Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender.
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It was tragic, really; and all too sudden... but expected. Short is something to describe a life of a warrior, anyway. It's rare for someone to live past the tender age of twenty-five; and those who usually do are either really lucky, or unusually strong. Unfortunately for the Fire Prince, he lacked both in his fight with his wicked sister, and his life was cut short at the blossoming age of sixteen.
In the rising of the sun, the passion of thousands of people burned for him. Their once bitter tongues exclaimed praises of his honor, and they had cried warm tears from their now mournful eyes. May it be remorse, pity, or sincerity but the Fire Nation has finally, finally, finally welcomed Zuko home.
But, much as the fiery golden orb gradually descends into the horizon each dusk- slowly and inevitably, unseen and forgotten- the once gleaming memories of the glorified prince eventually cooled, as it got buried under the pile of more pressing things in everyone's life. However, in different corners of the Earth, there are some hearts that constantly ache over his absence. And in some days, certain hearts feel a little more brittle than the rest, yearning for what can never come back.
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Sokka misses Zuko most in the calm of winter. When flickers of snow are being carried languidly by the cool blowing wind, and his flesh can barely feel the warmth of the sun. When the cloud overhead dims most of the day and promotes the darkest of nights. When white blankets the ground, instead of the usual green or brown.
It was then when he had first met him. Sokka would never forget the opening of the ship's over-sized gateway, and in the midst of smoke enters a young man (much like him), leading a troop (much, much more experienced than his). It was truly fascinating how the raven-haired royalty had carried himself down the metallic ramp- flawlessly striking effective blows while donned in what appears to be an indestructible armor. The piercing gaze of his golden eyes, and the roughness of his tone mien intimidation, but not ruthlessness.
Sokka would only chuckle at it now, but he realized how restrained Zuko's attacks were back in that day. The Water Tribe boy was clearly overpowered and outmatched- the fire prince has access to deadlier weapons and fatal fire bending moves- but surprisingly, Sokka got out of the fight sustaining only minor injuries: a small bump on his forehead, and a deep cut on his manly pride. Ultimately though, his village was left unharmed; even Gran-Gran was pushed back onto Katara's arms instead of the ground. Sigh~
As Sokka shuts his eyes and inhales the brisk air of the season, nostalgia of that day would come flooding inHe would smile in the sky, where people say he might be, then whisper his thoughts out- enjoying a private conversation with his first rival, and life-long friend. Hoping that the lightness in his tone, and his sprightly words will conceal the heaviness of his heart as he let his voice flow in the soothing current of the wind.
You know, I'm chilling out here. A friend could really use some of that fire mumbo-jumbo that you enjoy doing.
And though the cold weather would numb his face, he could only wish it to numb his pain. His nose would get red and runny, and he would stubbornly blame the chill of winter; convincing no one else but himself. But all too suddenly, salty water would touch his lips and his breathing would hitch, and he wouldn't have any excuse or jokes to stop.
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Aang remembers Zuko most in the early spring. When the hue of blue would take over the grey sky of winter; displaying an embellishment of cirrocumulus clouds. When the frozen wood frogs would thaw, and their symphonic croaks would permeate through the evening, singing the ballad of the Blue Spirit.
It was he who had rescued Aang from the fortress of the ever-egotistical Admiral Zhao. The odds were highly stacked against them; outmanned 2 to 100, but somehow the duo had managed to escape. And the 'how' was what made that night meaningful. Instantly, there was an unspoken form of camaraderie between them- The masked man and the bald monk had stayed close together during the whole ordeal. They accepted each others' impromptu gestures/instructions that gave rise to synchronized attacks and spontaneous flight. Much like a couple of acrobats, who rests their safety into the others' hands to pull a dangerous stunt. Teamwork. Even when things got tight, and the dual broadswords were treading the skin of Aang's throat, he did not flinch, for somehow he knew his partner meant no harm. Trust. And when his partner was unmasked, revealing the charred face of the infamous Fire Prince, he felt compelled not just to save him, but to also make sure he was alright. Loyalty. It is now ironic that he would later tell Sokka that he did not make a friend that night, because from then on, he had considered him one. Friends do, after all, come in all sorts of form and costumes? and Zuko just happened to come in a blue Oni mask.
Oni. Spirits. Bridge. Souls?
Aang would find himself spending most of the day in meditation to let his astral body wander the Spirit World; pushing its limits, seeking desperately, and hoping to once again meet his fire-bending master and precious friend. But by the end of the day, when he would undoubtedly fail; he would thank the kind clouds and its consoling rain showers for letting him weep without restraint. The rhythmic pitter-patter of water dripping down his clammy skin would perfectly drown the piercing noise of his wrecking heart...
I miss you, buddy. Maybe next time.
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Author's Note: Next chapter is Toph. Feedback will be much appreciated. Thanks!
