the legend of khione || korra

heartache

KHIONE

It had been three years. Three lovely, lonely years without Korra. One year since she'd stopped writing and broken a part of Khione's heart in the process.

It had been slow and torturous for Khione, realising that Korra was getting worse, that she wasn't, at her darkest moments, capable of trying to deal with her traumas, with loving Khione. Her heart felt like a dying, trapped thing, so when the next letter never came, all Khione felt was numbness, spreading all over her body.

She didn't blame Korra; she would never blame Korra. But it still hurt, when so many things reminded Khione of her. She grieved what could've been, their short, sweet, blossoming love, nipped at the bud.

...

"Now don't take this the wrong way, but I can't wait for you to leave," Bolin said. Mako scowled, and crossed his arms.

"How else is she supposed to take that, but the wrong way?" He shot back.

"I mean because I've never had a penpal before! I'm going to write you so many letters, and just to get the ball rolling," Bolin said defensively, before handing Korra a letter.

"Here. Spoiler alert, Pabu and I already miss you. Oh, and I guess, we'll be writing you letters too, Khione!"

"Thanks. That's sweet," Korra said, as Khione nodded serenely. Their hands were laced together, a gesture so common now that none of their friends thought anything of it.

"I'll only be gone for a few weeks," Khione said nonchalantly. "Just to keep Korra some company." She smiled gently as Korra looked up at her gratefully.

"Now, I don't want you to worry about a thing while you're gone. Your recovery should be your number one concern," Tenzin said, laying a hand across Korra's shoulder. "Jinora, the airbenders and I have everything under control."

...

The days at the Southern water tribe felt like a daydream to Khione, days of white snow and blue ice walls that seemed to overlap and fold over each other. Korra was grieving herself; Khione knew that for certain now. She'd lost a central part of what made her believe in herself, and now, she was devastated by that loss.

Despite Khione's best efforts, she could feel Korra withdrawing from the rest of the world, from Khione, shuttering out everything and everyone. She was so quiet now, a shell of the bright, bold girl Khione had known.

There were moments that made Khione hope, though. Like now.

They were curled up, on Korra's bed, facing each other. Korra was wearing a flowing nightgown that had slipped down one shoulder, her dark hair flowing freely down her back. Her head rested against an arm, the hands stirring against Khione's hair.

It was these moments where the grief on Korra's face faded to quiet contemplation. Gently, Khione kissed Korra's knuckles, then brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Korra smiled, a sad, soft thing that crinkled around her eyes. It was a rare thing now, Korra's smile, only coaxed out every now and then.

There was no need for words between them. They were both fine in the silence.

"I think you should go home."

Khione's fingers froze around Korra's hair, where she'd been tying it up.

A few days had passed, and Korra had been visiting Katara, trying to regain the ability to walk. It had dampened her mood, the failed attempts after failed attempts, and that heartbreakingly hopeless look on Korra's face hadn't left for days.