The family came down from the northern country and everyone expected a trio of lunatics (they got them). Ty Lee will remember her childhood as intense moments of a paint splatter man, a woman with ink tipped fingers, and the smell of their respective crafts combined with the feeling of blood rushing to her head. Life does not turn unpleasant until the age of seven.
The man is old-young with graying hair, a stubborn top-knot and armor. Red armor. Ty Lee is also wearing red, as are her mother and father. (She desperately wanted to wear yellow this morning – the red clashed with her aura, creating an awful tearing feeling with in her right leg.)
It is supposed to be a tea party, but Ty Lee knows her parents aren't co-operating very well. Her mother's fingers are tapping out syllables; Ty Lee can briefly hear the silent words (about a dragon). And papa is sketching something out with a tea wet fingertip on the cloth napkin. Ty Lee can't quite see it from her seat, but she knows with certainty that it is brilliant. As for herself, Ty Lee is silent and watchful as the man seeks to connect with the two most important people in her life (she hasn't quite figured it out yet either, or Ty Lee would have helped him).
"Ty Lee, you are a gymnast, correct?" he asks, and the silent words stop, and her father's fingers are frozen on a line. Yes, she nods.
"Where do you study?" he asks.
Ty Lee frowns and her mother, content with words, takes her husband's hand and answers for her child, "We believe that formal education stifles the creative process."
--
Her mother told her that they were all moving to the capital. In the background, her father nods. A four-week trip takes five months because odes to the wind are relevant and the grass absolutely must be painted.
She stretches, resting the sole of a foot on the crown of her head. And watches.
--
The woman and man in a red room with one candle with one flame that neither can control.
The door opens and a peculiar creature tumbles into the room.
"I have met a princess today!"
--
It is sometime during the twentieth tea party Ty Lee has had with General Iroh that a question is asked. She is seven, and the world stretches before her.
"I'm going to join the circus. It's my true calling," Ty Lee replies.
There is a moment of silence as the company contemplates her response.
And then there is laughter from Azula and even Mai's blank slate holds a small smile. Zuko's eyebrows are slanted in, his little face drawn into a pout. Zuko is always pouting.
"I think Ty Lee has a great idea," the General defends her, but Ty Lee does not quite care what anyone thinks (she is still young) – the universe has spoken to her and the circus is her true calling.
Azula laughs harder and louder. It's is tinged with something Ty Lee doesn't understand.
--
Ty Lee is in a garden. It is not hers.
"How are you doing that?" The question comes from a girl wearing pointed red slippers. There is a faint line of gold thread that only Ty Lee can see, by virtue of her position. She looks up into a face of curiosity. A halo from the sun frames the girl's shadowed face.
Ty Lee unfolds in a smooth series of unhurried movements and tries to think of a good answer for a princess.
"I just do."
--
She begins every morning with a simple stretch: waist bent, hands and feet on the ground, forehead to kneecaps. She stretches out the sleep-knotted muscles and feels alive.
--
"I am attending the Academy." There is no question of what Academy Azula is speaking of – there is only one where a girl of her standing would attend. "You could probably get in also," Azula finishes. This not an exchange of ideas, this is not a connection, this is not a conversation.
We believe that formal education stifles the creative process.
--
Ty Lee breathes deeply. And begins.
--
It is a bad day, Ty Lee can tell, because the tea is caught in her throat and on her green blouse where underneath the cloth, breasts have grown and gotten in the way of everything including childhood and she wants yellow – no – blue – no – purple – no – pink. Yes. She wants pink. Ty Lee wants pink.
--
As Ty Lee is leaving, her mother tells Ty Lee that she will write a haiku for everyday that Ty Lee is gone, a lyric for every week, a sonnet for every month, an epic for every year. As Ty Lee is leaving, her father hands her a creased and fastened paper. As Ty Lee is leaving, she does not look back.
Azula commands her to open the paper, and the perfect wax of Ty Lee's family seal breaks under the pressure of her little-girl fingertips. Ty Lee unfolds it, gently, reverently, waiting for the final moment of her father's complete genius.
"It's… blank."
A/N: I enjoyed writing this. It was not supposed to make sense, and rarely made sense even to me. I'm not sure if it's complete – it seems that way to me right now but I'm sure, if it wants more added to it, it will tell me. If you would like something explained, please drop me an e-mail. I am looking forward to hearing your reactions, good or bad, so please grace me with a review, even if it's just an observation, anything is welcome.