WiltingDaisies94: Welcome back for another chapter. It's been a few weeks since Netflix announced it's upcoming live-action Avatar series, and with the cautious optimism of someone who grew up with ATLA, I have been rewatching old episodes for inspirational purposes. May the execs at NF do the same, and may the results be equally interesting.
Happy reading!
Chapter 2
The Moon Temple had stood in the Southern Water Tribe's Upper Territory for hundreds of years. The circular compound surrounded an open courtyard, and long torches ringed the area, blazing through the day. A strange smell filled the air, something Katara could not place; it sat on her tongue as though she could swallow the smoky odor. Stone sculptures dotted the courtyard, the Moon Goddess in her many phases. They were young girls, fresh-faced maidens, motherly figures, and old crones. Worn and timeless.
It must have been midday, or close to, as the sky had lightened to a white-grey. No sun broke through the clouds, and she wondered how long the weak light would endure.
Through the curtains of the palanquin, Katara spotted a large delegation. During their brief interlude, the White Priestess had impressed on her the prestigious nature of the gathering. Chieftains of the Upper, Central, and Lower tribes would all be present, along with their sons, advisors, and military commanders. Priests from the secondary Ice Temple would be gathered as well, journeyed far from the Central Territory.
There was no temple in the sparsely populated Lower Territory, where Katara had lived and grown. Her village lay on the farthest shore of the island's southern edge. When she was little, she had often pestered her grandmother about their remote location. Why couldn't they live in the Upper Territory, where the days were longest and trading ports were filled with ships from the southern Air Temples and Earth Kingdom? Why must they eke out an existence in the far corners of the nation, when there was more to life than seal hunting and ice fishing?
Gran-Gran had never answered these questions. Instead, her face would close, and the look she cast her small granddaughter was one of indulgence, tinted with pity.
Shutting her eyes, Katara regretted every moment she'd spent badgering her grandmother to change territories. What she would not give to be home again, far from the clutches of these plotting chiefs and their nodding coalitions. She would gladly collect sticks from every sooty fire in the village, if only she could return to her grandmother's embrace.
Someone announced her arrival, using a title that was not hers, and the men backed away, arranging themselves. (By age? Rank? Katara was not sure). A jumble of masculine voices murmured words of assent as the guards laid the palanquin at the foot of a raised, circular platform.
A gloved hand reached through the curtains, and Katara was led into the light by a temple attendant swathed in sky-blue. Other than herself, the White Priestess, and a half-dozen female acolytes, no women were present for the ceremony.
Her embroidered shoes touched the platform's first step, and Katara began the ascent. Two acolytes followed, carrying the ends of her fur-trimmed robe.
The eighth level was the last, and from her new height, Katara viewed the assembled masses. It was a sea of white and blue, furs and skins. Too rich to be the garments of her village, splendor she would have clamored to see as a child.
Behind her, the White Priestess mounted the platform, her body weighted down by flowing robes and a necklace of heavy whalebone. Three of her attendants - robed in white, with black dots on their foreheads and chins - carried the ceremonial objects: a silver scarf, a crystal crown, and a stone goblet. A fourth attendant stood off to the side. Her robes were black as pitch, and a white line ran across her nose and cheeks. She held a final, covered item, long and thin.
Her executioner was already atop the platform – Hau, son of Grand Chief Roka of the Upper Territory. His skin was coppery, dark and thick as leather. His face was painted in the blue and grey of a warrior, and a long scar ran down his exposed left arm. When his father died, he would wield the greatest power in the Southern Water Tribes.
He was powerfully built, Katara saw. At least her end would be quick.
"Leaders of the South," the White Priestess said, and a hush fell over the crowd, "we come this day, as the long winter begins, to prove our devotion to the great Goddess, She of the Shining Veils, Lady of the Storm and the Seafarer's Light. Our heavenly mistress is a just and terrible spirit, and by her light we shall find our way through the darkness."
As the men cheered, Katara's eyes fell on the flat altar behind the Priestess. It was grey stone, cleared of snow and ice. A small indent lowered the center, surrounded by shallow rivulets. How many girls had laid their heads on this final resting place? Katara wondered. Had they worn the same robes? The same delicate, embroidered slippers and heavy paint?
"In Her infinite wisdom, our Goddess shall lead us through the long night, and into the light of rebirth, beginning a new cycle for all. But the journey is fraught, and in our devotion, we offer a modest token of our support, our need and desire to rejoice in the embrace of our Mistress." The White Priestess motioned to the nearest acolyte, who approached, crystal crown in hand.
Katara's neck trembled under its weight, but Hau's sharp eyes dared her to waver, and she stiffened. It was, after all, a temporary adornment.
"To you, Oh Mother of the Dusk, we present this young woman," the White Priestess continued, gesturing, "pure and luminous as the snow, the humblest among your servants, to accompany You on your exalted journey."
Another roar rose from below, and Hau stepped towards Katara.
"On this day it is Hau, son of Roka – leader of men, and follower of Your most loving and unchallenged ways – who guides this young beauty to Your gates."
The second acolyte offered Hau the silver scarf. It was fragile in his massive hands, and Katara shivered as the heir to the Upper Territory approached her. His calloused hands brushed her neck, gathering the loose waves together. Silently, Hau tied her hair back, knotting the scarf twice to keep it in place.
"We ask only that You accept our daughter into Your nurturing arms. And may her service be understood as the hard work of all Your servants here on earth. Just as countless drops of water make up the sea, so we are many people of a single blood." The White Priestess held out a hand, and the last white-robed acolyte came forward.
"With this," the Priestess continued, raising the goblet high, "we bind the greatest of our nation with the least. We commit ourselves to Your glory, Unknowable Goddess, one and all, and pray that You have mercy on Your people, now and in the long night to come."
The Priestess offered Hau the goblet. He drank stoically, then passed it to Katara.
The liquid was sweet at first, but turned bitter as it went down. Uncertain how much she was expected to drink, Katara finished the goblet. Once it was empty, the acolyte retrieved the cup and stepped back into line with the other two.
"Now is the time of our great delight," the White Priestess intoned, raising her hands to the sky.
As the onlookers cheered, Hau took Katara's arm in a viselike grip, and led her across the platform. With a push, he forced Katara to her knees, his hand pressing against her upper back. Leaning forward, Katara's cheek met the unforgiving face of the altar, slotting neatly into the round indent. Hau brushed her hair, still tied in the silver scarf, out of the way.
"In darkness as in light," the White Priestess chanted.
"In darkness as in light," came the response. It swelled from below, a great consensus at Katara's expense.
Was it fear she felt then, in the numb patch at the base of her throat? Was it sadness? Anger?
Katara could not see the black-robed acolyte, and did not hear the cloth fall from the ritual weapon. She did not even know what it was – a club, perhaps? A machete? An axe? She was ignorant of how the Moon Goddess preferred her violence.
As Hau's footsteps approached, Katara pressed herself into the altar, and her grandmother's pin pushed into her breastbone. In that moment, Katara recognized the sensation – it was regret.
She stared at the acolytes' feet and tried to picture her Gran-Gran. Hers was the smile Katara loved most dearly in the world, and she would die with it in her mind's eye – it was the least and last she could do for the woman who had raised her.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Katara waited for the blow to fall.