Chapter 3: Perception

"I was not wholly convinced that I would be able to go on with an eating disorder, so I didn't throw myself headlong into recovery. I think I had the idea that if I could just get a little happier, my eating disorder simply wouldn't matter anymore. Maybe I could just have a moderate eating disorder when I got out, but not be so miserable. Just "diet normally" like "everyone else".

Asami is good at baking because she's good at chemistry. It makes sense when you think about it: baking, in its most basic form, is chemical calculation. How long for the bread to rise, you ask? Well, that depends on how much baking soda you add, doesn't it now? In this way Asami knows both exactly how long to bake a cake, and exactly what gas combination will give your Satomobile the best mileage.

People have asked her how she does it, commented that her work is so-impressive. This doesn't mean anything to her; it's something that has always come naturally, easy as slicing through softened butter. Impressive? Difficult? Well, if you say so, she supposes. But it hardly seems fair when she won her first baking contest at the age of twelve (mango-coconut cake with a lychee glaze) and her first car race at the age of thirteen (if you use Earth Kingdom oil instead of Fire Nation your car goes much faster because Earth Kingdom oil is more refined).

Asami knows from hazy, half-formed memories that she gets these things from her mother. Her mother, not her father, came up with Future Industries' signature gas. And her mother, not the caterers, who cooked and served every dinner and every party they hosted. The nice thing about food is that it's indefinite. Asami can make the say dish over and over again, and each time she renews her mother's love.

Sometimes she can still feel her there, helping her like she always did. Asami imagines her mother is standing behind her, watching her work and smiling with quiet pride. Her mother did have standards for her, but she was also always proud of her daughter. Asami remembers her mother's hair tickling her neck as strands fell from her bun. She evokes the ghost of her mother's hands, rough and chapped over hers as she taught her how to use a rolling pin. Asami misses her mother, but at the same time she feels like she has no right to do so; she can't really remember that much. She didn't know the woman.

The day before Winter Solstice, Asami tepidly makes her way down to the White Lotus' kitchen. She is angry with her father and part of her wants to say no cookies this year to spite him, but she can't bring herself to do it. It's hard to explain, but she feels like if she doesn't make the cookies, she'll lose her mother for good. At midday the kitchen is surprisingly empty and quiet, and she's grateful; she needs some time alone.

The radio is playing and she's mixing the batter for molasses cookies, with plans to make brown sugar frosting while they bake. She likes the crunchy texture the brown sugar provides. She wasn't allowed to serve it at her father's parties because the sophisticated thing to do was to use powered sugar, make a smooth frosting. Better yet, get it catered, only peasants made their own. Too bad. This year she's on her own. If she's feeling really ambitious, she'll put the brown sugar in a pan with butter so it turns into a sweet, sticky glaze. She likes the extra kick of flavor it provides.

She'll make all her favorites, but there will be no orange cookies this year. For one thing, there are no oranges in the South Pole. Even if the White Lotus can afford to import them from the Fire Nation, she can't imagine they would do so. It would be too frivolous; Spirits forbid Korra have anything nice.

She shudders, remembering again that Korra grew up in this awful place. No wonder she's . . . well, the way she is. She'll make sure Korra gets oranges when they go back to Republic City. Real ones, not cookies. Orange cookies are her father's favorite; she doesn't think she's ever going to make those again.

"Hey, `Sami," Bolin says as he joins her in the kitchen. She wonders when he started using a nickname for her. It's not a bad thing – she actually really likes it. It makes her feel special.

"Bolin," she replies. "What's up?"
He answers her question by dipping a finger in her precious cookie batter, smirking when he sees her shocked expression. He licks his finger with taunting slowness, and while she's certain he doesn't mean it to be so sexual her cheeks flush anyway. A bolt of heat blazes over the junction of her legs. She's mortified even though she knows that no one can tell.

"This is really good," Bolin says approvingly, oblivious to her distress. Asami rolls her eyes.

"You're supposed to wait until after I've baked them," she chides. He lunges for the bowl, snaking his arms around her waist when she turns her back to him. "Keep dreaming, bender-boy."
"Come on," he pleads. "I'm a hungry orphan. Are you really going to refuse an orphan?" he whines, arms squeezing her sides more tightly in his ongoing bowl-acquisition efforts.

"There are plenty of sea prunes in the ice-box," Asami reminds him, looking over her shoulder. She laughs at his horrified and betrayed expression.

"The cruelty of women!" he says with melodramatic woe. "You slay me, Asami Sato."

"You'll live."

"Alas, but I will not! Oh, a heart twice broken! Not since Kor – " He stops short, realizing what he's about to say and who he's about to say it too. "Sorry. Seriously, my feet don't taste very good, so I'm not exactly why I keeping putting them in my mouth," he mumbles, looking at the ground. Asami replaces the bowl on the counter and begins greasing a cookie sheet so she won't have to look at him.

"I didn't realize you felt that way about Korra," she says softly. He shrugs.

"Nah, it's nothing. I had a little crush on her in the beginning, but – Mako is the one she wants, and I'm honestly happy for them. Seeing them kiss was just not my preferred method of attaining that knowledge," he chuckles weakly. "And, um, not to be nosy, but – how are you doing with everything?" He puts a protective hand on her shoulder.

