Lin Bei Fong had two mothers.
The first never looked at her, and the second only sought for her in the darkness. But at least the darkness had eyes, faint as they were. Though they were not as iridescent as those of the woman who nursed her on jook and moon peaches, they were not afraid to meet her own. Her grandparents, of course, had explained that her mother couldn't see, that she was blind, but Lin knew that she was just afraid to look.
"Your mother wasn't afraid of anything," her aunts and uncles cried, the Avatar the loudest among them.
She's afraid of me, she wanted to scream, but no one – except for the eyes in the darkness – could ever hope to understand.
They didn't know what it felt to be held by a woman who saw nothing but seismic vibrations. Lin often wondered: if she stayed still, would her mother know she was holding a child – her child – in her arms, and not an alloy refined from metallurgy?
"Your mother could see everything," they whispered.
I can see everything, too, she wanted to whisper back. But that was a lie. The eyes in the darkness saw everything.
On the first night they sought for her, the darkness spit out pebbles. It was only much later she learned that shewas a pebble, tossed far down in the darkness, still waiting to feel the ground. Lin wondered if her mother ever felt the same, if she never stopped feeling.
Lin Bei Fong never did learn that her mother had seen the same darkness in the same light.