Volume I

A Retrospect

Chapter III

The Base Formation of my Political Ideology

My politik began developing as early as 158 AG. Harsh exposure to the lowest and worst parts of the Earth Kingdom had permanently altered my view of the world, and I began to feel one way or another about pressing matters even if I didn't fully understand them. I knew enough at the time-- more than most middle or upper class citizens. The things I experienced in that year between households left an important impression upon me that I would never forget.

By the time Suyin Beifong took me into her home in Zaofu, I understood the hardships of poverty, the privilage of fortune, and the luxury of having trust and safety. I had witnessed firsthand the atrocious living conditions of the majority of the Kingdom: I knew exactly what needed to be changed and what needed to exist in the first place. Because I was taught this early, I was able to connect a lot of my future experiences with what I learned and recognize which specific actions needed to be taken in order to save the Kingdom from it's dismal predicament.

However, back then, after happening upon information rather than formally learning it, my knowledge was ultimately limited to three things: one, the queen was largely to blame for the lack of money in the states; two, the city-states fought with each other for economic and social reasons, like land and culture; three, the earth kingdom had been this way for a very long time.

As a child with this knowledge and firsthand experience in both extremes of my kingdom, I was able to analyze the happeneings in my life with a unique multicolored lense. I felt a pain in my heart at what I surmised-- at the idea of what was and what could have been. I wondered (albeit naïvely) why everyone couldn't enjoy what I had enjoyed before I ran from home. Why couldn't the entire Kindgom enjoy the prosperity I saw at Ji Qiang's mid western province and the positive buzz of its ports? Why did we always fight each other with wars when we disagreed? And why didn't we fight for compromise? to preserve the union? to be a stronger nation?

Combined with the pain I still suffered from when my parents effectively abandoned me and the knowledge I retained from the history books I used to read, the infighting across the Earth Kingdom instilled in me a high regard for loyalty and a hatred for anything less. I saw infidelity as the root of most of the nation's evils if not all of them. For example, the Earth Monarch Huo-Ting was not at all loyal to her people, and she preferred to pamper herself and raise taxes to line her own pockets rather than distribute wealth into the states. Her nephew, Prince Wu, showed a similar mindset. And all the predecessors of the 46th Earth King. I was made aware of these things by conversations I overheard while I moved around and things I experienced personally like the informal kowtows in Gaoling.

I knew that the different regions of the Earth nation each had their different customs and cultures, and that these regions and their states achieved loyalty only to those of alike ethnicity. The concept of a united nation was lost in this way too, a casualty of time and the wars between people. I analyzed this, perplexed by its simplicity and backwards philosophy, and made it my foe. I analyzed all that my nation needlessly clinged to-- clan-like separation, outdated traditions that inhibited progress, traditions that contradicted the future most desired, a reliance on the world (predominantly the Fire Nation) to provide, and prideful negligence of our mistakes, our shortcomings-- and I felt a wave of irrate rage; I wanted someone, anyone-- maybe our own goddamn monarch and leader-- to do away with it all. Deep in my heart, I wanted it gone.

It had ruined my life and the lives of countless others. It forced good people like the farmer who took me in to pay tribute to useless people like my father who robbed innocents of all that they had. It kept my mother trapped inside her own head, burdened with chauvinistic virtues that never held any truth or real value, thinking so little of herself and every other woman around her that she simply did whatever my father said, whenever he said it, however he said to do it. It forced the elderly to labor until they fell in the fields with their aching hands clenched tight around their hoe, their only support, and to die amongst their burden as overworked cattle. It forced children to grow early, to learn too soon what the world is really like, to steal and lie and cheat and get caught in a vicious cycle of misdeed that, years later, would leave them shunned and unwanted, unable to do any better for themselves and without the mind to even think of doing any different.

All of it set us up for failure.

As I understood this, I developed the foundations of my politics with uniformity and balance (or the lack thereof) in mind. I gave more attention to the socioeconomic side of things, to the who, what, where, how, and why. I constructed the image of a prosperous future in my head. I believed in it too-- that somehow, someway, outside of my childish aspirations and fantasies, it could be done.

All we had to do was break free, I thought; it was as simple as running away from my parents in Ji Qiang.

IIII IIII IIII

Two. . . three. . . four. . .

Kuvira flicks up her middle finger, her useless finger, and her pinky finger. She keeps on counting, keeps on keeping count. It's dark and she can hardly see her hands in front of her face because she's got her eyes half closed, but she keeps using her fingers anyway. Maybe because its's something for her to do.

Twelve. . . thirteen. . . fourteen. . .