"I'm okay, I just sometimes wonder if it was all a lie. Like with my father. He was going to kill me, Bolin. I just – I don't know. Did he ever really love me? We used to be so close. And now that's gone." Her hands still on the cookie sheet and she feels humiliating tears threatening behind her eyes. "I feel so alone."

He tugs on her shoulder until she turns around, and then he pulls her into a crushing, encompassing hug that makes it hard to breathe (in a good way). She find she likes his bulkiness next to Mako's wiry frame; he feels very solid, very stable, very there. He is immovable, he is the stone that holds through the weather while fire burns itself out.

"Well, I'm here, so you have me. And you know Mako does care about you. It's been hard to show, with everything going on with Korra," Bolin sighs. They pull apart but remain close as he starts to help her spoon balls of dough onto the cookie sheet. "Does it make me a terrible person that seeing all that's happened in the last however-long-it's-been, I'm kind of glad Korra didn't want me? Because I have no idea how to deal with this," he confesses. Asami shakes her head.

"It doesn't make you a bad person at all. I don't think any of us know how to deal with it." She puts the first sheet into the oven while Bolin greases a second one. "It's weird. I don't understand why she's doing this and why she doesn't stop. She has to know you can't live and not eat." Asami furrows her brow, frowning. What she doesn't say is: sometimes I think Korra doesn't want to live, and this is her way of making that happen.

"Mako deserves a medal," Bolin says.

"Perhaps the Not-as-Big-of-a-Jerk-as-You-Could-Have-Been Award?"

They look up at the sound of Katara's voice to see her laughing while Firelord Zuko scowls. He mumbles something about you would even after sixty years, and this only makes Katara laugh harder.

"Something we can help you with?" Asami asks politely. Katara waves her off.

"Not you. I came to find Bolin. Someone in the village lost a wall to an angry polar bear-dog. It will take far less time and effort to have an earthbender repair it," she says. Bolin straightens up and slaps a hand to his forehead in a salute.

"Yes ma'am Sifu Katara ma'am!" he shouts. "I'll see you later, Asami!" He calls more gently following Katara out. Asami forces a smile and returns to her cookies. After a few minutes she notices that Firelord Zuko hasn't left yet.

"Is there something you need?" she asks, forcing herself to look him in the eye. He fidgets uncomfortably.

"So I heard your father tried to kill you too," he blurts out. He immediately slaps his hand against his face. "Sorry. That didn't come out right. If Katara was still here, she would be scolding me for my "completely and utter lack of tact" right about now," he apologizes. Asami blinks.

"Yeah, well. So my father did try to kill me." She begins plating with renewed vigor. "I think it's a little different from what happened between you and Firelord Ozai. You never liked your father," she snaps, anger making her bold.

"That's not true," he growls, famous temper flaring. "Every child worships his parents. I tried to kill Aang – several times, actually, not to mention a bunch of other people – just because my father told me to," he points out.

Asami winces. One point to Zuko. And none for Asami Sato.

"My father gave me a scar that I would never be able to forget about. So I would never be able to forget about him. I've been betrayed too," he adds, voice softer now. She puts the second sheet into the oven, wondering what she's going to do if she runs out of batter before he's done with her.

"So what does one do when her father's a monster?" Asami asks, working hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"You hope you don't get caught up in legacy, for one," Zuko says, the word hitting her so hard she actually doubles over. She sees his face light up with alarm and forces herself to straighten.

"He thinks I betrayed my mother," she says quietly, gripping the counter. "A firebender killed her." She hates the way her voice trembles. The unspoken question hangs in the air: Well, did you betray her? Zuko is silent for a minute, then he clears his throat in that awkward way of his.

"Aang would say we can't hold groups responsible for the actions of individuals," he says delicately. Asami raises her eyebrows.

"So what do you think?" she challenges, holding her breath in anticipation of the answer. He fidgets.

"Aang was a great Avatar, and he always saw the best in people," he says slowly. "I'm not sure he understood group-think."

She stares, waiting for him to continue.

"Look – after the war ended, a lot of people still hated anyone Fire Nation just for being Fire Nation. Aang though people would lose their prejudices – was naïve," Zuko says, old frustration coming through his voice. "You just have to do what you know is right, even if your mother would feel betray. Just like with your father." His face is pinched with anxiety like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. Asami bites he lip, mulling his words over. Zuko mutters something under his breath.

"What?"

"Even when there's a new avatar, it's still a rite of passage for everyone to have a field trip with Zuko!"

Okay – she has no idea what he's talking about, so she nods sympathetically.

"You helped," she offers, trying to smile. He returns it.

"Yeah, well, better go find the firebender, can't mess up the process now," he says. She watches him leave, lost in thought until she realizes her cookies are burning.

"There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares."

Senna looks up at the sound of stomping feet. The source walks through the doorway, looking ready to firebend the first thing she sees. Oh, she knows that look. She became intimately familiar with it during the six months between when Korra discovered she could firebend and when Korra went away with the White Lotus.

Out of the corner of her eye, Senna sees Pema wince next to her. Oh, right; she's probably familiar with that look by now too. So much for a quiet afternoon. Senna was working on a new shirt for Tonraq, but their daughter is distraught so the shirt will have to wait (Senna tries to remember the last time she comforted Korra, and fails).

