they must look and live in the perpetual snow and cold of the South Pole.

You draw them with their hair long and tied back, shading their skin brown and dark, and you color their outfits blue to match their eyes.

Your father finds them, and asks you about them. You tell him it's the Avatar. He holds them in his hand for a moment—you can see where his fingers dimple the sheets and, for a moment, you are afraid that he is going to crush them, to crumple them in a ball, and your heart holds still for a moment, you want to reach out for him and plead for him to not, to give them back, you'll hide them away safely in the box under your bed—but none of that happens, and he hands them to you, sighing your name softly, "Asami-"

And he kisses your cheek, and you know he's not really thinking about you as he does, that he sees his wife and your mother in you, and he remembers how she died at the hands of a bender, but you know that the Avatar is your Avatar too, and your mom's Avatar, even though you can't bend and your mother couldn't bend, because you too were part of the Avatar's world.

That has to mean something.

You keep drawing the Avatar, and you keep the papers safe, hidden in your drawer beneath the bed. You show your father designs for a mobile, and he smiles at you, and says you have so much talent and that he's so proud of you.

Sometimes, there are news segments about the Avatar. They are like so many other segments about notable personages or celebrities—they tease and taunt you with little pieces of knowledge, and in one of these segments they say that Avatar Korra is a young woman, who is promising to be a very promising Avatar with tremendous talent, and you smile, because Avatar Korra is a young girl, just like you.

Here's the thing about Avatar Korra—

She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.

The Earth Kingdom, your home, lies in ruin, vulnerable to attack from outside and within. You were no lover of the queen, but now that she's dead, the Kingdom is in turmoil.

And the Avatar is gone.

You think, isn't this what she's supposed to do—to help make this better? To bring order and balance to chaos? Even if she was too sick to really get out there and fix the mess that had been made, couldn't she at least make an appearance—let them know that she was still there for them, that the world still needed her—and then you could do everything else.

But Avatar Korra is gone, and you sit in a train, a train that has to stop at least once every few days, because bandits have blocked the tracks because that is what your Kingdom is now, a nation of bandits and thieves and desperate, desperate people trying to fill the void the dead queen has left behind.

Your wrists push heavily against your bony knees, and you flex your hands into fists between the gap of your legs. You think that there has to be a way to repair your kingdom, to bring it order where none exists, to make it better than it has ever been.

You think back to the disorder the Fire Nation sowed a long time ago, long before you were born. You think back to how Avatar Aang and Lord Zuko worked hard to repair the damage, how they had built Republic City as a testament to how they were separate parts of the same whole, but the thought brings bitterness to your mouth, an old anger and an old hurt that aches dully within you, that hasn't healed.

They had used the Earth Kingdom to do it, just as the Fire Nation had always tried to bring the Earth Kingdom to its knees, just as Avatar Aang had allowed so many of its lands and forests to burn—a jagged scar the earth still bears—before he finally managed to stop the Phoenix King.

And they're still using the Earth Kingdom, your home, you.

And now Avatar Korra is gone.

You remember the first time you saw her—you hadn't known she was the Avatar at first. You remember how Zaheer, the one who had instigated this violent disorder, had fought with her, and the fight had been brutal. It had hurt to watch, and you had longed to do something, but you had been frightened of the Avatar, of her power.

Well, you could use that power now, that presence, and you don't know how you can do this. You're not the Avatar. An Avatar is supposed to bring balance, and there is no balance—not in your Kingdom, your home—not anywhere.

Someone comes in, and you straighten. You don't let them see your frustration, your own desperation. You stand straight, your square your shoulders. "Kuvira," they begin, and you listen.

You wonder what the Avatar would do.

And then, you decide to do the best thing for your Kingdom. To bring it order. To bring it balance.

The Avatar has abandoned them, but you won't do the same thing. You will ask Suyin for help. She has always helped you before, been there for you when no one else was.

She will help you again.

You start watching the bending games. You find them thrilling, exhilarating, and beyond that—beautiful.

Your father doesn't like it that you watch the games, but he lets you, and you're glad he doesn't forbid you.

You watch the patterns in the elements as they bend them. You think about the last Avatar, Avatar Aang, and wonder if there will ever be Air Benders taking part in the game—but you think about it a little more and figure they probably wouldn't approve of them in the first place.

As you watch, you draw the way they bend, the way the elements appear, the way the water flows, the fire plumes, and the earth too, carved into circles and shattering into delicate, small fractals on impact.

