One day, a child was born, so said the tale. A child was born that looked like no other.
The whispers followed him everywhere. No matter where he would go, they followed him with no mercy. His very face brought them on, the very look at his twisted face and the whispers started once more. People spoke as if their harsh jarring word would fill in the gap brought on by his missing features.
When he was born, so they said, his mother had taken one look at his twisted face and screamed.
It had only been the intervention of the attending midwife that had saved him, an air bender, bound by her own code of non-violence that had stopped his father from using his bending to burn his disfigured offspring beyond a point of recognition. To hide the shame of such a disgusting and horrific being that looked like no human.
When he was born, so they said, his father turned his lip up in disgust and turned away in shame.
Sometimes, the stares and laughs would follow him into his very mind, taunting him and goading him. They never stopped, never stopped pointing out how selfish he was to live, in such a twisted form, when another could have a chance at life.
The Avatar was supposed to be a great leader, a bringer of peace, a keeper of the balance. Not to be pitied and jeered at, never to be nothing more than a captive unable clown.
Did they never see his piercing brown eyes, or his strong shoulders, or the way mathematics and words came so easily to him? Did they never see the scrolls upon scrolls that he devoured each day, or the way he never turned away anyone willing to learn?
What a waste, the people would only sigh, to have an avatar with no hands to bend.
Fire danced from the stumps of his arms, though not like the art that other benders produced. Air only moved when his lungs did, and water moved only when he desired water so much. Earth bending never came to him- he lacked the ability to connect with the earth.
But a hole from his lip to his nose kept the children entertained, as he struggled to drink the water that sustained him. Their laughs reminding him that the struggle to stay alive was such a performance and source of such pleasure from them.
What a waste, the children would laugh, what a waste of space that Kizu the broken was.
Even their words, as young and foolish as they were, stung at the heart that thumped in his chest. You couldn't ignore the words of all forever, though his hidden house by the sea tried to hide him away.
What a waste, he found himself admitting over time as their whispers poisoned his mind, that the Fire Avatar Kizu, had only stumps to hobble on.
What a waste, Kizu imagined the avatars before him sorrowfully say, as he stood on the cliffs near his house, watching the horizon for the lands that birthed better avatars than he, what a waste that Kizu did exist, what a waste.
It had only been because of a kind hearted air bender than he had been allowed to live at all; perhaps her kindness had been a curse. Maybe the next Avatar of Air would fix this wrong, and restore the balance his birth had destroyed.
And as he threw himself off those cliffs, as the whispers grew too loud and choked his own voice, he did agree with the voices that had plagued him his entire life.
What a waste.
Note: The idea of a disabled Avatar is interesting; it's quite clear that an Avatar is held to an even higher standard of physicality and perfection than benders, or non-benders. Can you imagine the hell an "imperfect" Avatar would go through, because of this?
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