Author's Note: My first LoK story that I kind of did on a whim. There will be more chapters. These are mostly introspective or scene-centric pieces, and most of the characters will probably have a chapter dedicated to them. Hope you enjoy! :)

I don't own anything affiliated with the Legend of Korra.

Where Death is Just a Word
by: SmurfLuvsCookies

Death was just a word.

To two content little boys, it didn't really mean anything. It was a word that meant the end of life, the passing of a soul into the spirit world, the continuation of a cycle. They had witnessed death in small increments, in the drowning of a spider or the slaughter of a pig, but it had never occurred to them how devastating death could be.

They did not understand death until it ripped their family apart, claiming their parents in an explosive, fiery way. Eventually the boys came to the conclusion that they would never again hear their parents laughter or feel their embrace. They would never again be scolded or praised. And they realized that no one cared to take care of them anymore, not in this new harsh world where they were lucky if a grown-up threw a coin at them on the street.

It was then that death became more than a word.

Death was something much too real. It was a tangible thing, always imminent, oppressing and cold. They became familiar with death in the sour knots that were their stomachs, in the stiffness of their fingers, and in the dryness of their lips. But most of all, they felt death in the absence of their parents. That was death, and it was all around them.

A crimson scarf and a young fire ferret were the only solaces in the boys' lives. That, and each other. It was often that they fought, but when big green eyes shed tears and a muffled apology came from behind the crimson scarf, brotherhood was restored.

The eldest boy took on jobs that were too big for him, like the scarf he adorned. He did brutal labor, he stole from the innocent, and when fire filled his veins he fought for his place in a hierarchy of criminals. He was only a little boy, but his eyes were filled with the determination of a warrior.

The youngest boy did his best to ensure his brother was happy, or as happy as he could be. He bought food and prepared it, he cleaned their empty dwelling, he made jokes and ensured that his brother laughed every day. But when he heard him crying in the middle of the night, snuggled close to the crimson scarf, he did not know what to do.

The eldest shielded his brother from the society of felons he conspired with. Together they only did labor. He went off on his own when more danger was involved. His brother was pure, and he wanted him to stay that way.

When rock bent under the youngest boy's will, there was no stopping the attention both of them gained. In the cover of night they fled. When old pals discovered them, the eldest swore them to secrecy. Bolin will not join, he told himself. Bolin will not live that life.

The boys worked honestly for the rest of their years. They were poor, but happy, and free from the fear of arrest. Death still gnawed at their stomachs from time to time, and it was still as imminent as ever in the echoes of their rooms. They did their best to live the death away.

It was their dream to find a safe place again, a place where death could resume being just another word in their vocabulary.

But they knew they never would.