Her meals seem to have been a bit more consistent in the past few week(s)(?). Kuvira tries to recall them. She hasn't tallied anything down because there's nothing in here for her to use besides her pen and paper and both are way too important to waste on a calendar. Her lips ghost the numbers as she sees them in her head and feels them on her hands.

Twenty-two. . . twenty-three. . . twenty-four. . .

Thirty. Thirty-one. Then she starts over at one and goes on til ten.

It's been five months, she concludes when she runs out of days to remember. Five months since her imprisonment and three months since her official sentencing. Five months since she effectively killed her future, and three months since she's begun deliberately reliving her past, encasing it in palm oil and sap and eternity.

Kuvira rests her head against the high wall behind her, chin up, nose pointed towards the sky at an obtuse angle. Her fern eyes are squinted as she tries to see beyond the lantern above, peering into the darkness that looms high over her. She has begun to do this recently in times of exceptional boredom and/or when she's at a loss for words to continue. It helps to keep her head clear while she stirs her imagination and envisions open mountain ranges from a bird's aerial distance, the sun radiant, its light spilling over the great peaks, snow caps glistening, lake water shining, trees dancing while wind plays the rhythm of nature's breath.

Kuvira misses the outdoors. She maintains good behavior in hopes of getting some time out one day, but it isn't likely. She's all but resigned to a dark, lonely existence after what she'd done.

At the thought, Kuvira is heavily tempted to shut her eyes-- maybe she'll just forget how epically she ruined everything. She gives in to the urge and goes slack as she does. There's a deafening silence all around; nothing but emptiness ringing in her ears.

Then, unexpectedly, Kuvira hears the doors open.

She thinks it feels a little early for her evening meal, but Kuvira doesn't question it. As usual, the former commander stays still and silent as her food is brought to her, not planning to stir untll the doors close again.

But the doors close minutes too early, the footsteps stop halfway in, and there is no sound of a wooden tray being set down at her side.

Kuvira pulls her head forward from where it rests against the cold wall, her neck aching and stiff from its prolonged stagnance. She opens her eyes.

"Hello, Kuvira," her visitor greets.

It's the Avatar.

Of all people (or rather, of the few people), Avatar Korra greets her first. She stands in the middle of Kuvira's emerald chamber, trapped in there with Feicuì's dim green light and stale air, the crystals above them welcoming her into their almost garish glow. It's a weird thing for Kuvira to see; from where she sits, looking at Korra's frown and apathetic gaze, it almost seems as if they're in prison together.

Kuvira forces the delirious amusement she gets from that thought out of her mind as the Avatar stops before her. She turns her head completely away from the stone wall she's leaning against and faces Korra, focuses on the fact that Korra is standing and she is not; Korra isn't bound to the ground and stripped of her freedom like she is; there's an ocean between where each of them stands.

Kuvira's eyes meet Korra's only for a split second before they flicker around a bit, not caring how it must look to her uninvited company, searching for Baatar. She finds him watching all of this unfold from the other side of the room, distant recently (they've had another fight, something about Kuvira not being fair to him eventhough she had never asked him to come looking for her. why can't he just understand that she is trying not to go insane?). He mirrors her position against the right wall, looking just as angry and perplexed as Kuvira feels but is too resigned to express.

When Kuvira's gaze returns to the Avatar, Korra looks mildly troubled. It's obvious she's stewing on something. Kuvira can see the uncertainty in her eyes, can see her squirming on the inside. A part of Kuvira is amused by it. But she chooses to respond in favor of letting the Avatar fish for words, tired of the odd silence herself. She speaks in a languid and dry manner that's a little bitter. "Why are you here?" she asks, peering up at the Avatar with narrowed eyes.

Avatar Korra's frown deepens. "I need your help." she confesses.

Kuvira smothers a derisive snort. "With what?"

"Tell me what you know about Commander Guan."

Kuvira's amusement dissipates, her eyes widening with intrigue. She tilts her head to the side. "What do you care about Guan?" she inquires.

Korra opens her mouth, then pauses. She seems to be assessing the woman in front of her for the half of a second, as if she had come in without considering whether or not she should divulge certain information to the criminal. Kuvira is tempted to roll her eyes, but she keeps herself from doing that by thinking of the ommitted details, the things she will certaintly never know if she offends the Avatar.

"Were you aware he and his troops never surrendered?" Korra continues in spite of whatever second thoughts she'd had, though now she actually sounds invested in the conversation; curious.

