I have no comment on this one. I'm not happy about it, but then, it's not a very happy ficlet. The prompt just sort of sparked this idea that wasn't necessarily that happy, or even that good, but by the time I realized that it had me by the muse and wouldn't let go. I don't know. I'll probably remain in a state of depression about it until I hear from all you kind reviewers out here.
My alert doesn't work. I wonder why...
At any rate, I'll shut up now and let you good folks get on with reading.
The sun was setting over the Earth Kingdom. The sky was awash with smoky gold and violet hues, as though caught and frozen in the act of burning, scattered with the diffused glow of embers that might at any moment burst into flame. The sun itself sat red and trembling like a drop of blood or an errant flake of fire just above the horizon, spilling its pulsing red light down onto the hills and valleys of the wide kingdom, gilding the forests with red and gold. It brought on the ghost of an autumn that was still a few moons away, foreshadowing the slow death of a time-scorched land, turning the towns prematurely into abandoned wastelands, the trees to ashes and dust.
At least, that was the way it seemed to those who still dared to be out on the streets or peering out of windows in the twilight hour. Men with sense were locked safely inside their homes, with their children beside them and their windows shut and dark; as the sun seemed to drop a bit in the wavering sky, doors slammed shut across the nation, as though to protect those inside from the swift, soft evening wind or the warbling calls of owls from the dark spaces between the trees. Occasionally, in hidden shadows and narrow alleys and deserted hillsides, the dying light glinted on metal, sparkled on the horned helmets of soldiers that marched in leisurely columns, tramping in puffs of dust and showers of sparks across the kingdom. Sometimes the soldiers reached towns, and stopped at houses which they seemed to be drawn to by supernatural means, and banged on doors and spoke through wooden slats in voices that were flat and hollow but irresistible; then the waver and wail of desperation filled the air, like the sky going up in smoke.
Yet nowhere was the desperation so thick and so pervasive as in a high, beautiful manor house on a hill that crowned the outskirts of a small merchant town. Immersed in the blood of the dying day, framed by two magnificent peaks of mountains, the house cast an elegant, imposing silhouette on the town below. The last gleams of the sunlight were kind to its mighty façade; their golden lacquer glossed over its flaking masonry, its crumbling eaves, its boarded-up windows and its walls draped with brown and rotting ivy. The shadow cast by the house obscured the overgrown gardens, the collapsed and rotting outer buildings, the bones and wounds and scars of a once grand and mighty estate fallen into its death throes of disrepair.
Only the front parts of the main house had been upkept in something close to their former glory, with sculpted stonework adorning the doorways and streaks of white and brown against the walls where the ivy had been pulled and scraped away. Even here, the wide crumbling windows were locked and bolted against the onslaught of night; all save one, a broad gap in the masonry which looked down the hill away towards the roofs of the town which looked like only pebbles in the rearing shadow of the mountains. This window was protected from the sunset by the bulk of the house itself, and the room within was cast in darkness; all except for a single wavering pinpoint of light, like a candle flame, perched on the index finger of one of the two men who stood at the window's broad sill.
"Thank you so much for coming," one man near-whispered, his voice so low and soft and humble that it was almost lost below the threshold of hearing. The same desperation that streamed like smoke up from various towns and cities across the nation was present in his voice, but thickened and intensified, as though all of the sorrows of his countrymen had been distilled and compacted in those few words. His companion tilted his head to one side, as though listening to that low thrill of emotion rather than the actual words; he seemed to find it pleasing, for the flame on his fingertip vanished, and he turned and offered the same hand in a gesture that once, many many years ago, would have signified friendship. His companion grasped it, his movements strained and jerking, as though each twitch cost him energy beyond measure which could not be replenished; he grasped the hand held out to him as a drowning man grasps at the tops of the waves, hoping by that grip to pull himself back into the open air.
"Now, now, Lao," the second man said soothingly, pleasantly, as though oblivious to the pain in the other man's voice – or thriving on it. "There's no need for such barbarity. You know, of course, that for a man of your stature and importance in the kingdom, no possible service is too expensive or too dear. Now, would you care to show me the reason we are here?"