"Honey?" she asks, staying in her seat because she's afraid to touch her daughter (does Korra like to be touched?). Rightly so, it would seem, based on the way Korra is glaring at her now. She recoils, stomach caving and shoulders hunching.

"What?" Korra snarls, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement is uncoordinated, like she's moving too fast to control her body, her emotions have possessed her. Senna's first instinct is to reprimand Korra's tone of voice, but she feels like she has no right to do so. It's a disturbing feeling; it makes her feel like the girl in front of her isn't her daughter. It makes her wonder if she ever had a daughter at all.

"What's wrong?" Pema asks, jumping in. Korra's shoulders slump.

"I can't get my hair to unknot," she grumbles. "I was just going to cut it all off. I know, don't give me that look, I'm being impulsive again." She rolls her eyes. Spirits, she looks so lost and sad. And fragile. Like she's hardly here. Senna was to grab her, make sure her daughter can't float up and away. She wants to wrap Korra in her arms and kiss her forehead, but she can't. She doesn't think her daughter would stand for it.

Still – she has to try to do something.

"Come here. Let's see if I can help," she says, smiling (this takes concerted effort). Korra looks unsure but she comes over, sitting on the floor so her back is against the couch and she's between Senna's legs. She reluctantly surrenders the hairbrush to her mother. This time Senna's smile is genuine and effortless; she can almost believe that her girl is hers.

Senna remembers brushing Korra's hair years ago, back when she was little. It was one of the few things she would hold still for. Korra liked to be touched, she liked to be petted as though after so many years she had incorporated part of Naga into her own self; she was adorably puppyish.

Senna used to sculpt the strands into elaborate braids, weaving in different ribbons until it became clear that this was too impractical for Avatar training and wouldn't be allowed to continue. Korra never learned how to braid her hair because she was too young when the White Lotus took her away for the compound.

Senna remember feeling almost horrified to see her daughter's hair in ponytails, her look so severe, so severed from the braids all the other Water Tribe women favored. She remembers Korra coming back to the village and standing out painfully, utterly friendless.

She was all wrong in her poorly developed social skills, her ignorance of sewing and cooking, those masculine pants and her damn ponytails. The other girls still favored dresses and kept to more traditional gender roles. It wasn't that women couldn't do what the men did, but Korra was so completely divorced from it. Like she wasn't Water Tribe, wasn't daughter or sister or friend. She was other, stranger among her own people. Avatar but not Korra. Not human.

Brushing her hair now, Senna expects it to be easy. Like she'll maybe be able to say sorry and recapture some of those good times, those before-times. Like she can be Korra's mother again, take her little girl back. She feels like she's losing her to some ugly, faceless thing and she sleeps poorly now, afraid of waking up to a world where her daughter is gone forever with her chance for atonement.

Unfortunately, brushing Korra's hair doesn't make things better. Actually, it makes them a whole lot worse. Korra yells and shrieks, telling Senna she's pulling too hard. Then her hair starts coming out in clumps and Senna is left starting at the tangles of brown locks in her hands. Korra notices, of course. Her eyes flash with something Senna can't read and she snatches the hairbrush back. She wants to ask Korra to give her another chance, to tell her what she's done wrong so she can fix it, but she doesn't know how to ask or if she even deserves too.

"Forget it." Korra starts to walk away but Pema jumps up, grabbing her wrist. Why didn't I do that? Senna wonders. And then can I do that?. Something makes her think that Korra wouldn't take it that well.

"Come on." Pema's voice is kind but firm (like a mother's should be). Korra gives in and Senna doesn't know what emotion to let herself feel (helplessness? sadness? anger? jealousy? loss?). She watches Pema take a vial of oil out of her pocket, smoothing a few drops over Korra's tangled mane. Only then does she begin to brush, her hand air-light, cautiou – tender.

Senna wants to scream she's mine but the words stick in her throat with their un-truth. She watches Korra relax against Pema's thigh, looking calm and far less agitated than usual. It's not fair, Senna thinks. Every time she turns around her daughter has gone farther than before, disappearing into a snowstorm. She wants to scream out for her and beg her to come back, but she's starting to doubt that she's ever really what's best for Korra. She wanted to be; does that count for anything?

"Why does this work so much better when you do it?" Korra asks Pema with a disgruntled sigh. Pema laughs.

"Because I'm the mother of daughters," she explains.

Senna will never, ever experience anything so painful.

Mako can't decide how he feels about training in the South Pole. On the one hand, the sun is intense, letting him draw on its strength. On the other hand, it's damn cold and he hates the cold. Bolin can attest to this. There have been maybe times when they're been forced to share a bed, and even Mako will admit that he's a cover hog-monkey. Bolin finally started to insist on having his own blankets, because when they tried to share Mako stole them all. Unfortunately, this request was denied more often then it was granted.

In response, Mako started wrapping himself around his little brother, basking in his magnificent body heat. Bolin complained. Mako kicked him. That was that. It earned them some weird looks, but Bolin didn't notice and Mako didn't care. All that mattered was that beautiful, wonderful heat.

