Well, things aren't exactly looking up for Korra and Asami in my other fic, so I decided to write some fluff(y) fiction for the holidays, because god forbid the holidays depress you. Ha.
Note: upon doing a little research, a little too late, I noticed that this origin story is decidedly, stupidly un-canon. Oh well. That's why it's fanfic, I guess. Still, I wanted to explore a little bit about dog-dom, and Naga truly being a wild animal instead of a companion animal spoils the fun somewhat. Anyway, enjoy.
This one is for my own dumb dogs, whom I love completely, unconditionally, and for reasons I'll never quite understand. You're bad. All of you. Bad dogs.
The first thing she could remember was being helpless. Something warm, wet, was pressing the side of her neck, sliding through her fur, over and over. It took her a while to realize this was her mother. It took her longer to realize what her mother was trying to tell her, what knowledge she was trying to instill into the tiny, blind, wriggling puppy, using licks and scents and sounds. Her mother would touch her and her brothers with a giant, wet nose, and an electric, intangible form of knowledge would pass between them.
All dogs are taught certain things when they are born. Polar-bear-dogs, panda-dogs, fox-dogs, tiger-dogs, dog-dogs, spirit dogs, big dogs, small dogs, rough-and-tumble puppies and old, wise mongrels all know the most important thing: you must love, always. You must give love like the sun gives warmth, you must absorb love like the plants absorb the light. As long as you love, you will live, and as long as you live, you will be loved.
The older, fiercer wolf hybrids of the world do not share in this knowledge—for they remain wild and ignorant, free from responsibility. They share affection for one another, but they are woefully oblivious to the spiritual bond that unites dogs and humans.
The dog-mother divulges, using a series of snorts and sniffs, of scents and gentle touches, the mythos of her species. In the beginning, when the world was wild and spirits and humans lived together, creatures had no alliances. Spirit and human and animal were at each other's throats, wreaking havoc and sowing sadness. It was then that the great canine spirit came to the wolves to entreat them for peace.
This ancient, giant canid could not stand to see such suffering, since it was a naturally kind and sympathetic spirit. It pleaded with them to stop the carnage; since the wolf-hybrids had the strongest teeth and most powerful claws of all the animals, they had the power to end the perpetual battle between human and nature. But the wolves were sated by the scavenged meat of the battles—most of them turned away and remained devoted to their own ways. Some of the wolves, though, agreed. They too, being animals of an empathic and compassionate disposition, did not like to see the natural order of things disrupted by humans.
They accepted the request of the great canine spirit, and she bestowed upon them a gift: the language of humans. Their bristling fur softened, their ears drooped, their snarls became smiles, and they entered the world of men. They became dogs.
They were the ones that first taught people morality—they were the ones who demonstrated that respect and affection could pass between two animals of different species. They were the ones who taught that animals are not to be feared, but understood. They were the ones who first domesticated humans.
The other creatures of the world soon saw the unshakable bond that developed between human and dog, and they too sought to join in that fellowship. Hybrids form all reaches of creation: carnivore, herbivore, omnivore, made their way into the humans' good graces. The horse, sheep, cat, bison, ostrich, cow, pig, and all crosses in between—they all saw how people had adopted morality and mercy, and wished to nurture that positive maturation. Eventually, even the dragon begrudgingly offered his skills of firebending to aid the human race.
Some of the wilder animals, jealous of this bond, still tried to stir chaos in the humans' new agricultural world. But the dogs protected the their homesteads, farms, towns and children from these animals. The wolves were especially bitter about the whole affair, and set out to terrorize the flocks of sheep and cows that they thought had betrayed their ancient roots.
The dogs met this threat and showed people that the world is not as fearful as a place as they had thought. They showed how to plant a successful crop, how to track and hunt in a pack, how to warm their dens in winter and how to play and smile. They taught ethical lessons as well as practical: always plant a tree when you cut it down, to never hurt an animal except in self-defense or for food, and when killing, always, always thank the animal, and say a prayer over its spirit. Never, ever kill or fight in vain.
For a long time, humans adhered to these standards, but as the years went on and humans grew fat and healthy and hot-headed with privilege, they found that the lessons they had been taught began to slip away. They squabbled with one another over material things, slaughtered animals for pleasure and sport, wasted meat and cut down whole forests at a time without planting a single shrub. The dogs could only watch in silence, since the humans had stopped listening to their voices. Slowly but surely, they forgot the speech they shared with their animals.