"Of course, my lord," Lao said hurriedly, bowing over the hand he held before releasing it, "Of course, how foolish of me. Right this way." He turned away from the window and darted into the dark twists and labyrinths of the house, plunging into rooms which had once been airy and well-lit but now had wooden slats hammered in across doors and windows, into hallways which looked as though they once might have been straight but had grown twisted and gnarled with age, like the roots of an ancient tree. Lao's robes, like the house itself, were shabby and patched but possessing an air of haunting, long-lost grandeur; their fine weave, the sylphlike glimmer of green, seemed nearly to glow in the abyssal darkness of the spacious manor, giving him the appearance of a ghost gliding through shadows.
His companion followed much less noiselessly, walking with the calm stride and solid footsteps of, not a ghost, but a king, or at the very least a torturer who knows he has gained complete control of his prey.
"Here we are, lord," Lao announced, reaching a deeper patch of shadow along one wall and pressing a hand to it, revealing a door that swung open noiselessly, as though in an effort to perpetuate the illusion that the house was really only the abode of spirits and ghosts. The interior of the room, however, was scattered with candles that guttered in their holders, producing a smoky warm half-light that painted the wooden wall in shades of amber and red; in the center of the floor stood a sturdy square table, and beyond that yet another door, under which could be seen a glimmer of light.
Lao led the other man into the room, indicating with a bow the parchment spread out on the table. Ignoring both the gesture and his host, the man strode over to the table and swept a hand across it, knocking the parchment to the floor along with an inkstand that smashed on the floorboards, shattering into a small pile of glass shards and puddle of black ink that looked, in the dying light, like blood.
"Very well, Lao," the man snapped, "Let us get down to business." He cupped his hands together and blew into the bowl formed by his fingers; his breath streamed out as fire, and in a moment he cupped a glowing ball of flames in both palms which, when lifted up, cast a brilliant light as strong as the dying sun into the smoky room. By its light, Lao managed to steal his first good look at his visitor; clad in the deep scarlet tunic of a Fire Nation citizen, and with the brilliant red cape clasped about his throat that marked him as an official, his lean and wiry frame twanged Lao's every instinct like a stretched-taut bowstring, shrilled every alarm of fear and panic formed in years of war and terror. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, to run from the man's drooping mustache and dagger-sharp eyes, to escape from the thin needle fingers that snapped together like flint and stone and contained a hidden trapspring energy that might burst into flame at any second…
Lao only closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead to quell the sick leaden weight that rested there. He was too deeply weary, too tortured by the aches that wracked his body and soul, too old to be afraid.
"All right, Lao," the Fire Nation man snapped, rapping a finger on the table to draw Lao's attention. He had set the ball of flame into one of the candle holders, and its blazing light cast his profile into sharp detail. "Before I actually see her, there are few questions I need answered. When did this illness begin?"
"About two months ago, lord," Lao replied dutifully. "At the beginning of summer. She had been restless for several months more, and her tutor reported uncharacteristic inattention in her lessons, except for any lesson in which she was read stories. In history, in the study of books, she was greatly interested; then her mother and I began to notice strange changes in her behavior."
"Hmm." The official was leaning on the table, his head dropping down onto his chest, his eyes closed. "I see. Has she any talent for Earthbending?"
"A very little." The official's eyes snapped open, the slight slant of his eyebrows conveying his displeasure. "You see, I did not report it because she has so little power as to be of no consequence," Lao added hurriedly. "And then, of course, this strange illness came over her. You see, she has only just passed her twelfth birthday, the age when she would have been screened by His Majesty's agents."
"Very well." the man nodded, placated. "And her other… affliction, it still persists?"
"Yes, lord," Lao sighed, closing his own eyes to avoid looking into the man's face, afraid of seeing something he couldn't name, the sick pounding in his skull growing more pronounced. "She is blind."
There was a moment of silence. Lao stood waiting for the official to speak, his eyes closed, his head bowed, knowing full well the reason for the pause; the man had all of this information already, there was nothing new he had learned and no conclusions to come to that he had not already reached. The moment that stretched now into eternity, the considering silence, was only for the purpose of tormenting Lao, of letting him sweat in the aftermath of having confessed his deepest shame.
"Let me see her," the official commanded quietly, after an immeasurable time had passed. His voice was soft, and light, but the lightness was that of a finely-crafted sword slicing through air; it had the sharp edges and the potential to sting, to wound, if disobeyed.