They had separate beds in the loft, and there was never a question as to whose was whose. Mako's bed was piled with blankets, held onto longer after they began to tear or fray. He slept closest to the radiator, and kept hot water bottles nearby. After the first snowfall, he determinedly acquired some metal boxes.

Bolin watched curiously as Mako installed them under his bed, cursing and grunting as he fumbled with the tools. He didn't understand what his brother was doing until later that night, when Mako scooped hot coals into the boxes. Bolin just shook his head at him. Spicy food, pure lightening, thick furs and pelts – Mako has never met a heat source he didn't like. Earlier in the fall, Bolin even told Asami she should get him a fur coat for Winter Solstice.

Standing outside now, Mako can feel the wind bite through his sweat clothes. He considers going inside, but something stops him. Well, not something, he knows what it is. He's avoiding Korra (in the back of his head he acknowledge that this is not, perhaps, the best start to an already-unsteady relationship). He's afraid to know what Zuko said to her. He's afraid to know what Korra is thinking, and what she's going to do.

He's even afraid of Korra's parents. Not so much because he thinks they don't approve of him or anything like that, but because he's become aware in the last few days that he knows Korra better than they do, and it's killing them. They want to know what's wrong with their daughter, what they can do to fix it, where they went wrong.

The problem is, Mako doesn't have these answers. And to be perfectly honest, he's more interested in ripping them a new one for abandoning their daughter to the White Lotus than he is in having a civilized conversation. He throws a few kicks, satisfied by the way the ice gives beneath the heat.

"You're talented."

Firelord Zuko is leaning against the side of the White Lotus compound, smoke wafting from his nostrils. Mako rubs his arms, partly because he's self-conscious and partly because every time he stops moving, the cold wraps its icy fingers around him. It's as though the cold senses his little escapes and wishes to punish him for them, show him who is really powerful and really in charge. He briefly wonders if Korra can do anything about that, being the spirit-of-the-planet-in-human-form and all.

"Thanks, I'm really not, though," he mumbles. He stomps his feet, trying to get the blood circulating again. Is he manipulative enough to tell Senna and Tonraq he'll talk to them about Korra, but only if they provide him with a fur coat and fur boots and gloves? He rubs the back of his neck, which is uncomfortably bare. He left his scarf in Kor – the room because he was afraid of it getting damaged. He would never forgive himself. Mako sighs. Yes, just he would never forgive himself if he messed with Senna and Tonraq like that. Well, maybe Asami was in a generous mood and he could still try to get that Winter Solstice present out of her.

"You are that good. I would know," Zuko huffs. He is not trying to argue, Mako can tell; he's merely starting a fact. Sure, there's a hint of arrogance in his voice, but Mako knows it's just the arrogance of birthright. The rich and important never lose it; they are taught that they're more important than everyone else and as a result they can't even recognize their own condescension. "Who did you train with?"

"I didn't," he replies. His firebending developed on an as-needed basis. Zuko cocks his head, looking thoughtful.

"Show me something," he instructs. Mako almost protests (what in Agni's name does he mean by that?) but he swallows his words down and nods instead.

He starts with a series of fire-fists, focusing on small, concentrated flames. After a few of those he flows into kicks, starting with roundhouse and slowly throwing in a few front and side kicks. Taking a deep breath, he jumps up and executes a butterfly kick, body turning in the air as he strikes with one leg and then the other. Back to punches. Cross-jab. Uppercut. Keep your arms close to your sides, close to your head – it gives you protection and power. Now clear your clear and narrow your focus. Dig your heals in to maintain your stance. Find your power.

Since it's a demonstration, Mako spreads his arms so that one is in front of him and the other behind. It doesn't do much but it looks elegant. Mako guides the lightening out his fingertips, watching as the blue tendrils cackle into the snow and sky. He holds the arc for ten seconds, then lets his arms drop to his knees, exhausted.

It's rather humiliating; he doesn't want to look weak in front of the Firelord. He can't help it, though. He's tired after hours of firebending. Mako is startled by the sounds of clapping and whistling. Zuko's eyes are bright, his face lit up like Bolin's was the first time he saw fireworks.

"You should be training with a master," Zuko informs him, walking over. Mako shrugs, biting back a retort about where he's going to get the money to do such a thing. Besides, even if he did have the money he can't be away from Bolin or Korra for any length of time. Bolin needs someone to support him and keep him out of trouble; Korra needs someone to temper her morbid curiosity.

The thing about Korra that worries him most, actually, is her curiosity – not her temper or her impatience or impulsivity, although those all have their parts. What makes Mako worry is this image: the one of Korra alone in her room, her darkness and depression weighing on her like she's been buried alive. He sees he getting up from her bed, finding a knife. He sees her slitting her wrists, not because she really wants to die so much as a desire to see what's going to happen. She wants to know if this will make her feel lighter, if she's found the secret way to quiet the noise constantly reverberating in her head.

"Maybe someday," Mako says, avoiding the Firelord's question. "I'm going to go inside, um, if you don't mind. It's cold out here." He heaves a breath of fire. It helps a little.

"Right. I am serious about the training, though. You could have quite a future," Zuko continues as they walk. Mako shakes his head, hoping he can refuse the Firelord in a way that doesn't get him sent to prison.

"I can't. I have obligations in Republic City," he says, staring straight ahead. Zuko hums in consideration.