But the dogs did not give up on people. They vowed to remain for the duration of the human race, ever guiding and reminding and of course, loving. Even now, in the midst of its own immorality and degradation, humanity still had some shred of hope. Individuals still carried potential for good in them, those atavistic echoes of their ancient canine ethics.
And that, said the mother-dog, with a snort and a wag of the tail, is why we must love. Every one of you pups must go out into the world and find a human to guide. Be kind, be patient, and do not be discouraged by humans' ignorance. They will come around eventually, back to the old ways.
The puppy was eager to make her place in the world, to carve out a niche in a human family and bring the ancient codes back to them. She wagged her tail at anyone who entered her den, carved in ice and covered in the skins of seals and other animals. She would look up at strangers as they bent down to pat her on the head before moving on to her stronger, healthier siblings.
One by one, she watched her brothers get lifted off the floor, turned in the hands of strangers, examined and cooed at, then taken away, into the wide world, to fulfill their duty. She watched their tails wag in excitement as they left in the arms of a grinning child, or shoot a proud glance back at their mother as a caring adult walked them to the door.
The dog-mother told the puppy she wasn't as big as her brothers because they crowded her in the womb. They were fierce, energetic, fat little pups, overeager and naive. But even though she was born small, she would grow to be big like them, if she stayed strong. She had a wisdom inside her that her brothers did not have—a wisdom that came with having an old soul.
Still, she felt herself discouraged when she suddenly found that she was the last remaining member of her litter. All the others had left their mother's side, ready to grow up. But she still sat in the warm curl of her mother's tail, left behind, seemingly never to find a home.
She spent the days filled with longing, the nights filled with dreams. In the warmth of her home, surrounded by pups from other litters, under the kind care of the old man who had whelped her, she was alone.
The other puppies, from different mothers and fathers, also found homes, one by one. The panda-dogs, the grizzly-dogs, the sleek otter-dogs, even the dainty little rabbit-dogs, all bid goodbye to their nursery, and from the entire season's litters, she was the only one left.
When her mother was taken away to make another litter, she was utterly alone. The breeder, a kind, feeble man, still kept her, still fed her, and reassured her, with his halting human-speech, that one day, she would find a home.
One day.
She knew she was kept only out of pity. She wasn't particularly active or playful, not attractive to the children that wandered in and chose a companion. As the month passed, another batch of puppies came, ready for new homes. Now she was not only weaker, but she was older than the other dogs—an unattractive prospect.
She would lie for hours with her head between her paws, sighing her dog-sigh. The old man would occasionally reach down and scratch her ears.
"It's like you were born old," he said, not without sympathy. "I'm sorry, little girl." Other dogs were more desirable, and she wasn't wanted by anyone. Perhaps she had done something in her past life to earn this rejection. Perhaps she was judged unfit by the great canine spirit, and she had no right to enter the world of humans and nurture their dormant morality.
She was plagued by these thoughts for weeks. But sometime in the early spring, she woke with an energy in her she had been lacking. The self-effacing thoughts slipped aside and made way for a muted sort of anticipation. She sensed that something was different. It wasn't just the warmth, the sunnier days and lighter nights, that excited her. There was an energy in the air, shared by all the pups and the breeder himself, that she couldn't explain. It was a kind of electric charge that humans had long since lost the capability of sensing, but the dogs did, and they jittered and shuddered with excitement.
Something was expected, something was going to happen. She did not know what, but she wanted to find out. She would follow in the wake of the busy humans, setting up the various cages and pens and shaping the place up to receive what she could guess was a very important guest.
She followed in the trail of the breeder in the early afternoon, sniffing after his heels, trying to figure out why he left a trail of scented excitement. She wagged and whined, asking for an explanation, but when her noise finally caught his attention, he had no answers for her. Instead, he picked her up, sighing, and placed her under the table.
"Stay here, and be quiet," he said, draping thick expanse animal skin over it like a tablecloth. She sat down, enclosed in the darkness, waiting. Perhaps he would ask her to come out again, if she was good. But it didn't seem like that was going to happen soon. When she heard the skins covering the front entrance rustle, and smelled the presence of unfamiliar humans, she lay her head down on the icy floor and peered through the crack under the makeshift sealskin tablecloth.
She spied four humans: a child, what she could sense was her mother and father, and an old woman, wrinkled with age. She could tell the human was not the child's grandmother, just by her smell, but she could make out that they were like a family. She stifled a whine in the back of her throat. Wouldn't it be nice, to have a family.
