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A False Hope(Legend Of Korra/My Hero Academia SI) Chapter One
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 05:54:43 +0000 UTCThe corpse of a child is a terrible thing to behold.
And what made the tragedy worse was that this wasn’t supposed to happen.
The Red Lotus had received a tip—quiet, careful, from one of their own embedded deep within the White Lotus—that the new Avatar had been found. She was young, barely more than a toddler, and currently under tight surveillance, training in secret under the White Lotus' protection. Most of the Red Lotus had already written her off as unreachable. Too many guards. Too many watchful eyes. Too much risk.
But Zaheer didn’t want to kill her.
Everyone else assumed the plan was simple: eliminate the Avatar, end the cycle, and force the collapse of the world’s corrupt governments. The death of the Avatar was, to them, a key that would unlock the door to true freedom. But they misunderstood the very nature of the Avatar.
The Avatar wasn’t a gate to be broken down. She was a bridge. A living connection between the spirit and human worlds. Destroy the bridge, and you didn’t gain free passage—you lost access entirely. There would be no balance. No harmony. Only silence, from both sides.
No, Zaheer believed a different path was possible. A better one.
They wouldn’t kill the Avatar.
They would take her.
Raise her in the ways of the Red Lotus. Show her the truth of the world. Teach her that governments were shackles, that the spirit world was meant to live in harmony with the physical, not locked behind borders and bureaucracy. If the Avatar herself embraced these ideals, then perhaps the rest of the world would follow.
The plan was simple, elegant. Infiltrate the compound. Extract the girl. Disappear.
Unalaq—Zaheer’s fellow disciple and Tonraq’s estranged brother—had provided them with everything they needed. A map of the grounds. Timed rotations of the guards. Even White Lotus uniforms to blend in. They slipped in through the dark like ghosts. The sentries outside her room were subdued quickly, quietly. One precise Shirshu-spit dart and the girl was paralyzed before she could cry out. Just a sleeping child, still clinging to dreams.
Everything was going according to plan.
Until it wasn’t.
Unalaq had omitted one very important detail: the high-profile visitors currently on-site.
Fire Lord Zuko.
Chief Sokka.
Tenzin, son of Avatar Aang.
And Tonraq himself, the girl’s father—an elite waterbender and the man who should have been Chief of the Northern Water Tribe, if not for Unalaq’s treachery.
The battle that followed was vicious. Chaotic. Zaheer faced Sokka directly, his chi-blocking training putting him on even footing with the older warrior. They were locked in a brutal stalemate—youth against experience, agility against skill.
Korra had been taken hostage by Ming-Hua. One of her water tentacles coiled tightly around the child’s neck, a threat even as she fended off Tonraq’s attacks. It was supposed to be leverage. Just a means to keep the father at bay.
But she squeezed too hard.
The child spasmed. Then she screamed.
And the Avatar awoke.
Her eyes flared white with incandescent fury, glowing brighter than the moon. A vortex of wind exploded outward, hurling Ming-Hua back. The air howled with a sudden, furious storm. Fire surged from her mouth in a primal roar. The earth cracked beneath her feet.
And for a moment—just a moment—they forgot she was five years old.
They saw only the Avatar. A force of nature. The most powerful being in the world. And now, a threat.
They all reacted at once.
Zaheer threw his blade, aimed straight at her chest.
Ming-Hua conjured darts of ice and hurled them like missiles.
Ghazan stomped, launching a trio of razor-edged stone lances from the ground.
And P’Li, silent and precise, released a focused blast of compressed combustion from her third eye.
They hadn’t come to kill her.
That had never been the plan.
But fear—raw, primal fear—was a treacherous thing. And in the face of it, their restraint shattered.
They never figured out who exactly struck the killing blow. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Maybe it was easier that way.
All they remembered was the moment Korra’s young body surged upward in a spiral of wind, her eyes igniting with the blinding glow of the Avatar State. The battle had shifted instantly. Every instinct in them screamed that the fight was lost—that the Avatar, the force of nature reborn, would tear through them like a tidal wave.
They didn’t remember that she was barely more than a toddler.
