The Night of the Darkened Moon

Somewhere in the Fire Nation, in a small village, in a small Inn, an old woman leaned over a kettle to stir the thick soup she was cooking. The Inn had no guests that evening, but she always made extra just in case. The fragrant smells of spices and cooking vegetables filled her nostrils and piqued her appetite.

Suddenly, the ladle fell from her hand and clattered against the stones of the hearth. Her hands flew to her chest. She felt as though she were choking.

Stumbling to the window she looked out at the night sky with terror in her eyes. The moon, the beautiful luminous orb that had always been the source of her greatest strength hung there, red. The moon was red. This was no ordinary lunar eclipse. Somehow, she knew the Fire Nation was responsible for the horror she was witnessing. She didn't know how they had managed it, but they had slain the moon and with it her bending.

For one excruciatingly brief moment it flickered back, only to vanish again, leaving even greater emptiness in its place. The moon was no longer red. The moon was no longer.

She was more lost, more confused, more alone than she had ever been during all she had suffered at the hands of the Fire Nation. After everything else they had taken, this final theft was the most horrible.

It was a terrible night. With her entirely heedless of the soup on the fire, it burned. The smell filled the room, but she did not discern its source; all burning was Fire Nation. They were burning her very soul from her body. She lay in a heap on the floor weeping. Her own tears felt alien on her wrinkled cheeks. Her own body had become a worse prison than any in which the Fire Nation had held her. She trembled with no ability or desire to still herself.

And then, after what seemed like years of agony and despair, she suddenly felt it come back. Her bending, the moon, the beauty and glory of it – she drew it into herself, drinking deep of its cool sweetness. She found herself outside, face tilted heavenwards, glistening tears – feeling just as they should – still flowing. The relief was staggering.

She didn't know how, but somehow the moon had struggled free from the Fire Nation's grasp and returned to its rightful place in the night sky. She pulled all the water she could feel, revelling in her power as never before. It slicked her hair to her face and neck and soaked her clothing to her skin, and still she drew more. They had taken it away, but it was back. She would never take her bending for granted again.

She might just be one frail, old woman standing now at the centre of a massive circle of dead and blackened meadow, but she was a Waterbender, and she would use her power to fight them, to give them what they deserved. She owed it to the moon to do all she could.

A/N: I was inspired to write this after reading Lady Azar de Tameran's short fic "Longer the Lost" so credit for the idea of Watertribespeople not at the North Pole during the seige and thier own experiences of seeing the moon go red on that night goes to her. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have even thought of it if I hadn't read her story.