You think, for an instant, about Avatar Korra in the games, and then you laugh a little to yourself because an avatar in the games.

Like she didn't have anything better to do with her time and her energy and her efforts.

But still—it was nice to imagine.

She drew Avatar Korra in the games. Sometimes she was the water bender, sometimes the earth bender, sometimes the fire bender. Once, she drew Korra as the air bender, conceptualizing how the game would be, how it would change, if there were four benders as there were four elements.

Maybe Korra would be the avatar to bring the Air Nation back. Yes, you know about Avatar Aang's family, but it would take years for one family to populate all four temples and to roam the earth as they once had as nomads. Even the bison are still few in number.

You don't know how the Avatar could fix the wrong that had been done to the Air Nomads, but you know that if anybody could do it—it would be Avatar Korra.

"How do you know," your father asks you.

You shrug. You just do. You know, and you believe it with everything inside of you. You know there is a place for them in this world—who else could rebalance the world in their absence but the Avatar?

It's late and you are tired and sore, but you have water bending scrolls spread out beside you. You'd heard the theories before, of course, that applying a variety of bending techniques can strengthen yourself as a bender. General Iroh of the Fire Nation had once applied water bending techniques to fire bending, and you think you can do the same to earth bending too.

You think that this is what the Avatar does. You can't bend all four elements yourself, but if you can apply all four bending techniques to your own bending, then you will truly be strong.

You look at the bowls of liquid metal you've prepared, and you get to work.

It's strange to you, but you keep up with it. You try.

You watch the movers that have been made of the air nomads in their temples—learning how to move like leaves on the wind, mimicking the spiraling motions as they drift through an obstacle course without using a single to clear their way.

One day, as you're putting an end to some thugs who think they can get away with anything because there's no law enforcement and no order, you dance in that spiral motion you had watched, and you dodge the chunks of earth they lob at you, twisting your torso as your feet remain rooted and anchored to the ground, to the earth, your home, and you are untouchable.

But, in the privacy of your quarters, when there are no eyes on you, your shoulders sag, and you think back to Suyin refusing to help you, Suyin no longer wanting you to be a part of her family, no longer wanting to be part of you.

She envisioned this, and now that the time has come, she has no interest in the affairs of the Earth Kingdom. She just wants to hide, just like the Avatar is hiding, and there is no one to help, no one to step in, and you're no one, but since there is no one, fine you'll be the one to step up since no one else will.

You're done thinking about the Avatar, and what the Avatar would do, and hoping that Korra will return to see what you've done and to help you finish what still needs to be done.

You open the drawer to your desk where there's a half-written letter to Avatar Korra, requesting her help, her aid. You've tried to finish this letter so many times, but each time you do, your words fail, they dry up in your throat, and you have to put it away, because the Earth Kingdom is so wide, and so vast and there's only you and you need help, you need so much help, but no one will help, and then the old fear would come that Korra wouldn't help either and what then, what then.

You stare at the letter now, and you rip it into long strips that you let fall into the trash.

You don't need Avatar Korra, just like you don't need Suyin.

You'll do this yourself if you have to.

You're not afraid, even if you are alone.

You're fine, you're just fine, and soon, you'll be better than fine.

You'll be great.

You're a young woman when you finally meet Avatar Korra, you're a young woman who's dating a young man, cool and handsome, and he tells you all about Avatar Korra and how she's joined the Fire Ferrets on his team (can you imagine that, he exclaims as he runs his fingers through his hair), and you can't imagine the Avatar being on the team even though a younger you had once imagined her doing exactly that, but you outgrew all that a long time ago, but here she is, and you don't know what to do, you don't have to imagine her anymore because she's here, and you're finally meeting her like you've always expected to meet her—at a fancy party, and she's wearing blues that match her eyes, and she's young, like you're young, and she's beautiful too, and you tell her how excited and pleased you are to meet her because you've heard so much about her.

You wait in front of the train doors. You stand like a soldier stands, with your hands clasped behind your back. You have never felt more sure of yourself—why would the Earth Kingdom need the Avatar when they could have you? You have never felt at such peace. This is who you are, who you need to be. The train comes to a shuddering stop, and you move with it, not clinging to the rails or to the walls to keep your balance like the ones who accompany you. The door slides open, and a crowd of people greet you. You see their gratitude in their faces. You step from the train onto the simple platform they have constructed for you. They name you the Uniter, and you smile at them.