"What?" Kuvira's face scrunches a little in distaste at the news. She's more upset with the Avatar for assuming she had heard anything from her cell than she is displeased that one of her suboordinates had not respected her command. Her visage quickly falls into an even expression as she gets over the slight, however, and Kuvira looks down at the cuffs around her wrists pensively. "No," she mutters, mind on Gaoling, "I wasn't."

The Avatar doesn't elaborate after she answers the question, so Kuvira looks back up to meet Korra's gaze, bemused by the silence. She finds Korra watching her with skepticism, hands in fists at her sides, mouth in a distrustful flat line as she likely weighs the sincerity of Kuvira's words. Kuvira isn't worried; she hadn't lied, and there isn't anything for her to fear if she had. She just loses focus in the odd moment of quiet and ends up staring back at a now blank-faced Baatar.

Kuvira is forced to focus again when she blinks and Baatar is suddenly waving at her, motioning with a sweep of his hand for her to sustain the meeting between her and the Avatar; it would seem that there's more to be done yet. Kuvira doesn't know what it is there's left to do, but she'll definitely figure it out; she and Baatar are practically linked at the brain.

"Guan is a cunning strategist with a keen mind," she continues, causing Korra's gaze to sharpen with attention, "I put him in charge of my southern forces because I knew he could keep them in line," Kuvira surrenders the information with a huff, her legs unfolding in front of her stiffly as she leans against the stone wall. Shs eyes the Avatar with vague curiosity, head tipped to the other side now. "So what's he up to now?" she inquires.

Korra crosses her arms over her chest while looking above Kuvira's head. "Nothing yet besides refusing to surrender, but I'm worried he's going to try to derail the upcoming elections," she debriefs. Her eyes search around, mayhaps still wondering what Kuvira had been looking at earlier, then looks back down at Kuvira. "How big of a threat do you think he is?"

"If Guan hasn't surrendered by now, then you're right to assume he's planning something," Kuvira crossed her legs, "As far as threats go, if I were you, I'd treat him like a barrel of blasting jelly with a very short fuse. Chances are he'll succeed if uncontested."

"How would you deal with him if you were in my positon?"

"Guan is a bit unpredictable, but he respects any superior worthy of his trust. I'd bring along someone he might actually listen to-- someone he respects and would fall into line for-- and have them reason with him."

Korra raises an unconvinced eyebrow. "You mean all I have to do is talk him down?"

This time, Kuvira does snort. "I said someone he respects; Guan's not going to roll over just because the Avatar asks him to."

Korra crosses her arms over her chest. "Who do you have in mind, then?" she contests.

Kuvira raises an eyebrow suggestively, the beginnings of a smile playing on the corner of her lips as she stared intently back at the Avatar. It only takes the Avatar a few seconds to get where she's going with this.

"You want me to bring you?" she asks incredulously.

Kuvira comes slowly to her feet, motivated by the sudden prospect of a potential break from the darkness and isolation. The motive turns her into a semblance of her former self, a weaker form of the Great Uniter, as she once again makes her case in chains.

"If I speak with him personally, face-to-face, I will make him concede defeat," Kuvira guarantees, her voice firm. She can't resist condescendingly adding on, "Then you and Wu can carry on with your little election."

Avatar Korra gives her a sideways look for the last comment. Her brows angle downward slightly at the bitter jest, a frown marring her face. "Thanks for the info," she tells Kuvira as she turns away with finality, "but I can handle Guan without you."

So she says. But Kuvira is good at knowing liars and even better at knowing the truth; Avatar Korra is worried. She has no idea how to approach Guan, and no idea how to make someone concede without physical force. Words are not her swords, her fists are, and she knows this. She's worried that there's no other choice but to rely on her enemy for resolving this problem.

(it certainly doesn't help that Kuvira's done Korra's job for her once before already, uniting and healing the Earth nation while the Avatar was broken and useless; she'd be saving the day again)

Kuvira thinks of this as she watches the Avatar walk away with her chin held high in defiance. Korra is halfway to the emerald doors when Kuvira spots Baatar out of the corner of her eye again. He's sobered up and also stood up from his place by the far right wall, a shoulder against the stone and his arms crossed over his chest. He glares at Korra as she walks past and Kuvira wonders if that's actually her hate pointed at the Avatar or his own, possibly here to antagonize those responsible for his death.

The thought unsettles Kuvira. And then, as her gaze follows the Avatar out of her prison, she realizes that she'll be alone in the dark again, left to write her book in peace but with his voice whispering memories and words and revisions into her ear, helping her along but fostering the madness creeping up on her, and she may never get another chance to put and end to the plague.

She has to know.

"Wait," she blurts, rattling her chains with a jerk of her wrist. The Avatar stops.