"Well, I'll see what I can arrange," he mutters. Mako would like to ask him what, exactly, that's supposed to mean, but then decides he might not want to know. If he's going to disagree with Zuko, he's going to take it one disagreement at a time.

"Zuko!" Katara's voice rings out and within seconds she's joined him and Mako, her cheeks flushed bright pink. He sees Zuko staring and tucks the information away for later analysis.

"You seem to have lost the earthbender," Zuko points out. Katara rolls her eyes.

"He's still in the village, enjoying their attentions," she replies. "Fixing someone's house is an excellent way to ingratiate yourself. You might consider taking notes." She pokes his chest and Zuko launches into his predictable sputtering. Mako can see Katara smirking, and he can't tell if teases him because she dislikes him or she likes him a little too much. There's a joke about sex with the Firelord somewhere in there, but he can't quite figure out what it is.

Back in the compound, Mako excuses himself to wash. Oh, the joy that is clean, soapy hot water. Hot water that smells good even. It's almost a shame, because he's not sure he'll ever be able to go back to life before all this. Mako likes to think that he's tough, or at least tough enough to slum it – but Spirits, a little luxury goes a long way. Well, maybe if the pro-bending arena re-opens, he and Bolin can start working again and make enough money to actually be okay. There are people who do that, after all. He and Bolin were rookies this season, but next season everyone will know their names. And that's worth something.

Mako is finally starting to hope that maybe, just maybe, he can secure Bolin's future. They've spent most of their lives living paycheck-to-paycheck, but lately things have been better. Pro-bending has treated them well. Granted, making friends with people in high places has been equally important. Mako would never, ever use anyone for their money or connections – but he can't deny the perks.

Korra being the Avatar generates favors and attention. Asami has so much money she could use yuans as toilet paper. Tenzin is on the city council. Lin Beifong is the former chief of police and still holds a lot of sway in the city. Legal troubles? Money troubles? Yeah, he doesn't really have to worry about that anymore. Which kind of makes him worry because he doesn't want to get too comfortable.

Leaning his head against the side of the bath, he ponders Zuko's earlier words about serious firebending training. He still thinks taking care of Bolin and paying for lessons are problems, but they're not the only ones. Mako himself is the problem; he is standing in his own way.

Because he knows that someone would give him the money, and he knows someone would look after Bolin (in his head, he can hear Bolin protesting that he does not need to be looked after). Mako just can't imagine being so selfish as to do something just for himself. He's responsible. He's thoughtful. He puts others first, he takes care of them – could he really do something just because he wanted to? It seems so . . . weird.

Korra would understand, he thinks. Korra does almost nothing as herself; it's all about "the Avatar". Her every word, her every action – all of it is about her position, her birth-curse, her charge. Maybe Koh stole her face when she was too little to realize what was happening, so now she is nothing but a shell, with no self beneath her hair and skin.

If you try to see yourself through the lens that others offer you, all you will see are distortions; your own light and beauty will become blurred, awkward, and ugly. Your sense of inner beauty has to remain a very private thing.

The first thing Korra does when she gets back to her room is throw more wood on the fire. The flames cackle and spark, hungry and eager for the new fuel. She's fascinated watching them; she likes the heat and colors, even the smell of smoke. Fire says home to her, fire is being in her room safe and sound where no one can get her.

Korra can't recall much of her life from before the White Lotus, but she does have hazy memories of fire. She remembers sitting in her parents' house watching the flames dance and spar, her mother making something to eat or her father skinning a hide.

Fire was warmth after playing in the snow, life in a place where people stopped looking for you if you were missing for more than three hours. Most importantly, perhaps, fire was other people. It was ghost stories with the older kids, or her mother braiding her hair while whispering this, small-girl, is the story of how your father and I met. Fire was something bright in the dark to chase away her nightmares.

Korra has always had nightmares.

Her parents have told her about how even as a baby she would wake up screaming, terrified of some unseen enemy. She would claw the darkness, huddle into her father's side for protection. Her crib and child-bed are in perfect condition because she only slept in them a handful of times each. She would abandon them in the middle of the night to crawl into her parents' bed and catch her breath.

The first night she was at the White Lotus compound, she woke up screaming (as usual) and went running through the halls sobbing, begging someone to help her to save her because there were monsters who were coming to get her. The sentries took her words a little too seriously; in response to her wailing, they tore into her room and nearly destroyed the place. The guardians were not happy, to say the least. You are not to bother the sentries unless there is a real threat, they instructed at breakfast the next morning. Korra nodded petulantly, her eyes narrow and arms crossed.

The next time she had nightmare was three days later. Remembering the guardians' words, this time she went to find Master Katara. Unfortunately she got lost and apparently threw the entire place into panic. One of the sentries found her crying outside the pantry three hours after dawn. Her eyes were bloodshot, her body convulsing as she whispered over and over don't let them get me don't let them get me oh please oh please I'm begging you don't let them get me.

Korra found herself subjected to another talk about worrying people unnecessarily. In addition, the guardians forbade her from leaving her room at night. She was not to go out for anyone, or anything. Korra threw an age-appropriate temper tantrum. The guardians suggested she meditate to get over her nightmares. To this day, Korra can't understand who thought a four year old would understand the idea of meditating.

