Beneath Crimson Banners
By The Father of War
Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender
Ming-Hua traced her finger along the marble windowsill, collecting dust that would have been unthinkable three years ago. The estate's windows, once crystal clear and gleaming, now bore a permanent haze of grime and neglect. Outside, Fire Nation banners snapped in the wind like angry wyrms, their crimson fabric a garish intrusion against the muted greens and browns of her homeland.
She remembered how the courtyard used to look during the autumn harvest festival. Lanterns had swayed between the cherry trees, their light dancing across the faces of villagers who brought offerings of their finest crops to her family. Her father would stand tall and proud on the steps, accepting each gift with gracious nods and genuine warmth in his eyes. Her mother would float among the guests in her finest silk robes, every inch the noble lady, yet knowing each farmer's name and asking after their children.
Now, those same cherry trees bore deep scars where Fire Nation soldiers had carved their names, claiming even the bark as their conquest. The weathered steps where her father once stood were stained black from soldiers' boots, and the constant traffic of metal-clad feet had worn smooth patches in the ancient stone.
A loud laugh pierced the evening air – harsh and foreign – and Ming-Hua instinctively shrank back from the window. She watched as a group of soldiers tramped across her mother's prized flower gardens, their heavy boots crushing the few remaining blooms that had survived the occupation. Their faceplates caught the setting sun, reflecting it in awful red gleams that reminded her of demon masks from festival tales.
Three years, she thought. Three years since they came with their promises of protection and prosperity.
The memory rose unbidden: that first day, when the Fire Nation delegation had arrived in their polished armor and crisp uniforms. They had seemed almost magnificent then, their ceremony and precision a far cry from the brutish occupiers they would become. Their commander had smiled – actually smiled – as he presented her father with the terms of their "mutually beneficial arrangement."
"The Fire Nation seeks only to share its greatness with the Earth Kingdom," he had said, voice smooth as honey over steel. "We ask only for reasonable tribute in exchange for our protection."
Her father had signed the documents with a steady hand. What choice did he have? The rumors of what happened to estates that refused had already reached them – whispered tales of entire noble families disappearing in the night, their lands seized and their names erased.
The first months hadn't seemed so terrible. Yes, they had to provide food and supplies to the garrison, but they still maintained their dignity. They still lived in most of their rooms, still wore their fine clothes, still presided over a diminished but intact household.
Then came the "additional requests."
First, it was the western wing – commandeered for officer quarters. Then their finest furniture was "requisitioned" for the comfort of visiting officials. Their art began to disappear piece by piece, each theft accompanied by elaborately polite explanations about "preserving Earth Kingdom cultural artifacts."
Ming-Hua's hands clenched at the memory of the day they took her mother's jewelry. Not the ordinary pieces – they had already "contributed" those to the war effort – but the ancestral pieces, handed down through generations. The pearl-drop earrings her grandmother had worn at her wedding. The jade pendant that marked her mother's coming of age.
"Such exquisite craftsmanship," the officer had said, holding her mother's favorite hairpin up to the light. "The Fire Lord's museums will ensure these pieces are properly... appreciated."
Her mother had maintained perfect composure as they stripped her of her heritage. Only Ming-Hua, watching from behind a screen, had seen how her hands trembled afterward as she arranged her now-bare hair.
A clatter of plates from below drew Ming-Hua's attention to the present. Dinner would be served soon – what passed for dinner these days. She made her way down the servant's stairs (the grand staircase was reserved for their "guests" now) and into what remained of their family quarters.
The room that had once been their informal dining room was now their everything room. Their last remaining furniture had been crowded into this space: a few chairs with worn upholstery, a table that bore deep scorch marks from a soldier's drunken game, and the cabinet that had been too heavy for even the Fire Nation troops to be bothered moving.
Her mother was laying out bowls of thin soup, stretching their meager rations as she had learned to do. The servants were long gone – some fled, others taken for "voluntary service" in Fire Nation households. Only Old Wei remained, more family now than servant, too elderly to be of use to the occupiers.
"Ming-Hua," her mother said softly, "please fetch your father."
She found him in what had once been his study. The room was nearly empty now, the shelves stripped of books that had been deemed "seditious" or simply valuable. He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at nothing.
"Father? Dinner is ready."
He didn't respond immediately. He rarely did anymore. The proud man who had once administered justice for three counties, whose word had been law and whose integrity had been legendary, now seemed to fade more each day, becoming as insubstantial as morning mist.
"Father?"
He turned, and Ming-Hua's heart ached at the vacancy in his eyes. "Yes, of course. Dinner."
They ate in silence, broken only by the distant sounds of soldiers' revelry. Ming-Hua watched her parents through lowered lashes. Her mother's spine was still straight, her movements still graceful, but her robes – once the finest silk – were patched and faded. Her father's hands shook slightly as he lifted his spoon, and his collar hung loose around his neck, his once-robust frame withered by worry and deprivation.
