#ga:accepted

what was it like to have a father that took his own sons claws? leaving his offspring defenseless? the title crown prince was a lie, a paper crown, a figurehead. and yet sozin still felt the weight of it on his shoulders, weighing him down. being the first born in the royal family he had an image to uphold, a role to fill, a life to live. and like most crown princes and princess’, his life had already been thoroughly planned and decided by those that came before him. he was given the best of the best, swaddled in perfect luxury to cushion the blaring fact that he would never know freedom, and never taste peace. his private tutors harassed and berated him constantly, other royal relatives, noblemans, politicians and his own father, constantly scrutinized him. 

asana’s birth had created the first crack in the royal family, when the king made the promise that anyone with the kasai name could rule. the firelord had cruelly put a large target on his eldest son’s back, giving him enemies and allies in copious amounts by the secret decree. and all sozin wanted was to be a child. but his status and title demanded perfection, and soon an uncontrollable anger festered inside the young prince, and he became a cruel and unruly child with a hot temper and sharp tongue. as a young child he began to bully his peers often, even up until his teenage years. 

around sixteen sozin finally was allowed to leave the palace and start experiencing life beyond royal tutors and palace rules, taking with him a group of his closest friends. he quickly became an embarrassment to the royal family, further acting out and getting into multiple scandals, the gossip mills aflame constantly with his name. enraged, his father ordered him home when he was about nineteen, sentencing him to six years in the military, essentially exiling him.

filial piety is one of the first words she learns, shortly after loyalty. it’s not blind devotion by any means and sure, respect is earned. yet it feels like an obligation, one she raises no complaints against.

besides, she’s seen the other families and is grateful for her’s. their vision for governing the country is something she stands by. then again, how much of her opinions are actually her own?

when time comes for that phase every young teen goes through, she sneaks out of the city through the sewers for no reason other than to do something out of her own volition. she makes it out for ten minutes before turning back the way she came, shame and guilt pulling her back in like a dog on a leash.

the older she gets, the better she is at building an image of the classic responsible firstborn, ready to take on whatever the family is involved in. she attends some meetings, sees what she’ll have to do in a few years time, and can’t help but feel incredibly out of place. those meetings are often accompanied by an all-nighter where her thoughts, loud and doubtful, keep her up throughout the night.

her little adventurous streak is never nipped at the bud, but stifled instead. the united nations academy is an opportunity that removes its muzzle, so she seizes it and plans just what she wants to do now that she’s out of her parents’ sight. still, she finds herself hesitant, as if she’ll be pulled back before she can even cross the line.

he’s spared (mostly) from the burdens of a legacy. he isn’t spared from his family, his duties, his nation. as soon as he’s old enough to learn he’s made acutely aware of the things that are expected of him - of his older brother. he watches the world shift around him, pieces that come together but never quite fit.

here’s the thing though - he doesn’t quite like being told what to do. he garners a reputation for being hard-headed and stubborn, always arguing even when he has no need to. he learns to bite his tongue, keep his head down, do as he’s told. but it’s only because he’s young. he doesn’t know yet how to say what he thinks. how to let them know how he feels.

refined. determined. he stands with his back straight, carries out his duties, stays by his family’s side, and wonders only in his sleep what exists beyond the realm of what he’s told.

time does wonders - he’s calmed since his youth, and to all but his family, it seems like the anger has subsided.

instead, he holds his resentment inside himself, and what else can it do but fester?

the world is wide and vast and the more of it that he sees the more he dreads coming home. his family know not to bother him too much, to respect that he’s always going to be just out of their reach, even if he does what he must, for himself, for them, for the nation.

egocentric. volatile. he’s out for himself only, in the end. but he’s never been forward-thinking, and so he remains where he is, stuck in the present, trapped in his cycle of pessimism. stuck in the push-pull of his family’s love.

uo houses the best. longstanding prestige. warriors of the southern tribe. that much has always been known to be true through many different chiefs. and stands to remain true for centuries to come.

so far.

rouyi is born on the darkest of nights, 23rd of december, a babe so chillingly silent that her mother feared a passing spirit had stolen her soul.