This time around, she made it four days before another one struck. As usual she bolted out of her bed, limbs flaying, eyes wide. She grabbed the doorknob, pulling it hard and falling backwards when it didn't give. She remembers her shock, and her panic. She remembers throwing herself against the door all night, howling desperately for help. And then she remembers the morning, when the guardians came for her and found her passed out on the floor, covered head to foot in dark bruises. They didn't stop locking her bedroom door. She learned that weakness is unacceptable.

The Avatar is not afraid of anything.

The first time she went back to the village, people looked at her differently. She wore new clothes, and she wore her hair in ponytails instead of braids. She was flanked by White Lotus sentries who did not laugh or smile, and pointed their spears at anyone who got too close. Some kids invited her to play a game with a ball. She was actually happy for a few minutes until she realized that the other children were letting her win.

No one tried to kick the ball from her feet, no one tried to defend his goal. Practiced lines of Wow Korra, you're talented and Wow Korra, you're strong fell like hailstones from their lips. So she threw a fit that sent snowballs flying in every direction and didn't apologize because she was so angry. Mothers scolded their children for being mean to her (even all these years later, Korra cringes at the memory). She doesn't want their pity or their awe.

Later that day, the girl next door invited her to play dolls. Korra spent ten minutes stuttering and stalling as she tried to figure out if this girl really wanted to be her friend or if her mother was making her. Korra remembers crossing her fingers and saying a little prayer to Yue for things to please,please work out when the girl finally wins her over, convincing her that yes, they should play.

Korra joins her and the girl's sister then realizes too late she doesn't know how to play. The girls give her funny looks when she holds up the doll like she's never seen one before. Korra was looking for a turn-key, something that would tell her how the doll worked. Failing to find one, she didn't know what to do with it. The little girls were kind enough not to laugh but too young to hide their confusion. They think she's weird.

Korra doesn't try to make any friends after that. It's clear she's too different, she's too unlike them. The last day of her first visit, someone hissed something she's never forgotten as the guards saddled up to ride back to the compound.

She's the Avatar. She's not human.

They're right, of course. She isn't human. She can bend all four elements. She can access the Spirit World, her past lives, the Avatar State. She can restore people's bending – she is the most powerful creature in the world. Human? Not really. It's kind of funny, in a way, that she never even tries to fool anyone. As if she could. Others detect the trespasser too quickly. They know she is not-one-of-us.

The night she left for Republic City, she went back to the village to say goodbye to her parents. Her mother said, We love you so much. Korra didn't have a response to that. She wanted to ask her, what does that mean? What is love? How do you love me? She wanted to push her mother away, to tell her she was a horrible parent and she hated her.

Simultaneously she wanted to burrow into her mother's side, to cry into her dress and feel her arm come down on her back like a shield. In that moment she almost wanted her mother to stop her – to say no, we've been deprived of our daughter long enough. She didn't of course; Senna and Tonraq always were a little too good at letting go.

Korra remembers telling her parents I'll miss you. But as she rode away on Naga, she had no idea what that meant. She would miss them? How could she? She didn't even know them. She was a girl who got locked in her bedroom for having nightmares. She was a girl who didn't know how to flirt, how to put on makeup, how to braid her hair because she was motherless. She never went out hunting or fishing with her father, never helped him skin a tiger-moose, never even helped her parents cook a meal. Miss them? Well, perhaps the idea of them. After all, leaving meant she was giving up; "pursuing her airbending" was just a good cover story.

Standing in her room, Korra flexes her fingers, observing the way her chapped skin cracks open and turns bloody. The red rivulets run down her hand in cascading spider webs. The right thing to do would be to heal it, or to at least bandage the injuries. She does neither of these things. Instead of she sits down next to the fire, watching the blood turn brown in the exposure.

She finds herself nursing a desire to stick her hand in the blaze. Sure, it would hurt, but that's not why she wants to do it; it's that she wants to find out just what would happen if she did it. It's a kind of morbid curiosity. She wants to test her limits, to find the boundaries, the places marked with DO NOT ENTER signs.

When Korra thinks about her life and her world, she thinks cage. She thinks about the White Lotus sentries who locked her in the compound and her bedroom. She thinks about Tenzin trying to confine her to Air Temple Island. She even thinks about her birth-curse, about being the Avatar, about being locked into this destiny she didn't want and didn't ask for just because she was born under the wrong stars.

Perhaps what she thinks most about, however, is losing her bending. She thinks about her body's failures, about everydamnfeeling percolating inside of her with nowhere to go. There is nothing; she is disconnected. This body is a prison she cannot escape.

She needs to know what's underneath it all. She needs to carve away the excess, to get at the so-called self. The truth is, she's really not that good of an Avatar, so if she's going to keep living, she better come up with a damn good reason pretty fucking fast.

Korra sits in front of the mirror, pinching the skinfat on her wrists. She pulls at her face, noting the thickness of the flesh, the places where it jiggles. She cups her breasts then smashes them against her chest, ashamed to be so much. Perhaps she could find a knife, hack them off like she's seen Pema cut the fat from slabs of meat. She takes up too much space in the world; she must reduce. Yes, that's the key. Be less. Want less. Get down to bone, down to the small, down to the essential. Stop being impulsive. Stop fucking up. Stop bothering everybody.

