Rewrite, Rewind
Chapter 19
After Azula's accident, Azulon found it more and more difficult to retaliate against his generals about Yang's enrollment into the military. It was only by reminding them that he too was a lightning bender that they shut up about Yang's recruitment. Not every lightning bender was capable of battle, the few they did have were doctors and the drawbacks of using their lightning often left scars on both patients and users alike. Lighting was just too dangerous for the battlefront right now. Azulon received both Yang's and the palace doctor's incident reports, both the forged and the ligament forms, and could only bring himself to rub at his forehead and sigh in aggravation.
The twin's eighth birthday arrived too quickly for Azulon to be properly prepared for. Azula wanted a book about spirits, all known spirits, their affinities, and should-be-locations, to be specific. And Zuko wanted a map from a hundred years ago. A hundred-year-old map, what the hell the boy was going to be doing with that Azulon was at a loss for.
Instead of getting what they both wanted, Azulon gave Zuko a heavily detailed map that indicated every possible type of terrain of their known world: it had been completed last year so it was up to date, so Fire Nation Colonies were included. As for Azula, Azulon had a genuine headache about the girl's present. He ended up not getting her what she wanted exactly, but she seemed quite content with her 'myths and legends of the fire nation' tome, and he said tome because that's exactly what that book was. One would think books would be small, neat little things you could carry around in one hand. No, he found a three-pound, leather-bound, metal clasped, monster that took both hands for him to carry. Sweet little Azula clutched it to her chest, teetered back words and walked forward with a glint in her eye that unnerved him. He had the distinct impression she was going to memories that book if it was the last thing she did.
The mountains looked like death's rippling black robes, tall and imposing, awaiting them with the eternal patience of the immortal realist. They traveled on; heads bowed against the white wind pushing their ships back the way they came but they couldn't go back. Not anymore. Their home set ablaze far behind them, the intruders raging their fire high into the storm winds, laughing as the heat of their orange-red flames continued to defy the howling white wind. The survivors continued rowing their boats through the dark waters of their homeland, ignoring the ice that cut into every bit of exposed skin. Ignoring the blade-like wind that cut deep into their exposed burnt skin. Ignoring the whimper of every human left unprotected in the white-wind.
The south pole was their home, a land of ice with glaciers for land and death's black-sleeves for rivers. There was no safe place in the south, it was all wind, snow, and ice with the days lasting months and nights lasting just as long. There were more animals than people, creatures that survived the snow by whatever means necessary; eating the few remaining tribesmen was a favorite dish. If the animals of the south pole didn't get the survivors, lack of protection from the arctic winds did. They had thought that the nation's war was done with them, that the cruelty of the northern lands would finally leave them in peace. They were wrong. Now all they could do was travel through the white hurricane winds, through the gray horizon, through the black waters of their endless night, to the southern black mountains just past death's embrace.
The survivors rowed their boats, refusing to cry despite the ache in their bodies.
They rowed with tears in their eyes; gentile words as cold as the howling wind repeated in their minds.
They could only pray; pray they survived the blizzard long enough to reach the Spirit Pool.
There only needed to be one survivor, only one needed to plead the spirits to save her.
She, the shaman of snow, the priestess of winter, the daughter of ice, the princess of winter, remained in their village. She was only eight years old and she deemed it necessary for her to remain in their burning village while they retreated to safety. She said she was enough; she alone was enough for the intruders. The survivors wanted to look back, search the blizzard night for the scarlet light of fire or the porcelain light of the new moon but they couldn't. They couldn't defy her last given order.
"They will not harm me," they could hear their precious treasure through the snow. "Go now. Don't look back." They marched through the snow, anguish cries unheard in the storm, seeking safety in the only place they had left: The Spirit Pool. It was a safe haven that rested deep in the black mountains, past death's every test.
Death could test them, test each of them, it was okay. They only needed one person to make it.
Only one of them needed to reach the Spirit Pool.
Only one of them…
Only one survivor.
In the burning village, the intruders stood proudly, laughing at their dazzling flames that grew with every burst of wind that neared. They surrounded the single survivor; the last one they could find in the burning village of ice and snow. She stood in the center of the village, unconcerned with arctic winds and blazing fires alike, not even the dozen of blood-stained men wielding red-tainted weapons seemed to draw a reaction from the strange girl-child. She had skin as white as the snow that danced the screaming wind, with hair as pale as the stars hidden beneath the storm clouds above. Her clothing wasn't cotton nor silk, like the merchants of the northern mainland. She wore seal skin leather, sewn together with arctic wolf fir. Glass beads of lilac and leaf-green were strung across strips of leather, depicting a pattern the intruders could not name. Her long star-kissed hair was pulled back from her face in three large braids, coming together on the back of her head in a simple braided bun which was held in place with a piece of black leather carved with more mysterious figures they couldn't identify. Piercing the decorated leather piece was a beautifully carved white wood tipped with more purple and green beads. The bottom half of her hair was left to cascade down her back in long silver ripples, like the ripples of a lake reflecting the new moon.
It was her eyes, though, that prevented the intruders from attacking her thoughtlessly.
Her eyes were ocean blue, a hunter's angry gleam shining through every azure stripe.
Her eyes were a gentle summer sky blue, an ancient spirit's wisdom shone with the regret of a war-tiered general.
They knew they could kill her but they knew that an unarmed child standing fearlessly before the very people who destroyed their home, was a dangerous child. Only fools faced monsters unarmed. Only monsters faced man unafraid. They wondered—smirking down on the tiny child before them, fringing their confidence to seem as if they still had power and strength to continue the fight—They wondered with an instinctual weariness, who was the real fool?
Was the child standing before them a monster or were they the unarmed men facing an untold monster?
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