(unlikely so, but with each passing second a mother’s sanity wanes.)

she takes her first breath two minutes after birth.

rouyi uo, slower than average, a reoccurring theme throughout life.

this is proven true when age seven hits and she could bend as little as a drop of sweat off her private teacher’s forehead.

same again and again.

ten and twelve.

a crushing feeling (a nonbender?) that taints the legacy. demotes her to decoupage to the name; flower without a scent. a descendant of warriors that cannot bend. humiliating.

in all honesty, it leaves her nothing short of broken.

mother prays for reprieve. late in the night, with a red hot sting on her cheek, she leaves with rouyi in hand. traveling up north to their sister tribe in vain attempts to seek help. penance for unknown sins.

she takes her to the moon and ocean spirits and pleads her case for days.

(rouyi watches from behind, mother’s hands raw and forehead red, and spits on the spirits for the neglect. father for the nerve.)

thirteen.

it’s ironic. the year she’s given up on the notion is the year her body blossoms, the year water in mother’s favorite vase freezes around her. the year they finally return to the southern tribe.

(don’t be mistaken. pardon is only granted because of her newfound ability to bend.)

the southern tribes hasn’t catastrophically changed in the year she’s been gone. only that her siblings are different. her friends are different. none of which rouyi has the time or mental capacity to worry about before being thrown into training.

(ten years isn’t a small amount to make up for.)

twenty and so on.

there is a significant difference she’ll never get used to. a laughable gap even all these years, that’ll continue to baffle her so, the difference between a bender and a nonbender. to be useful in the eyes of father than naught.

it didn’t matter that rouyi’s mastered the art, that she’s caught up to her siblings, that she’s garnered praise from her father and other warriors in the tribe. recognition that she deserves. nothing matters past year twelve.

anything she does now is for the sake of her mother.

to be born in a set of three is awfully lucky. to be born first is equal part blessing and equal part ordeal in and of itself. anqi beifong is both; welcomed hurriedly into the world as two others shortly follow suit, creating a chorus of cries and wailing.

she grows up lively with her siblings in tow, feeding off each other’s energies as they roam about freely. with three, there was never the worry of one being left alone.

as if she instinctively understood what was expected of her, young anqi had quickly assumed the leadership role within the triplets. but three soon became four and in a blink, there was five.

how the brunt of responsibility fell onto their eldest’s shoulders is obvious, but it was quite the surprise when she naturally embraced it without so much as a grumble.

like it’s a matter of course, the triplets go through everything together. school, training, achievements, and so on; taking advantage of their strength in numbers.

they may be different but are similar in ways people could easily grasp; the beifong triplets are as inseparable as they come. there’s some wonder if it’s part and parcel of being born as a collective, an inherent codependency strengthened through shared experiences.

the truth of the matter is that there’s no better comfort than knowing that there’s someone to fall back on and it rings true especially for her. if she’s a pillar of strength for her family, then similarly they are hers.

there is a single truth seon knows, so she clings to it well.

she (they) is born with a purpose (is it god-given or divine? maybe it’s the result of centuries of tradition?) but reasons for that purpose do not matter so long as she serves it well. her purpose is the hand branded onto her back, the hand that forced her to take a knee, bow her head and dispel any and all possible thoughts that she could grow to be much else. (she is a military dog, they say. watch what you say around that one, they trained her to be violent.)

life is easy when you do not resist, when you allow yourself to be guided through a life already planned out for you (all that’s left is for you to set things in motion, that’s it.) it’s easy to fall in line when life has nothing else in store for you. she forgets the urge to resist, forgets about the possibility of a life outside the oppressive heat of purpose.

seon plays her part well, well enough that things begin to blur around the edges. (where does seon begin, and the teachings of her father end?) these are murky depths she has no business sticking her hands in. (let lying dogs lie, seon. let who you could have been go, who you currently are stands right before you.)

so, it goes like this.

she’s another one of daddy’s toys, another one of his dirty little tricks hiding in plain sight. there is no anger, no shame, and sadness has long since abandoned her. ( what is it now? a fight to the death, the murder of a nobody in a faraway land? wind this little toy up, she’ll get right to it. no questions asked, too, that’s the best part ).

The first time your feet touch the ground—the real one, baking above the molten core of the earth—your nose bleeds.