Her friends and family will be mad when they find out about her little project, she knows. Because eventually, they will find out. But she can't stop. She won't stop. Not when she needs this. Not when it is promising her cool sleep and seductive truth and oh spirits above stability and a self. Besides, she won't let it get out of hand this time. She'll keep her fingers around the beast's neck. A little puking and starvation isn't such a big deal. She's the Avatar. She'll be fine.

One of these days, Pema is going to gather all the council members excepting her husband, and threaten them until they agree not to send Tenzin any kind of information whatsoever when he is out of the city. Pema is tired of his worrying, tired of him locking himself away to attend to business, and above all, she's tired of his panic attacks.

"PEMA!"

He's calling her again. Pema loves her husband, and most of the time his passion and dedication inspires her. Tenzin is calm in the face of chaos, the last one to abandon ship. He's cool and level-headed when danger actually strikes – it's the false alarms that drive everyone around him crazy. So when she hears him shouting her name, Pema has to take a few minutes to think about whether she's going to answer, or just sneak away until he gets bored or finds someone else to bother.

"Pema! There you are, oh thank goodness!"

Or he'll find her first. That could happen too.

"Hi, Tenzin," she says, forcing a smile. She wonders if she should tell him now that if he says one more word about the stock market he'll find himself sharing a bed with Naga and Oogi. And she'll be keeping all the blankets for herself, thankyouverymuch.

"We have to get back to Republic City right away," he informs her without preamble. Pema blinks. Anxious as Tenzin is, he usually sticks to lamenting about the city's woes without insisting he has to return. Actually, she's not sure she's ever heard him be so resolute about going back. It makes her uneasy.

"What's wrong?" Pema asks, following Tenzin as he starts walking back to their room. He moves so quickly she has to take two steps for his every one. It's a good thing she's not pregnant anymore, or her feet would be on fire.

"The Republic City Bender Power Plant fire. The death toll is sixty-three and rising," Tenzin says softly, his face ashen. Pema chokes on a breath. No. She knows that factory. Children as young as eleven work there. In another life her Jinora could have been one them . . .

Pema thinks she might pass out.

"That's terrible," she whispers, allowing Tenzin to embrace her. Her body shakes as silent tears fall down her face and neck, dripping onto Tenzin's shirt. He strokes her hair, making comforting cooing sounds.

"It is. It's awful. That's why we have to get back. There are already people calling for new regulations and laws. And who could blame them?" he asks, more to himself than Pema.

He heaves a great sigh, and she is once again aware of the heaviness he carries, the weight of being Aang's son/the Avatar's son/the Avatar's mentor/the only Airbending Master/the man who must repopulate the airbending population/save the Air Nomad culture/carry on his father's legacy/be the son of grandmaster Katara.

No wonder Tenzin is so serious; who wouldn't be? It's amazing he ever smiles at all. It's amazing he didn't petition for a harem so as to better bring up the population.

"What are we going to do about Korra?" Pema asks, eyebrows knitting together in concern. Another weighed exhale. Oh dear. Maybe this was the wrong time. Maybe that was the wrong question to ask. She almost feels guilty for thinking of her first, but only almost.

She already knows the fates of her own children – Rohan, Meelo, Ikki and Jinora will all return with her and Tenzin. She knows the fate of her three most recently adopted children – Asami needs to attend to her father's financial and legal issues, or at the very least hire someone else to do so. Bolin and Mako have a life there, and honestly she can't imagine them staying in the South Pole willingly. The village is cute, but it's not Republic City. There are no bar or clubs or restaurants, all the things you desire when you're young and believe in all possibilities, all refractions of a mutable self.

"We can't leave her here," Tenzin replies, staring at his feet. She takes his hands in hers, squeezing gently. He looks up, then moves to rest his chin on her crown of her head. She can feel him smelling her hair. It's combed with daisy oil, because even though he would never admit to preferring such a childish scent, Pema knows that daisies are Tenzin's favorite. When they married, Pema carried a bouquet of yellow daisies, and a wreath of white ones with a delicate lace veil.

"We certainly can't," she agrees. "It wouldn't be good for her, being locked up like this." She shudders thinking of the self-destruction Korra will get up to left to her own devices. Maybe it will be an accident, something that happens because she's too busy doing and not thinking, but it could just as easily be premeditated, intentional. Either way she'll do it, you can put money on that. Not that Pema gambles. Well, not lately, anyway, though there were a few times in her youth when she put a couple yuans on an ostrich-horse race just to try her luck.

"Okay, so Korra comes with us back to Republic City," Tenzin says. "But she needs to have limits. She can't run around hurting herself," he insists. He sounds angry, but Pema knows he's just scared and worried. Tenzin likes to feel in control, and Korra is the antithesis of control. Tenzin is loving and protective, careful with everyone and Korra lacks any sense of self-preservation.

"Well, I think she's trying," Pema says. Tenzin doesn't look convinced. He wants to believe her, but his eyes are guarded. "I know that Mako found her making herself sick earlier in the week, but I think it really was an accident – a mistake, if you will. These things – well, I don't know much about these things, but I can't imagine they get better overnight." She wraps her arms around him again, trying to draw some of his strength, his solidness into her own self. With her head against the endless expanse of his chest, she can hear his heartbeat.