Korra looks back with concern disguised as confusion, though Kuvira can see that the Avatar is starting to see how weak her former adversary has gotten in the past five months. The knowledge, combined with the look of near pity on the Avatar's face, causes Kuvira to falter. The words get stuck in her throat for a completely different reason, though.

What happened to Baatar?

It's too hard for her to say.

Kuvira diverts her eyes from Korra's questioning stare when the pressure built up in her throat doesn't recede. Her body shudders as she forces her breath in, then forces her voice out.

". . . Nevermind."

There's a moment of thick quiet before footsteps sound in the direction of the prison doors again as the Avatar takes her leave. The doors creak while they open, sunlight flooding in right behind them and blinding Kuvira, who shields her eyes as best she can with chains on, and words are exchanged between the Avatar and the White Lotus in brief relay before Kuvira is alone again.

With the Avatar gone, Kuvira feels safe to curl into herself. She sits back down, rests her forehead on her knees.

Minutes pass in silence, and then, "Do you really think there's a chance I survived?"

Kuvira winces at the inquiry. "Don't talk about that." she says.

"I might not be dead, Kuvira," Baatar insists in a knowing way that makes Kuvira's heart ache, "and I might not hate you."

Kuvira grips her forearms tight, her voice quieting. "I said don't talk."

"Oh. I see," Footsteps sound eventhough there's no one else here, and Kuvira can hear the shrewdness enter his voice. It strips her bare in an odd way; he only talks like that when he's observing and analyzing a machine or critiquing a modem. "You're trying not to care about me anymore. You think it'll make the loss in either respect much less severe."

"You're still talking to me." Kuvira moans.

"You're still talking to me." he corrects.

Kuvira whips her head up to find Baatar only a couple feet from her side. She glares miserably up at the image of him gazing down at her with disappointment. "I'm trying to stop," she retaliates, her voice raised, "but you're not helping." and you're just me aren't you? why can't I stop talking to myself!?

Baatar brushes her argument aside with cold, objective words, not offensive in nature but severe just the same. "You're trying to run away from me, but you haven't been able to force yourself to let me go."

"Of course not!" Kuvira yells to the air, at the breaking point, her hands clawing at the sky in frustration, "I love you. But I'll probably never see you again, and I don't need to be constantly reminded."

Baatar comes closer to her, an inch away from her shoulder. When he speaks again, his tone is softer. "Then why didn't you ask the Avatar about what happened to me?"

Kuvira's eyebrows cinch together. Her voice shakes as she responds, though her tone of voice is clipped and just as angry. "Because, Baatar. What if. . ."

"What if I'm dead?"

Kuvira had thought it safe to assume, when she was thrown in here, that Baatar had perished when she'd fired on the warehouse. No one had bothered to tell her what became of him-- not even Su, who was adamant about making Kuvira feel like shit her every waking moment-- so she's been left to wonder and surmise. She decided to spare herself the devastation of having her hope defeated by just assuming he's dead and trying to accept it.

It hasn't done very much thus far except possibly reduce her anxiety, but it's come at the price of her sanity, so Kuvira's still on the fence about whether or not its worth it.

As if he's in her head (which, he is, he definitely is), Baatar says, "Kuvira, the uncertainty is haunting you."

"I know that,"

"Then stop pointlessly worrying about me. You have better things you could be doing."

"I don't, actually," Kuvira sighs heavily as she uncurls, glaring up at the empty space around her. She can't feel any other presence anywhere around her, like usual; in her mind's eye, she forms the image of Baatar watching her with a stoic impartiality she'd come to learn was his default expression when left to be himself. "I'm in prison with my bending taken away and no one else around," she continues, leaning on her side with her head in her hand, "what could I possibly be doing instead of slowly descending into madness?"

Baatar crosses his arms over his chest, tips his head towards her side in a vague gesture, but Kuvira knows what he's referring to; there's only so much it can be. She turns towards the pile of papers on the cold floor just beside her chains, the ink pen poised perfectly on top, and feels an odd feeling. She can't say what it is exactly, but it's better than the misery she feels when she thinks about Baatar. It's better than the failure she feels when she thinks about the Avatar. And it's better than the anger she feels when she thinks about Suyin and the other Beifongs.

It's nameless, but it lifts some of the weight.

(because now there's more than just the darkness and Baatar's haunting memory staring her down)

Kuvira picks up the papers and pen with deft fingers, and she makes the decision not to sleep. Idly, while she flips to her current page with Baatar just over her shoulder now, she wonders if the Avatar will visit again.