Her enemies— prisoners of ideology—only saw the legend. Her allies, caught in the shock of her transformation, did the same. They forgot that the Avatar was still just a girl.
A girl whose body, no matter how infused with spiritual energy, couldn’t withstand the full power of her past lives.
Zaheer would replay it in his head for years: the brief flash of Korra catching Ming-Hua’s water whips and redirecting them harmlessly; the effortless dodge from his own attack, her expression blank and detached. She had been magnificent—for an instant.
But Ghazan’s spike attack had come from behind, from her blind spot. She hadn’t seen it.
And P’Li’s combustion blast—more instinct than strategy—had come a heartbeat later, meant to end a threat, not a child.
When the smoke cleared, time seemed to stop.
The scorched, unmoving figure on the snow wasn’t the Avatar. Not anymore.
She was just a little girl again.
“No,” Tonraq whispered, stumbling forward. His knees hit the snow as he dropped beside her, his voice rising in disbelief. “No, no, no. Korra. Korra! KORRA!”
Fire Lord Zuko turned slowly, his golden eyes wide with horror, then narrowing into something molten. A radiant aura of heat began to ripple around him, melting the snow in a perfect circle at his feet. Steam hissed in the air.
“Every single one of you,” he whispered, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with fury. “Will burn alive for this. You will not see another sunrise.”
Tenzin stood frozen, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. His mouth opened but no words came. Chief Sokka said nothing either, but his jaw was tight, his eyes full of fire, and his grip on his weapon tightened until the leather-wrapped hilt groaned beneath his fingers.
Then he moved—slow, deliberate steps forward, like a wolf preparing to strike.
They were going to kill them.
Zaheer saw it. He knew it. And despite everything, despite his own guilt and the gnawing horror in his chest, he acted.
“She might still be alive!” he shouted, the words ripping out of his throat like shrapnel.
That made them pause. Just a second—but it was enough.
“If you fight us, she dies. If you leave now, if you get her to a healer immediately, there’s still a chance. Choose. Now.”
Cruel. Manipulative. Desperate. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know if it was true—but it had to be. It had to be. Because this was his plan. And his friends—whatever they had done—did not deserve to die for his mistake.
Tenzin moved first, crossing the distance in seconds. He swept Korra into his arms and blasted off across the snow, his bending hurling wind behind him in gale-force bursts. The air howled around him as he vanished into the distance, carrying what little hope remained.
Tonraq followed on a crest of ice, his eyes wild, his every breath a prayer.
But Zuko didn’t move.
And neither did Sokka.
They exchanged no words. None were needed. The decision had already been made.
Zuko’s aura flared into a blinding inferno, crackling with pure lightning. Sparks danced along his arms and across his chest, whipping his crimson robes into a frenzy of motion. With a roar that echoed across the tundra like a dragon’s cry, he unleashed a storm of lightning—dozens of bolts streaking through the air with lethal precision.
Only Ghazan’s quick thinking saved them.
With a thunderous crack, a thick wall of stone surged up from the snow-covered ground, cutting off the torrent of lightning just before it reached them. The luminous bolts slammed into the barrier, hissing and steaming as plasma clashed violently with earth. Chunks of scorched rock rained down as the smoke began to clear.
“We need to retreat!” Zaheer barked, his voice sharp with urgency. “If we stay here—we die!”
“But... the girl—” P’Li’s voice broke. She sounded breathless, hollow. “We didn’t mean to—”
“You think that matters?” Zaheer snapped, rounding on her. His expression twisted, not with cruelty, but desperation. “You think they’ll believe that? You think that’s something we can explain?! We need to go—now!”
But in his panic, Zaheer made a critical mistake. He forgot about the one man whose name was whispered in equal parts reverence and ridicule.
He forgot about Sokka.
More importantly, he forgot about the boomerang.
There was a flash of silver—just a flicker on the edge of his vision—before pain exploded through his skull. The boomerang struck with bone-shattering force, tearing into the flesh just above his cheek and carving a brutal path across his face.
“AGHHHHH!” Zaheer roared, staggering back as blood poured from the ruined remains of his right eye, staining the pristine snow in vivid crimson. The agony was blinding, suffocating—but his mind, trained and honed by years of discipline, fought through it.
