Foreword

This story serves as a spiritual sequel to Legend of Korra, in the way that Legend of Korra was a continuation of Avatar: The Last Airbender. The arc will follow a cast of original characters, with occasional references to and incarnations of familiar people and places. It's an idea that's been clanging around in my head for awhile, and like many people I have had an excess of free time on my hands lately. I'm certain this is not a particularly novel idea around these parts, but I'm going to give it a go nonetheless.

I think there are a lot of troubling implications about the way the world of LoK evolves from what we saw in A:TLA. Technology advances in huge gulps, the nature of bending's place in society remains volatile, and the very existence of an Avatar seems to invite increasing magnitudes of confrontation. And yet the characters are unfailingly thoughtful, compassionate, complicated, and funny. It's my goal to expand on the darker themes of LoK as I see them, while also preserving the elements that drew me to the series in the first place.

I hope you enjoy reading it. It is a work in progress, so let me know what you think if you feel so inclined.

-T5O

I've danced 'tween sunlit strands of lover's hair

Helped form the final words before your death

I've pitied you and plied your sails with air

Gave blessing when you rose upon my breath

And after all of this, I am amazed

That I am cursed far more than I am praised

-Silver Wings, Dustin Kensrue

Prologue: The Mother

Zao's son is dead. And her soul has split in two.

There are all the accumulated moments that came before. And then there are the ceaseless, tortured moments that come after. There is her understanding of pain as it was. And there is her growing appreciation for the heights and depths that pain can truly reach. Two islands that will only grow more distant.

It will not occur to her for some time that her son did not die in the instant she saw the broadcast on the televiewer, though it often seems that way. Between the broadcast delay to Earth and the time taken to verify the ship's destruction, she later reflects that Xing had died while she was eating breakfast. Seventeen minutes before the news bulletin. She had made eggs and rice.

In the same moments that Xing had been ripped into nothingness, she had been eating eggs. That thought will haunt her far longer than she might guess. In her son's most perilous and panicked seconds of existence, she had dabbed rice into runny yolk. Chewed. Swallowed. Oblivious to the agony hurtling toward her from the deep cosmos. Like an arrow loosed by an angry god.

In the many days and weeks and months to come, she will sometimes see this simple dish on strangers' tables in cafes she passes by. The sight and smell will never fail to remind her of her son's body disintegrating at the speed of light. She will think of his hands. Hands that were 'too gentle for a firebender' Xing's father had teased. She will ruminate on how they will never be the strong hands of a grown man. They will never caress a lover or hold a child. Xing's hands were beautiful instruments. And now they are gone. The atoms of those hands have been cast into the dark kiln of space.

It will be a long time before she can tolerate the thought of eating eggs and rice again. And by then, it will be too late to try.

But that is many years from now. 'Now' is moment where she learns of Xing's fate. And it is the moment that will destroy and define her.

At first, Zao waits. There has been some mistake. She could not possibly have heard or seen what she thinks she did. If she can be patient, the reporter on the televiewer will start again. He will apologize for his error, correct himself. It was not the Glorious Dawn that had malfunctioned and exploded. Of course not. It was some other ship. Any other ship.

'No,' she hears herself say. It is the same tone she might use if handed incorrect change at the market. Hesitant. Almost apologetic.

The earthbender in her searches for stability. She feels her bare feet press into the floor. Her apartment is on the second story, but the building is older and made of sterner stuff than the alloys and meta-materials that make up the newer sky towers. She detects the bedrock her building's steel anchors have been moored to. She feels that solidity in her knees. Her spine. The feeling of solid ground keeps her from buckling. For now.

It is a mistake. If she can be patient, she will see-

'If you are just tuning in, we are again confirming this tragic breaking news: The experimental 'spirit drive' ship Glorious Dawn has suffered catastrophic failure. Its crew of twenty-seven souls, including the young Avatar Xing, have been killed.'

The reporter's lips keep moving, but Zao can't hear what he's saying. There is a noise, a harsh, tortured rasp, that fills the room. She realizes that she is screaming, and a violent disassociation seems to rip her out of her own mind. She can see herself somehow. Paralyzed. Trembling. Fingers hooked into claws. Very soon those fingers will sink into her own skin. Involuntarily, they will claw at their owner's flesh, as though the source of her agony might be excavated from somewhere inside of her.

But the pain is far deeper than her fingers can burrow.

Somewhere far beneath her, the bedrock under her building shudders. Cracks. Slides. Her apartment lurches slightly. She senses this, because she causes this. Later she muses that everything would have been so much simpler if she had pushed harder and caused the structure to collapse and crush her to death. So much pain that could be avoided, and will not be.

There are words that want to be said. Agonies that require speech to fully convalesce. Thoughts stack up in her mind too quickly to organize. Prayers, protestations, denials, petitions. She wants to say something. She wants to say her son's name. She is sure that if she can manage to form an articulate thought, that it could shield her from the cascade of pain that bears down on her. But the screaming won't stop. A sore spot is already growing in a tight ring around her throat. The ache will grow until her jaw seizes and only medical intervention will save her vocal cords from further injury. Because she cannot stop.

Zao's son is dead. And she is screaming.