Lao Beifong had been wounded once too often in his life, and had no wish to accumulate more scars than those he already possessed. He inclined his head in a half-bow, strode across the room to the door set in the wall behind the official's back, and threw it open, allowing the man a clear view into his daughter's room.
The window to the outside that gaped against the far wall, like all of the other windows in the house, had been covered over, but this window had been draped only with cloth instead of blocked with wood, so that the gray diffused ghost of sunlight managed to slip through, casting the entire room into a murky shadow. There was no other source of light; the brilliance of the flame set in the antechamber threw a spear of gold on the floor, stabbing into the darkness like the first flare of a rising sun. Standing with his back to the light of the antechamber, Lao could barely make out the dark shape, a more solid darkness than the gray around it, of a wooden bedframe pressed against one wall, all the furniture the room contained; and perched on that shadow, a deeper shadow yet, but one with more pronounced dimensions, that moved occasionally, a quick jerk of muscle or whisper of cloth.
The Firebender shoved unceremoniously past his host, stepping into the darkness of the room and snapping his fingers. A light sprang to life in the palm of his hand, throwing into sharp relief the bare, prison-cell walls, the bed with its dusty and rumpled sheets – and, atop the bed, the small, harrowed frame of a twelve-year-old girl, curled up into herself and trembling.
"Hello, Toph," the Firebender said loudly, his voice echoing off of the wooden walls, bouncing back at oddly-timed intervals from dark corners which the light could not seem to penetrate. "Your father has brought me here to see you. How are you feeling today?"
The small silhouette on the bed uncurled itself, revealing a small, pale girl whose thick raven-dark hair cascaded down over her shoulders, hung down into smoky green eyes obscured by the silvered cataracts of blindness. She was clad in a soiled silk robe that hung loosely on her frame, giving her an appearance that was almost skeletal; her feet, the Firebender noticed as she swung them over the edge of the bed, were bare.
She turned her head towards the door, her blank eyes scanning the darkness, as though blindness was no obstacle to sight and she was examining the intruder, perhaps determining whether he was a threat. Finally, as the Firebender stood patiently waiting, she yawned, stretched, and whined, "What, is that Fire Nation bastard back again?"
"Do you know who I am, Toph?" the Firebender asked calmly, but she had turned her head away as though he did not exist and was staring instead at where the window would have been.
"Katara, didn't I tell you to keep your pet Firebender away from me? If he wants to travel with us I'll let him, for his uncle's sake, but I don't want to talk to him. Hear me, Scarface? Go be a pathetic whining banished prince somewhere else."
The Fire Nation official turned to where Lao waited at the threshold of the room, beckoning him forward with a wave of one long, delicate hand. "Toph," Lao called, stepping into the musty darkness of his daughter's bedroom, "Toph, can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you, Sokka," Toph yawned, brushing her hair out of her empty eyes. "You were only snoring all night. I swear, you're worse than Appa." She fell silent for a moment, head cocked to one side, as though listening. "No, I'll handle packing up, I'm better at the heavy lifting than you anyway. Go help Aang gather firewood or something, all right?" Another pause, and Toph slid from the bed, stomping one foot on the floor, hard; she adopted that odd listening pose again, then smirked. "Serves you right, Snoozles!" she shouted, far too loudly for the small confines of the bedroom. "That's what you get for messing with the Greatest Earthbender in the World!"
"Delusions of grandeur," the Fire nation official murmured over his shoulder to Lao, who only stood, his shoulders slumped, head bowed under the weight of defeat, of shame. "You should have sent for help earlier, man," the Firebender snapped, though there was no bite behind it and he seemed more interested than upset. "There's little to do with an illness this advanced."
"Toph," Lao called, as though his daughter were far, far away. Desperation had congealed again in his voice, thick and jarring, dark and insidious, corrosive. "Toph, darling, you must listen to me. I'm your father, don't you understand? Your father…"
Toph grew very still, standing with both feet firmly planted on the wooden floor, hands hanging limply at her sides, for so long that the Firebender began to wonder absently if she had stopped breathing. Then, as though moving through water or in a dream, with an agonizing slowness, she turned her head, her milky white gaze darting to where she had heard Lao's voice. "Father?" she asked, in a voice that was small and weak and trembling, the mere ghost of the strong brazen tones she had called out with in the grip of delusion. "Father, is that you?"