“Ghazan! We have to go! NOW!”
The earthbender needed no further prompting. With a sharp exhale and a thrust of his arms, Ghazan called forth a molten wave that rolled toward their attackers like a tide of fire and death. Zuko and Sokka were forced to leap back as the lava surged forward, melting through the ice and turning the snow to steam.
“A lava bender,” Zuko muttered, disbelief painting his voice. “Here? Now?”
“Like Toph’s old friend, Sun,” Sokka said grimly, already reaching for his boomerang again. “This fight just got a lot more complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be a fight!” Ghazan shouted over the roar of molten rock, another wave of lava flowing in arcs around them like serpents made of flame. “Just let us leave! We don’t want to hurt anyone else!”
Zuko’s fists clenched. Flames danced at his fingertips as he took a step forward. “Do you even understand what you've done?” he growled. “The weight of the crime you’ve committed?! The sin you’ve carved into the pages of history?”
“We didn’t know the Avatar would—”
“She was a child!” Sokka bellowed, his voice like a blade—raw, sharp, and furious. He hurled his boomerang again, but Ming-Hua was ready this time, deflecting it mid-air with a flick of her water whips. “Five years old! She had dreams, damn it! She believed she could save the world! And you took that from her—you stole it—because you wanted to play gods!”
“We’re sorry!” Ming-Hua shouted, desperation cracking through her voice. “We didn’t mean to—this wasn’t what we planned! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!”
Zuko didn’t hesitate. He didn’t falter.
“Your apologies mean nothing,” he spat, his voice low and laced with fury. “Even if you were thrown into the spirit realm and handed over to Koh the Face Stealer for all eternity, it wouldn’t scratch the surface of the punishment you deserve.”
He raised his hands once more, and flames roared to life along his arms like serpents made of pure fury. His golden eyes shimmered—bright, unrelenting, incandescent with wrath.
“You want redemption?” he shouted, voice echoing like a thunderclap across the icy expanse. “You want to atone?”
The fire around him flared higher, wreathing him in light and heat, the snow hissing and evaporating in his presence.
“Then stand!” he bellowed. “And die like the monsters you've chosen to be!”
He punched forward with both fists, and a roaring torrent of fire surged from his hands—a river of molten red and searing orange that scorched the frozen earth as it tore toward them.
Ming-Hua reacted instantly. The snow behind them surged forward at her command, crashing over the group in a protective wave. The blast of fire struck the snow with a deafening hiss, and a blinding wall of steam erupted, blanketing the battlefield in thick, swirling fog.
Through the mist, Ghazan didn’t hesitate. With a practiced stomp and twist of his foot, the earth beneath them cracked open. As he dropped down, his fists pounded rapidly against the stone, carving out a tunnel with brutal efficiency.
Zaheer was the last to enter. Blood trickled down the side of his face, pain pulsing through his skull with every heartbeat. He looked back through the steam, where the fire was still burning like the wrath of an angry god.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible even to himself. “I’m so sorry… child.”
He disappeared into the earth just as another blast of flame tore through the steam, scorching the air where his head had been only moments before.
Above them, Zuko stood amidst the dissipating steam, his breath ragged, his eyes wild.
“Cowards!” he screamed, his voice breaking with fury and heartbreak. “COWARDS! COME BACK AND DIE!”
The flames around his hands flickered and died, but the fire in his heart—fueled by grief, vengeance, and a sorrow too old to name—burned hotter than ever.
________________________________________________________________
Do you think you’ve known pain? Do you truly understand sorrow?
Tenzin would ask himself that question for the rest of his life.
But nothing—not the teachings of his father, not the wisdom of the monks, not even the burden of guiding the Avatar—had prepared him for this.
Not for the moment he had to hand over the still, cold body of the Avatar to her mother.
Not for the broken sound Senna made, halfway between a gasp and a wail, as she cradled the lifeless corpse of her five-year-old daughter.
Not for the way Tonraq dropped to his knees, silent and slack-jawed, the fire in his warrior’s spirit extinguished in an instant. There was no rage then. Only the vacant, hollow-eyed look of a man whose soul had stepped away from his body.
And not for the unbearable weight of knowing this—all of this—had happened on his watch.
Tenzin felt like a failure. A fraud. A disgrace.
Korra was supposed to be the next Avatar. She had shown a rare spark from the very beginning, bending three elements before most children her age could tie their own shoes. Many Avatars didn’t discover their second element until their teens, and here she was—just five years old, barely out of toddlerhood—and already manifesting the Avatar State.
She had been a prodigy. A once-in-a-generation miracle. A bridge between past and future, meant to follow in Aang’s footsteps, to become a legend in her own right.
Instead, she had died before she could even begin.
And the worst part?
She had wanted it. Wanted to help. Wanted to be the bridge, the protector, the balance the world needed. She had smiled when she was told who she was. Laughed when the elders explained what her duty would be. She had cheered when Tenzin first showed her how to sit in meditation, her little legs crossed too tightly and her eyes scrunched up in focus.
She hadn’t even had a chance to try.
He had known the path ahead would be hard—what Avatar's path wasn’t?—but he had believed they would be ready. That with the White Lotus protecting her, with his guidance, she would flourish. That he could help her become the Avatar the world needed.
But nothing had prepared him for the sound of Senna’s grief-racked sobs… or the moment when Tonraq’s fist slammed into his face.
Pain exploded behind his eyes. Black spots danced across his vision as he staggered back, clutching his jaw.
“Wha—?” he choked, stunned.
Tonraq stood now, no longer broken, no longer hollow. His grief had ignited into something else—rage. Raw. Wild. Consuming.
“You,” Tonraq growled, each syllable laced with venom. “This is your fault. All of it. Your fault!”
Tenzin stared at him, incredulous. “My fault?!” he snapped, his voice cracking with emotion. “I fought beside you! I tried to save her! I brought her to my mother as fast as I could, but—she was already gone! I didn’t have time—”
“I told you I wanted her home!” Tonraq roared. His hands were shaking, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I begged you! I wanted her safe! With her family! But you and those so-called wise men convinced me the compound was the better option. That she’d be protected—watched around the clock. You said no one would get close. You said she’d be safe! And now—now she’s dead!”
Tenzin’s mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Because it was true.
He had told them the compound was safer. He had insisted, over and over, that keeping her under White Lotus supervision would protect her better than the chaos of the outer world. Tonraq and Senna had argued for a normal life, for time, for a chance at childhood… but he had pushed back.
Gently at first.
Then firmly.
Then decisively.
And now?
Now he had to wonder if they had been right.
Even so, some part of him knew that Korra would have been a target no matter where she was. The fight had made it clear—the attackers had been elite. Benders with rare abilities: combustion, lava, and precision water bending. They’d planned the assault meticulously. If she had been at home, Tonraq likely would have died trying to defend her. And she might have been lost anyway.
But saying that would bring no comfort to a grieving father.
So Tenzin did what he had to.
He stood there. Silent. Jaw tight. Chest aching.
Letting Tonraq’s grief crash against him like wave after wave against immovable stone.
Because Korra had deserved more. She had deserved a future filled with light, adventure, and love. She had deserved the chance to grow into everything the world needed her to be.
And if taking the blame helped her parents survive the loss—if shouldering that weight offered them even a fraction of peace—then so be it.
Tenzin didn’t flinch when Tonraq’s voice broke with fury.
“...Yes,” he said quietly. “You’re right. It is my fault.”
Tonraq lunged at him. His hands seized Tenzin’s collar, fists twisting the fabric, jerking him forward with a raw desperation that made his shoulders tremble. He shook him hard, eyes wild.
“You’re Avatar Aang’s son! The last airbender! You were supposed to be better! Stronger! You were supposed to protect her!” Tonraq’s voice cracked. “But you couldn’t! You couldn’t save her. You—and the Fire Lord, and the Chief—you were all useless!”
Tenzin didn’t resist.
“…Yes,” he said again, voice hollow. “We were.”
Tonraq’s free hand pulled back, fist clenched, shaking with restrained fury.
He was ready for the blow.
He welcomed it.
But the strike never came.
“Enough.”
The voice cut through the rage like a blade through silk.
Tenzin turned his head. His breath caught in his throat.
His mother was there.
Katara stood in the doorway, wrapped in her long blue robes, the wind tugging gently at her silver hair. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her voice remained steady. Calm. Unyielding.
“That is enough,” she said again, firmer now. “We have lost too much today. We will not compound that loss with anger. We will not destroy what remains of us with blame.”
Tonraq’s laugh was bitter—jagged with disbelief.
“We have lost too much?” he echoed, voice rising in a broken crescendo. “We? I lost my daughter. My child! What have you lost, Katara?”
Her answer came softly. But with such finality, it froze the room.
“A granddaughter.”
Tonraq’s rage faltered, the fire behind his eyes dimming for just a moment.
“Did you think you were the only one who loved her?” she asked, stepping forward. “The only one who cherished her laughter? Her spirit? Her strength?”
Her hands trembled as she spoke, but her voice never wavered.
“I may not have raised her, but she was mine in every way that mattered. I taught her to heal wounds. I soothed her fevers when she was sick. I watched her fight and stumble and rise again. And when she smiled, it reminded me of Aang. Of everything we fought to preserve.”
She stopped in front of him. Her eyes met his—grief mirrored in blue.
“Do not think that because I do not scream, I do not mourn. That because I do not fall apart, my heart is not breaking.”
Silence stretched between them like a chasm.
Then, her expression hardened. Her voice turned cold, like the ice she once bent into spears during war.
“If you must direct your rage at someone, then aim it where it belongs. At the monsters who murdered a child out of fear. At the cowards who struck down an innocent because of what she might become.”
And just as quickly, her shoulders sagged. The strength faded from her voice, replaced by something far heavier.
“But right now,” she whispered, “we have a funeral to plan.”
__________________________________________________________
The funeral was held a week later.
It was a small, solemn affair—short, quiet, and somber. Only a few had come: members of the White Lotus, Senna, Tonraq, Fire Lord Zuko and his mother, Chief Sokka, and Tenzin himself. That was it. No crowds, no reporters, no grand declarations. Just the ones who had known her best… and had failed her most.
Tenzin felt cold the entire time.
Not the kind of cold that came from the chill wind slicing through parkas or the biting frost of the Southern tundra. This cold felt deeper—internal. As though the falling snow and the ice beneath their feet had crept into his veins and lungs, freezing him from the inside out. Each breath hurt, like inhaling shards of glass. His heart felt like stone, heavy and unmoving.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the coffin.
It was small. Too small. The size of it somehow made everything feel worse. Korra had been strong—brash, willful, explosive in personality and potential. But now she was being lowered into the earth like a child, quiet and still. Reduced to silence.
Tonraq was the one who spoke.
“My daughter…” he began, voice rough with grief. “She loved being the Avatar. She lived for it. She used to say she would train until her muscles gave out, until she could bend every element without even thinking. She… she was so excited when she learned she could firebend. Said it made her feel like a dragon.” He laughed—just once—and then the sound cracked. “She was my light. My fire. Without her…” His throat tightened. “Everything just feels darker.”
Senna didn’t even try to speak. She stood there, trembling, one hand pressed over her mouth, the other clutching the small piece of blue cloth Korra used to wear around her wrist. When the coffin was lowered into the ground, the last fragile thread of her composure snapped, and she broke into sobs.
Tenzin said nothing. What could he say?
There were no children at the funeral. No childhood friends. No peers. No fellow students.
Only teachers. Family. Bodyguards.
The realization hit him like a blow to the chest: Korra had lived her life surrounded by mentors, but utterly alone. She had trained endlessly, carried the burden of the Avatar, and never once had someone her age beside her to share the weight. They had done that. All of them. In their eagerness to shape her into a perfect Avatar, they had forgotten to help her become a person.
They had failed her.
It was a grim, gray ceremony, and when it was over, Tenzin was quietly grateful to leave. To return to Air Temple Island. To meditate. To breathe again.
But just as he was preparing to board his sky bison, a voice called out to him.
It was Khanji, the solemn, sharp-eyed leader of the White Lotus. His breath misted in the air as he approached, his heavy robes trailing in the snow.
“Tenzin,” he said, his voice low and firm. “There is something we must discuss. A matter of... great importance. It cannot wait.”
Tenzin frowned, confused and exhausted. “What could possibly be so urgent now?”
Khanji’s eyes were unreadable.
“It concerns the next Avatar.”
___________________________________________________________________
“We intend to begin the search for the next Avatar tomorrow,” Khanji said curtly, folding his hands behind his back. “We’ll start in the Earth Kingdom, as tradition dictates. I anticipate some resistance from the Earth Queen, but I trust I can rely on your assistance in persuading her to cooperate.”
Tenzin’s jaw tightened. His eyes drifted to the horizon before answering, his voice slower, more weighted than usual. “Yes. I understand. But… don’t you think this is a little insensitive? Shouldn’t we allow at least some time to mourn Korra? To let the world come to terms with what’s happened before we begin the search for her replacement?”
He exhaled deeply, as if trying to push the heaviness from his chest. “She was still so young. And whoever this new Avatar is—they’re an infant at best. They may not even show signs for years. My father didn’t learn he was the Avatar until he was twelve. Korra was a miracle. The youngest Avatar to manifest her abilities in recorded history.”
Khanji’s expression barely shifted, though the barest crease formed between his brows. “Your concerns are understandable. But this incident has made it clear—painfully clear—that the White Lotus must remain close to the Avatar at all times. If we can embed at least forty percent of our agents throughout the Earth Kingdom now, we’ll stand a better chance of identifying the child early. We won’t repeat past mistakes.”
Tenzin nodded slowly. The logic was sound. More protection would have helped Korra. Maybe even saved her.
But then Khanji continued. “And… I believe it’s in our best interest to withhold the news of the Avatar’s death from the public.”
Everything inside Tenzin came to a halt.
“…What?” he asked, his voice hollow, like the wind before a storm.
Khanji folded his arms, his tone cool and calculated. “It’s not a good look for the White Lotus. Avatar Aang entrusted us with safeguarding his successor—and we failed. We lost her. Sooner than any Avatar before her. And not in some grand final battle, not after a long life of service. We lost her early. That kind of failure... it cannot become public knowledge. Not now.”
Tenzin stared at him in disbelief, barely hearing the words as a low ringing filled his ears.
“The world is calm—for the moment,” Khanji continued. “We can afford to let them believe the departed Avatar is still in secluded training. It buys us time. Sixteen years, perhaps more. When the newest Avatar comes of age, they can step forward and assume the mantle without the stain of this tragedy hanging over them.”
“You’re suggesting,” Tenzin said slowly, “that we pretend Korra is still alive. That the world remains in the dark. That her murderers are never held accountable.”
Khanji gave a slow nod. “It is unfortunate. But yes. The public knowledge that the Avatar died in the Avatar State… it would only encourage others. Assassins, fanatics—there would be entire organizations formed around killing the Avatar in infancy. Hiding this is the safer path. For everyone.”
A gust of wind stirred through the clearing, not natural, but pulled forth from the sky by Tenzin’s rising fury. His voice cracked like a whip.
“Her name was Korra. Stop calling her ‘the Avatar’ as if she were just a symbol. She was a person.”
Khanji blinked and took a cautious step back. “Of course… forgive me. I misspoke. I meant to say—Korra. I meant to say that Korra’s death would only be an unfortunate truth for the world to bear, an unnecessary burden for them to hear.”
Tenzin stared him down, his posture like tempered steel. He could feel every part of his spirit bristling against the decision they were about to make… and yet, some part of him, the part that had grown up watching his father bear the weight of a world too complicated to fix with idealism alone, understood.
Slowly, with visible effort, he nodded. “Very well. I will inform the United Republic Council that Korra is in extended spiritual training. We’ll keep this between ourselves. For now.”
Khanji allowed himself a small, relieved smile. “Thank you, Master Tenzin. I’m glad we—”
“But you will tell Tonraq and Senna.”
The color drained from Khanji’s face as if Tenzin had struck him.
“I… I—yes. Of course,” he stammered. “That’s only fair. It’s my proposal, after all. I will speak with them. Tonight.”
Tenzin said nothing further. He gave a slow, formal bow, then turned and walked toward Oogi, his bison waiting patiently for him.
His bones ached. His breath was heavy. He had buried a student. A friend. A second daughter. And now he had to help bury her legacy as well.
He was so tired of this.
________________________________________________________________
He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t rest the next day, either.
Oogi had grumbled in protest at first—bison didn’t exactly enjoy being roused in the dead of night with no warning or rest in sight—but the great beast had sensed something in him, some weight that couldn’t be talked away. And so he had flown.
Flying helped. When the wind tore through his robes and the world shrank below him, it was easier to forget.
To forget the blackened burns that had marred little Korra’s skin.
To forget the lifeless glaze in her rich blue eyes—eyes that had once burned with unshakable determination.
To forget how light she had felt in his arms as he carried her—too small, too still—racing faster than he’d ever flown, like sheer willpower could pull her back from the void.
Flying helped him forget. So he flew until the stars faded, until the sky bloomed with the first blush of morning, until the golden edge of the setting sun crowned Republic City in a brilliant halo of color.
Korra would’ve loved this view.
The Air Acolytes were waiting when he landed. As he leapt off Oogi’s back, they flocked to him with bright smiles and eager questions.
“Welcome back, Master Tenzin!”
“How was the Southern Tribe?”
“Did you speak with Master Katara?”
“How’s the Avatar doing?”
Tenzin answered quickly, efficiently—his voice calm, clipped, hiding the storm beneath.
“Someone feed Oogi, please. My trip was fine, and my mother sends her regards. The Avatar is doing well, progressing wonderfully in their training. I don’t anticipate any of you seeing them soon—unless, of course, they come here for airbending instruction, and that won’t be for several years.”
He paused just long enough to scan the temple. “Now, can someone tell me where my wife and daughter are?”
Nam, a younger Acolyte who often helped watch the children, perked up. “They're in your quarters, sir. Putting Jinora down for a nap. If you hurry, you might catch them.”
He nodded in thanks, already moving.
Now that he was back—surrounded by familiar halls, clean air, and quiet—Korra’s death felt less like a gaping wound and more like a bruise hidden under layers of cloth. He wasn’t avoiding it. Not really. He was simply putting it aside. There was so much to do—meetings with the Council, letters to draft to the Earth Queen, communications to dignitaries in Omashu for additional White Lotus support. Khanji would draft the official language. Something neutral. Something with just enough truth to pass scrutiny.
His feet carried him automatically to his quarters, and for a moment, he just stood in the doorway, watching.
Pema was struggling—failing, really—to swaddle a gurgling Jinora, who was far too energized to cooperate.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled warmly. “Well hello, handsome,” she purred. “Didn’t expect you home so soon. Come to rescue me from this little bedtime tyrant?”
“You know she doesn’t like being swaddled,” he said with a faint smile. “She prefers to be carried until she falls asleep.”
“Yeah, well, my arms are shot, and my legs feel like jelly. So she’s gonna have to suffer through it until I recover some circulation,” Pema replied with a grin, tired but sincere.
“Give her to me,” he said, stepping forward, voice gentle.
She blinked. “You sure? You just got back. We weren’t expecting you until later this week. You don’t want to rest first?”
“For this?” he murmured. “I can stand a little longer.”
He knelt and reached out. Jinora squealed happily as he scooped her up, curling against him with the innocent trust only a child could offer. Her tiny fingers grasped at his collar as she chewed on her fist, two small teeth beginning to poke through her upper gum.
She looked so beautiful like this.
So alive.
“Tenzin?” Pema’s voice was soft now, laced with concern. “How did it go? With Korra, I mean.”
The name hit him like a tidal wave.
Korra.
His throat tightened. His vision blurred.
Korra.
He pulled his daughter and his wife into his arms, holding them tightly—too tightly—but he couldn’t let go. The words wouldn’t come, but the tears did, silent at first, then wracking and full.
For the first time since he had watched Korra die, since he had carried her broken body through the snow, since he had flown into the dark to escape the scream lodged in his chest—
Tenzin cried.
Comments
Zain Syed
Interested to see what happens here ngl. As much as people shit on Korra she was a pretty great avatar all things considered.
ghosthammer
Yo. That was a dark start but an interesting one. Let's see where it goes