The father was frowning, something that she had learned meant disapproval. "I don't think she's ready to handle an animal. She's reckless, too energetic, and well… not too gentle."
The woman held his arm warmly. "Please, dear. It will be good for her to have a friend. Just one."
The wise old woman spoke up, with a hoarse but compassionate voice. "Animals are a wonderful way to develop a spiritual bond with nature. It's good for the Avatar to have a pet, I think. A big furry one. But," she looked up wistfully, "hopefully one that doesn't shed too much. Shedding can lead to all kinds of problems you'd never expect."
"Well, then." The puppy recognized the voice of the breeder, trembling a little. "If the little Avatar wants a dog, we have plenty that don't shed. Although, since it's so cold out, it might not be a good idea to expose the short-haired ones to the outdoors for too long…"
The husband and wife looked at one another.
"I want a big one!" said the little girl.
"Shh, Korra. Behave yourself." The man grabbed her hand to keep her from running off.
"Oh, let her explore, Tonraq, She doesn't get to visit town often… ever."
"Yeah, dad, listen to her!" the little girl squeaked with delight when her father let go of her wrist and she got to trample around the room, examining all of the puppies.
The breeder stood before the parents, wringing his hands nervously. "I would suggest, if you're looking for a… spiritual guide, of sorts, the panda-dog? They are known to be the calmest, and most connected to the spirit world. I've heard."
"I want a strong one!" said the little girl.
"So, I guess a rabbit-dog is out of the question," the breeder said, looking to the girl's parents for guidance. The mother nodded, the father shrugged, and the old woman only smiled sagely. The puppy could sense a calm, soothing spirit in her, and wished that the old woman would reach down under the table, lift back the animal skins, and run a hand through her white fur. Perhaps if she found a home with that old lady, her anxiety could be quelled.
She found herself letting out a slow, hopeless whine. She retreated back into the darkness, curling up on her stomach, not wanting to watch the spectacle again, the same old image of a child entering the place and leaving with some other animal. A cold loneliness overtook her, and she sighed, breathing a pathetic whimper.
"Sir and madam, if you'd be so kind as to examine this grizzly-dog for flaws, I think he might just be the perfect companion animal. They're very tough, but surprisingly gentle with children. Excellent hunters. They don't shed too much."
"Sounds fine to me," the puppy heard the old woman say.
The breeder continued to entertain the adults with option after option of strong, healthy, young puppies, enthusiastic, slobbering, tail-wagging. The eager stomping of the little girl echoed around the small room, bouncing painfully off of the puppy's ears. She closed her eyes, whimpering, wishing the ritual could be over and she could go back to sleep.
Through her drooping eyelids, she made out a flash of light. The little girl had peeled back the skins and was now examining the puppy, smiling widely. She was missing two of her front teeth.
The puppy wagged her tail, scooting forward.
She must've heard the pathetic whines coming from under the covered table. The little girl crawled inside the puppy's tiny, shadowy den and let the furs drop behind her, enclosing them both in darkness. Her eyes lit up the space brighter than real light ever could, and the puppy let herself stare into them.
For a brief moment, they locked gazes, and the puppy saw in the little girl a very, very old soul. Thousands of lives burned brightly in those eyes, lives spanning all the way back to when humans and dogs spoke to one another, before people had lost their way completely. Behind those irises lay an ancient spirit, an entity with an affinity for all living things, infinitely kind, boundlessly wise. It was a soul that could sense the distress and longing inside the puppy, and reach out to soothe it.
The little girl extended her arms and the puppy wiggled into them. She hugged her close, and the little animal could feel her strong heart beating through the layers of fur and leather and wool. The girl scooted out from under the table, so excited that she bumped her head on it as she stood up.
The others saw her standing there with the scraggly white puppy and frowned.
"Oh, dear, you can't have that one, little lady, she's…"
The puppy felt the little girl's heart beat once, twice, with unbelievable power. She stared down the adults, silencing all of them with her indomitable spirit. Only the old woman, smiling, pleased, seemed unfazed by the sudden upsweep of energy as the little girl hugged the puppy to herself. She would not be thwarted by the plans of grown-ups. Not ever.
One by one, in a period of less than a second, all of them lowered their eyes, perhaps in deference to the ancient, fierce spirit inside of the girl, perhaps in defeat.
The father let a smile pass over his strong mouth. "Are you sure?"
The girl looked down into the black eyes of her animal, like a benevolent but somehow innocent deity, and nodded.
"I want this one."