"Yes, dear heart," Lao called, shouldering past the Fire Nation official now, relief thick in his voice. "Yes, Toph darling, it's me, your father." He shoved his way into the room until he was standing before her; he knelt down so that he no longer towered over her, he reached out and gently took her small, smooth hands in his large rough ones. "Toph, I've brought someone to help you," he said softly, pleadingly, as though begging his daughter to understand. "I've brought someone who can solve all of our problems, someone who will see to it that you're taken care of…"
They stayed like that for a long moment; then, with small, distressed movements as though fighting to rouse herself from some deep thick nightmare, Toph shook her head, pulling her hands free of his grip. "I don't need to be taken care of," she insisted, still in the small weak voice of a sick child, but with an undertone of determination now, of hidden strength and rock-hard solidity. "I don't need help. I can… I'm the best Earthbender in the world. I can tear down this house. I can escape. I can…" she trailed off for a moment, then rallied, her unblinking eyes fixed unnervingly on her father's face. "I have to escape," she said forcefully, "I have to teach Aang how to Earthbend by the end of the summer. It's very important… by the end of the summer… to save the world…"
"It's almost autumn," Lao whispered pleadingly, but Toph was shaking her head now, violently, as though trying to rid herself of some demon whispering in her ear, screeching in her head.
"No!" she cried, fighting to escape from her father's grip, "No! You can't keep me here! You and mother always tried to keep me locked in, and locked up, to keep me smothered and safe! I don't need you, either of you, I don't need anyone! I can do it myself! I'm the greatest Earthbender in the world, I can do anything… I can… I have to leave, father, by the end of the summer…" She trailed off into silence again, breathing hard, pulling feebly against Lao's hands around her wrists, though he did not let go. "I'll get out of here," she repeated, with the immovable certainty of mountains. "I'll get out, you'll see. They'll come for me, Aang and Katara and Sokka and even Zuko. Iroh will make him. They'll come for me, and break me out, and we'll go kill Azula and the Fire Lord and his army and his minions. We'll kill Long Feng and the Dai Li, just watch. We'll end the war. We'll save the world."
"Toph," Lao moaned, "Toph, you must listen to me, you must understand, I only want to help you. Toph, there is no war –"
But she couldn't hear him anymore. She had stopped trying to struggle away from him, and now only stood still, blank eyes peering at some mysterious distance over his shoulder; "Wait for me, I'm coming!" she called, brightly, joyfully, all tension and fear evaporated like smoke, all anger flowing out of her as quickly as it had come. "Aang! Aang, get Sokka he's about to – don't eat that, you moron! Katara, can't you keep your brother under control?" Lao released her hands and stood watching helplessly as she slid into an Earthbending stance, sliding one foot out along the ground. She waited, and some sound echoed back to her from the far shores of her imagination, for then she burst out laughing, doubled over in mirth. "Ha! That'll keep him quiet for a while! Didn't I tell you, Sokka? Serves you right!"
"Those aren't delusions," the Fire Nation official said from the doorway. Lao turned around to face the other man, feeling his stomach turn to lead as he followed the Firebender out into the real world of dusk and dust and silence, away from his daughter's brightly-colored jaunts through fantasy. "At least, they're not entirely delusions," the Firebender amended, beckoning Lao out of the room and shutting the door behind him, leaving Toph to her laughter. "You said she was very interested in history, just before she fell ill?"