This is what they do, Ming-Hua thought, not for the first time. They don't just take things. They take who you are. Who you were.
She remembered the last time she had ventured into the village, two weeks ago. The whispers had followed her through the market – no longer whispers of respect or envy, but of resentment.
"Look at the little princess," she had heard one woman say. "Not so high and mighty now, is she?"
"Her father sold us out," another had replied. "Gave them everything without a fight."
Ming-Hua had wanted to scream at them, to explain that her father had tried to protect everyone, that submission had been better than annihilation. But she had kept walking, head high, as her mother had taught her. A lady never shows when barbs strike home.
A commotion outside drew their attention. Boots on the steps, voices raised in command. Ming-Hua's soup turned to acid in her stomach as heavy knocks rattled their door.
Old Wei shuffled to answer it, but before he could reach the handle, the door burst open. Three soldiers entered, their faceplates reflecting the lamplight in grotesque patterns.
"New orders," the lead soldier announced, his voice muffled and inhuman behind his mask. "This space is needed for storage. You have one hour to clear out."
Ming-Hua's mother set down her spoon with deliberate care. "Surely there must be some mistake. We were assured—"
"One hour," the soldier repeated. "Take what you can carry. The rest becomes property of the Fire Nation."
Her father hadn't moved, hadn't looked up from his bowl. Ming-Hua watched in horror as a single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped into his soup.
The next hour passed in a blur of activity. Her mother, somehow maintaining her composure, directed them in gathering what little remained of value – a few clothes, a hidden cache of coins, the small portrait of Ming-Hua's grandmother that had been overlooked in previous raids.
They were herded like cattle to their new quarters – a dank corner of the servant's wing, two small rooms that smelled of mold and despair. As Ming-Hua helped Old Wei arrange their meager belongings, she heard sounds from above: laughter, the crash of furniture being moved, the thud of boots on floors that her ancestors had walked.
That night, unable to sleep on her thin pallet, Ming-Hua crept to the window. Through a crack in the glass, she watched Fire Nation soldiers lounging in what had been her family's quarters. They had built a fire in the courtyard – using pieces of her father's prized writing desk as fuel – and were passing around bottles of rice wine.
Their faceplates were off now, revealing ordinary human features in the firelight. Somehow, that was worse than the masks. How could they look so normal, so much like anyone else, while destroying everything she had ever known?
A tear rolled down her cheek, but she made no sound. She had learned early in the occupation that tears were dangerous – they showed weakness, and weakness was blood in the water to these predators.
Someone will come, she thought, not for the first time. The Earth King's armies, the legendary Avatar, someone must stop them eventually.
But even as she thought it, she knew it was a child's fantasy. The Fire Nation's grip only grew stronger with each passing day. Their industry spread like a cancer across the land, belching smoke into once-clear skies. Their soldiers bred new soldiers, their victories bred new victories, and the world she had known slipped further away with each sunrise.
In the courtyard below, a soldier tossed another piece of furniture onto the fire. Sparks rose into the night sky, brief points of light that died even as they reached for freedom.
Ming-Hua pressed her forehead against the cold glass. She was thirteen now – old enough to understand that some things, once broken, could never be fixed. Old enough to know that the world she remembered – of festivals and silk robes and cherry blossoms – was gone forever.
She watched until the fire burned low and the soldiers stumbled away to their beds. In the pre-dawn quiet, she whispered a prayer to spirits she no longer believed in, asking not for restoration – she knew better now – but for the strength to endure whatever was yet to come.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of fire and faceless men, of cherry trees bleeding sap like tears, of a little girl in silk robes who turned to smoke when she tried to embrace her.
The next morning, she rose before dawn and helped her mother prepare breakfast from their dwindling supplies. They ate in silence, not meeting each other's eyes, each lost in private thoughts of what they had lost and what might yet be taken from them.
Outside, the Fire Nation flags continued their endless dance in the wind, and Ming-Hua understood at last that this was not an occupation to be endured until rescue came. This was their life now – this grinding down of spirit, this slow erosion, this quiet death of everything they had been.
She straightened her patched robes and began her daily tasks, moving like a ghost through the halls of what had once been her home. In her mind, she held tight to memories of better days, not as hope for the future, but as proof that she had once been more than this shadow of herself.
The sun rose over the Earth Kingdom, painting the world in shades of gold and promise, but Ming-Hua didn't look up to see it. She had learned that beauty, like everything else under Fire Nation rule, was just another cruel joke – a reminder of all that had been lost, and all that would never be again.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed my last story! Like I said before, if you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a review for it. It takes a while to write these stories, and your feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for reading, and have a nice day!