"Here's my solution: she eats, she keeps her food down, or we send her back here," Tenzin huffs. Pema gives him a scathing look as she pulls away and he immediately starts backpedaling. "Or we could do whatever you think is best. That could work too." He smiles and gives her his best please-don't-hurt-me look.

"We can't do that. It will be just as bad as if we left her here now," Pema argues. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to think. It's such a unique problem; she isn't sure how to address something she's never heard of. "Maybe we could send her to the Republic City Mental Health Center. Or the Fire Nation Mental Health Center. We can't send her back here, Tenzin, we'd be sending her to her death," Pema pleads.

She's startled by the very real fear and anxiety she feels surging through her veins. Until maybe this moment, she had never really considered that Korra could die from this. Now it's all she can think about. Korra could die. Korra could starve herself to death. Korra could starve herself to death among all these loved ones, all these loving ones, starve surrounded by food.

"You're right," Tenzin agrees. "I suppose we'll have to ask the sentries to watch her so she can't throw up or skip meals when we're not around," he continues. Pema makes a face.

"She'll lose them in three seconds or less," she points out. Tenzin grimaces like he has a headache coming on. "She's smart."

"That she is," he concurs, a smile ghosting over his lips. "Her friends will look out for her, but that's not an appropriate responsibility for a teenager." He starts pacing, turning tiny circles in the hallway. She doesn't mind; he has gone into Councilman-analytical mode, ruminating on the problem. This is good; Pema needs that Tenzin right now. He solves problems. "We can't just watch her body?" he muses aloud. She shakes her head.

"Her clothes are so thick, she could lose twenty pounds before anyone noticed," she says. Thinking of Korra twenty pounds lighter makes Pema feels like someone has just pulled her from a bath to throw her into the snow.

"I don't suppose she would take well to stripping down for you," Tenzin mutters. Pema laughs, clutching her stomach. "Yes. Thought not."

"Wait, we could just weigh her – how did we not think of that before?" Pema gasps. The doctors weighed her during her pregnancy to make sure she was gaining enough weight; why can't they weigh Korra to make sure she's staying the right weight? Tenzin's smile is so big and bright it could outshine the sun.

"We'll talk to my mother about it, I'm sure she knows something about what one should weight," he says excitedly. Pema beams, tempted to jump up and down like Ikki does when she's excited about something.

"Yes. And based on what she says we'll give Korra weight she has to maintain. If she gets too skinny and doesn't bring it back up in a reasonable time, then we'll do something," Pema says firmly. Tenzin nods, looking relieved. He suddenly pulls Pema into a kiss, making her melt against him and moan softly. Oh, he is her home.

"Thank the Spirits," he says when they pull away. "My love, you make me better than I am." He presses his lips to her forehead, drowning her in waves of warmth and affection.

"You too," she murmurs. This is how Pema knew Tenzin was The One, Lin Beifong or not. When she is with him, she glows and she unfurls so to bloom into her best self.

When Tenzin says there was a fire at the power plant Korra decides she doesn't care about the rest of the sentence and flees to her room. Mako is sitting on the bed drying his hair, and for a moment she can only stare at him. She lingers in the doorway, overwhelmed by his realness, his presence, the fact that he is hers and he is alive. Mako opens his mouth when he notices her in the doorway, but shuts it when she sprints across the room and launches herself onto him. He falls back so they are sprawled on the bed in a tangle of limbs and skin.

"Korra?"

She ignores him, pulling off his scarf (it smells like him, because he has a smell, because he is alive) and undoing the buttons of his jacket. His breath hitches and she can see his Adam's apple bob nervously.

"What - ?"

She doesn't even kiss him before latching onto his neck. He squirms under her, and she can tell he's still confused but at the same time he knows when he's defeated. Korra pulls her lips back ever so slightly, letting her teeth inch forward. Then she bites him hard, sucking so he gasps and writhes, one hand tight in her hair like he can't decide whether to pull her off or press her closer. After a few seconds she finally lets go, sitting up to look at her handiwork.

There is a red-purple mark on the place where his neck and shoulder meets, bright with the blood rushing to the injury. She prances her fingertips over it, pressing down just to watch him hiss. Real, she thinks. Real and hers.

"What was that all about?" Mako asks, his hand brushing over hers. He kisses her fingers, nibbling on the tips.

I wanted to hurt you, she thinks without speaking. I wanted you to move. I wanted you to yell. I wanted you to bleed so I would know you were engaged and alive. She shrugs. His eyes narrow.

"Just wanted to."

"Did you do something I wouldn't approve of?" he asks, voice caught between anger and concern. She shakes her head even as fury surges through her body. Right then. She forgot that everything is always about Korra's eating problem.

See me, she thinks, leaning over him again and brushing his hair back. See mybody. See Korra. Find my bones. Find my real. Find what is not the Avatar soul. Follow me down this path – follow me to the underneath. I will show you how real I am.

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks,

"So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn into him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt."

"Ally." Peeta says the words slowly, tasting it. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out. The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

Quotes:

1. Wasted by Marya Hornbacher
2. White Night by Jim Butcher
3. Anam Cara by John O'Donohue
4. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
5. Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins