Chapter Text
There were few sounds that Baatar enjoyed more than the violent patter of rain against the domes at Zaofu. It was a perfect day to stay inside, and the aspiring engineer looked forward to enjoying a warm moonpeach tart and a game of pai sho with Kuvira or Huan before he headed to the workshop to help out his father.
He found his brother in the drawing room, which Huan still thought was a room specifically made for him to create art in. He was standing by the window facing the training field and scratching chaotic swirls of green and gray paint onto his easel.
After over a decade of dealing with his brother’s eccentricities, he knew better than to try and guess what it was. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Huan simply shrugged and pointed to the window. “I’m borrowing your muse for my new project,” he said.
Shaking his head, Baatar glanced out the window and saw Kuvira alone on the field, getting absolutely drenched and trying really hard to do... something with a hunk of raw metal. He glared at Huan after a moment, finally registering the accusation. “She’s not my muse!”
“She totally is, or she would be if you weren’t completely artless,” Huan replied, deadpan. “Just look. The struggle for perfection, the desperate need to please the mentor, the quiet contemplation of a harrowing past—it’s a story that has to be told.”
Baatar considered asking how those formless squiggles on the parchment had anything to do with Kuvira, but ultimately decided against it. “How long has she been out there?”
“Since her lesson with mom this morning.”
Baatar’s gaze flitted to the window once again. “She’s going to get sick if she stays out there all day.”
“Yeah, probably,” his brother said, adding another stroke to his painting. “The sacrifice of physical wellbeing in the pursuit of one’s goals. It adds a layer of complexity to the piece.”
Baatar felt his left eye start to twitch. “And you didn’t even try to get her to come in?”
Huan gave another shrug. “Your muse, your problem, brother,” he said. “Besides, if you try and interrupt her now, she’ll probably bite your head off.”
Baatar heaved a deep sigh, resenting how right he probably was. But, of course, he was going to try anyway. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“He heads downstairs, knowing well the futility of his endeavor, constantly chasing after the elusive muse—”
“Shut up!”
Kuvira glared at the piece of lead before her in the meteorite garden, stretching and pulling at it to no end. But no matter what she did, it just refused to liquefy. After her umpteenth failed attempt, she growled, chucking it on the ground. It brought a wave of mud splattering up at her, worsening her mood.
That morning, when Suyin turned the hard metal into liquid and made it dance while telling stories of her childhood waterbending friend, it had looked so easy. But the sun had long since disappeared along with her teacher and—it seemed—any hope of her mastering this skill.
With a beleaguered sigh, she bent the mud off her face and clothes, wrung some of the water from her braid, and got back into the stance Suyin had shown her. She had been getting close again—she truly believed it—when a voice broke her focus.
“Kuvira, come inside. It’s freezing!”
She let the lead drop at her feet, and whirled around with murder in her posture. “Not now, Baatar!”
Baatar ignored her and came closer until his large green umbrella was covering her as well. Although she kept up her scowl, it felt so good not to be pelted by water.
“Whatever you’re working on can wait until it’s dry out,” he said, trying to be the voice of reason, as always.
“I’m fine,” Kuvira replied, but as soon as the wind blew at them, she shivered violently.
He sighed. “Kuvira.”
She honestly did not have the energy to argue with him. “I’ll come in as soon as I can get it to maintain a liquid state.”
Baatar blinked at her a few times. “Wait, that’s what you’re doing? Mom is literally the only person in Zaofu who can do that.”
“And she wants me to learn it, so I’m going to,” Kuvira explained. “I can’t let Su down.”
“She has two children who can’t earthbend at all. Something tells me she’ll survive.”
Finding no good response to this, Kuvira glanced down at her feet. “Look, you hate the rain, and your dad’s gonna start looking for you if you don’t meet him soon. Don’t worry about me.”
He smiled softly, shaking his head at her. “You always say that, but–”
Just then, a familiar call of “ Junior ” came from an upstairs window, and Baatar said a very bad word under his breath.
Kuvira chuckled a bit. She was always right.
“You’ll be in soon?” he asked, glancing at her with concern.
“Yes, now just go so I can focus!” She bent a path of solid, dry earth leading back to the house for emphasis.
When he was halfway back she let the path turn to mud again, and watched as his feet sunk deep into it.
“Kuvira!” He turned around, and if looks could kill, he’d have her ten feet under.
“Sorry! I couldn’t resist,” she called to him, laughing in earnest as she bent the mud out of his shoes and trousers. “That was for breaking my concentration earlier!”
With a flick of her wrist she made the path reappear, and allowed him to go back inside without any further harassment.
The hunk of lead looked no more liquefiable than it had back before he distracted her. It was going to be a very long day after all.