Letting it trickle down your face and darting out your tongue to taste, you ask as any curious ten-year-old would if it’s got something to do with the heat, or the heaviness. Your body movements have slowed (more than usual), and you’re breaking out into a sweat despite walking at a snail’s pace.

It’s normal, you’re told. In fact, for most folks it goes the other way around. They go up and they’ll run out of air, feel lightheaded. Can’t handle the sudden change and so instead of being flown up by bison many opt to journey by foot, adjusting themselves bit by bit.

“Bleed like a bunch of fat leeches.” Your father says this with a wry smile before he unceremoniously plugs your nostrils with two fingers and laughs. “Kind of like you!”

/\/\/\

You’ve shed off your excess weight by your second descent. Your nose doesn’t bleed this time but these days you’re more prone to tears. When your feet touch the ground you’re inevitably reminded of that day and the days since and you swell with feeling. You take care of business before your function tonight. Exiting the washroom with a half-wet sniffle and your usual foolhardy smile, you sit down for dinner with the Beifongs.

Your chopsticks rattle against the artfully glazed plate before you. What you’ve acquired in outward presentation you still lack in etiquette, and the head of the table, a mustachioed patriarch who to your dismay looks the very spitting image of your father, casts upon you a look more condemning than any temple monk has extended in the sixteen years you’ve been (reciprocally) doling out mischief. So you’re a leech wherever you go.

The last sliver of lamb glints in jeweled pink luster. The triplet sitting directly across from you eyes it too, but you’re still hungry and you’re also somehow at home with the prospect of making life harder for yourself. You’ve grown accustomed to being belittled that you’ve developed some foolproof coping tactics to deal with the precipitant insecurities. So what if your family is dependent, or that you’re moving in next month, and to the Republic City next year.

You’ll make nice eventually. Today it’s important that you assert yourself.

There’s an opening and you take it, loosening your grip on the upper chopstick so that the triplet on the offensive’s slides through. You angle your chopstick downward and snatch the lamb, inserting it into your mouth without so much as a swish in the hotpot.

Your tongue wraps around the slimy morsel and you savor every last bit of blood and fat that seeps between your teeth. The triplet’s chopsticks clatter in defeat.

/\/\/\

Yesterday you woke up in a shack with your hair knotted in hay and neck pressed painfully against the shack’s damp wood panelling. Today you wake up in a cell with your hands wrapped in bandages and you still ache just as terribly.

You’re surprised you’re unbound—chains or cuffs would be fitting for a cage like this—but the guard that jiggles the cell door open and jolts you awake instructs you to get out, there’s someone here for you. Of course. You’d been running but with a giant mammal at your side and your gusty escapes you weren’t exactly the most slippery dignitary around. They found you easily and you were still bound to them after all.

Your friends stir at your side. This is when the realization dawns on you that a different sort of fate awaits them. That because they lacked a name they were likely to remain in indefinite, perfunctory purgatory while you attended to your duties under the sun, maybe for a steaming afternoon or two before you up and evaporated again into thin air, free to roam whatever bubble has been set up for you, to feel the skin of your feet tearing against hot pavement while you imagine instead that it is coarse desert sand or jagged river rocks. And then to be found again and be dragged back by the leash.

to carry the world’s burden on his back, the weight of a kingdom torn and split by blood. first: he detaches himself from his youth. he cannot cling to an existence committed by theft, a reverie left suspended. unmoving. to stand with beliefs of nothing renders a man without purpose. he complies to the fire nation’s whim, provided by relief of his father in the best interests of a fruitful tomorrow. maybe in death, will his efforts for containing a civilization be tucked into a thousand scrolls. a foot soldier of none, he is a boy forced to mature into a hard-bitten brotherhood.

his health has become compromised in the matter of sacrifices. he yearns to feel beneath the sway of a tree, home to banana leaves. the everlasting tingle of yesterday’s sun, scorching in the long days of august. the simple things, really, the inevitable scrapped knees of it all, a boyhood left to one’s imagination as eleven becomes twelve and twelve transitions to thirteen. with memories of being confined all at home is all he’ll ever know. by his mother’s lap, he rests his head under pneumonia’s haze as the clouds begin to gather by the horizon.