Lao nodded, feeling the dread listlessness of despair overtake him. His vision blurred, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on the thin, lean face of the Firebender, retain what semblance of polite attention that he could. Thankfully, the man peered down at his own hands as he spoke, freeing Lao from the burden of his scrutiny. "Those people she mentioned," he continued, far too casually. "Aang, Katara, Sokka, Zuko, Iroh, Azula – they were all real people, once. This is not a bit of history generally taught to children in this civilized day and age, you understand, so I will want a word with the tutor who exposed her to it." Lao thought that perhaps he had spoken, but he seemed to have given some kind of confirmation, for after a brief glance up the Firebender continued with his tale. "A hundred years ago, just seasons before the first Emperor of Flame united all four nations under one glorious rule, a young boy named Aang began masquerading as the Avatar, a folk legend that was very popular with the primitive country dwellers of the day. He claimed to be descended from an extinct race of legendary Airbenders, and he told those who met him that, after having been frozen in an iceberg for a century, he had returned to master all four elements and 'rescue' them from the Fire Nation's protection." The Firebender snorted to express his opinion of this idea, and glanced up at Lao, who remained impassive. "Of course, the story was complete nonsense," the Firebender added. "The things he claimed were all impossible. He did, however, manage to discover that a solar eclipse would occur at the end of the summer, and latched onto the wild idea of attacking the Fire Nation when we would be, according to him at least, powerless."
The Firebender smiled, showing teeth that appeared, to Lao's fog-filled mind, the pointed fangs of a predator closing in for the final kill. "Naturally, he was defeated and killed long before the eclipse ever happened," he said in a voice that was closed to a satisfied purr. "Those closest to him – traitors to the Fire Nation and deluded Water Tribe peasants – later confessed under torture that they believed his defeat was caused by that fact that he had not been able to find someone to teach him Earthbending." he shrugged, growing weary of Lao's lifeless leaden stare. "Your daughter, in her madness, has latched on to those old stories and believes she is that teacher. The only problem, of course, is that she was born a hundred years too late. The Emperor of Flame is merciful, and will not punish her for such blasphemous delusions, for of course we cannot control what we dream up in the fever of madness."
"Of course," Lao said woodenly, his survival instincts noting a change in the timbre of the smile which indicated that a response of some kind was expected. The Firebender nodded, pleased.
"Now," he said lazily, "Let us discuss the matter of treatment. I can write a letter to the head of Lake Laogai – oh, don't be an idiot, man," he snapped, noting the instinctive look of horror and fear that stole across Lao's features at the mention of that infamous name. "I'm sure you've heard the usual ghost stories and peasant rumors, but really, the people here are so uncivilized, you can't believe their age-old prejudices," the Firebender snarled. "It's no longer the torture chamber that it was under the Earth King; now it's a perfectly respectable facility, to aid those who have trouble coming to grips with the Flame Emperor's rule, or have fallen rebel delusions or the influence of traitors. Now, your daughter's blindness may present some obstacles, but I believe that Lake Laogai is her best chance for recovery."
"Yes, sir," Lao replied, quelling the memories of men that moved like walking corpses, weeping mothers and wives, children pale and quiet and speaking only when spoken to, as though they had had the souls cut out of them. He suppressed the images of people strapped to chairs, of barred cell doors and windows that had haunted him ever since his last and only visit to the 'proper facility' that Lake Laogai had become. His mouth was dry, he could hear his heart beating in his ears. He closed his eyes again. The Fire Nation soldiers kept the people safe, kept him safe, kept his daughter safe. If displeased them, she would be in danger. To send her to Lake Laogai… it was the only way to keep her safe.
"Of course, sir," he heard himself replying, his own voice echoing back to him as though across some great vast gulf of darkness. "Whatever you believe is best."
"Excellent." The Firebender reached down and picked up the crumpled parchment that he had knocked to the floor, picked up a shard of the smashed inkbottle, dipped it into the ink stain still drying on the floor, and scrawled something swift and illegible which he then folded into Lao's hand. "You will give that to the director of Lake Laogai, when you take your daughter there for treatment three days from now," he said smoothly. "It has been a pleasure, of course. I shall convey your regards to the Flame Emperor." He flashed that predatory smile again, then strode to the door and flung it open without a word.
Lao stood paralyzed by his own grief as his daughter's laughter slipped under the door from the next room and the flames in the candle holder guttered out, leaving him alone in the ash-cold darkness of the coming night.
Review, please! Anonymous reviews are now allowed! Oh, by the way, constructive criticism is as welcome as praise, but what I don't like (or understand) is a review that consists of "grins". I don't know what that means. Are you grinning because you like it, or because you're laughing at me, or because you have some secret plot to take over the world that the rest of us don't know about? Just for the record, I'm with the penguins...
Don't mind me. I'm just a silly ranting authoress, leaving you now with the eternal plea of writers everywhere: Review!
