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The gray mist of a light fog wisps across the ground. It's presence is of little notice. But it sets around, causing a haze that drifts peculiarly around the feet of the man standing there. It is bleak and dreary day, the weather neither cold nor hot, and the air stagnant with the smell of the salt air that linger and makes it heavy. The man frowns. His gaze rests upon the swampy ground that seems to go forever in all directions. The reeds and marsh plants rise eerily from around the fog. It was loneliness, that seemed to extend to oblivion. But maybe that was where he was: Oblivion.
The gentle stagnant water lapsed slightly on the edge of the barren gritty sand in front of him. It's small plopping waves resounding on the few rocks that dotted the small shore of the swamp. He takes notice; and then shuts his eyes. He focuses, focuses on something he tries to understand, something he can't understand. He grips his fist in anger. Something he wont understand! He twist his face in outrage, his features crinkled by his anger. He lets out a forlorn sigh and shrugs off his distant mortal feelings. But he struggles...
His eyes stare down in deep contemplation. Unmoving and unyielding in his passion; wide awake and humorless. He was a man fighting within himself, a man of indecision. Fighting between what ultimately he believed was right, and what his honor only reckoned him to do. A decision whose various complexities make it a question to ponder for a lifetime. But time was slipping away, slowly but surely, waning quickly, if he didn't act soon the opportunity would have passed, and the situation might unravel. So he resolves and looks upon his future, and summons himself to the precipice.
His gazes out onto the water. There before him lies a ship, moored to the pier, not a single soul aboard her decks. Her line was taught and fine, the masts were painted, and wood that etched and new. A magnificent craft. On the moor there stood several of his elite guards, solemnly standing at attention, their spears and swords by their sides. His heart still aches, but his feet move forward down the isles of weeds through the stinking marshy ground. He slowly makes his way down the narrow beach and walks upon the small pier, his chest no longer so protruded.
On the pier, the captain is kneeling, his hands bound beneath him, two guards on either of his sides. The man's mind was suddenly filled with inexorable rage. Damn Fool, thought he, Why did he make so blatant an error? He knew smuggling was illegal, and he took the course anyway. Greedy Bastard. He bit his lips and flexed his hand behind his back as his footsteps ascended the three steps to the piers top, his boots landing with a deep 'thud' at each step he took. At a length, he sighed. His cheeks flushed of color, his eyes still bearing that same unnatural serious nature about them. ...but duty is duty. And the law is the law. And no matter how much I dislike it, I must enforce it...no matter how much I dislike it. His view touched upon the few port holes on the side of the vessel. The arms of men and women stuck out of the few port holes from the side, and as he squinted, he could make out the faces of men, women, children, elderly, young babes, adolescents, and the impoverished. If the sorrow bore down anymore, he was afraid it would crush his chest.
He stood in silence for a few moments still, and then began to talk, his words smooth and hesitant, "Men!" he addressed them, "We have vowed by our lord and our master, that we shall exercise his will...even unto death. But let me not remind you of your duty, your duty not only to your king; but also to your parents; to your sweethearts at home; for the safety of your children; and most importantly, for the honor of your family. You all have taken oaths, upon the flag that all your comrades who came before you have as well. We are the enforcers of our nation's will and the providers of it's freedom." he paused for a moment of deep thought, "And that nation!" his voice rose like thunder, "has specifically ordered: No Smuggler shall be permitted within Fire nation shipping lanes. And the penalty..." his voice sank almost to a whisper, "...is unfortunately...death." The smuggler who was knelling before the two guards gasped one last time just before in a flash of a moment, the sword came and off came his head. Blood splattered on the wood as the soldier did another cut to sever the neck as he hadn't completely done so. When the job was done, the two soldiers dragged the body over to the pier and tossed it into the stagnant water below. Around the body amid the water a deep red pool of blood formed around where it had landed before the body sank to bottom as the blood still floated on the top.
The insides of the ship suddenly started to come to life with the yelling of the souls underneath. "It is also stated!" he said amidst the commotion, "That the cargo must also be...liquidated!". He then waved his two fingers to signal the men on the ship guarding the hatches. The soldiers, with already lit torches, set fire to the sails that caught easily. The rest readily though their torches upon the ship from the pier as the guards from aboard the ship made their way down the gangplank. On the gangplank, they let loose the mooring lines and the ship slowly drifted out into the sea.
The fire spread rapidly. First starting from a small flames then forming into a blazing inferno. The screams of panic they came from below suddenly dissipated into blood curdling screeches of heart-rendering pain as the ship became their funeral pyre. The dreary day set into night, and soon the ship gave up huge plumes of black smoke. By now the cries had now but all died, and there was nothing left but to see the skeleton of the ship burn into the abyss. By morning there was nothing left. Was remained of the ship was floating dust upon the sea. Among the rubble, half-cremated skeletons and corpses clinging together on charred pieces of wood, their faces bearing unspeakable fright. A dismal picture as they breathed out their last. But one by one, they too sunk beneath the sea. Until there was nothing left, no remainder, no signal, no sign that anything had ever occurred. All that stood there, was the lonely pier, whose silent reality was the only witness to those final chapters of those unfortunate souls whose fate had been met in the terrible engagement, which they had been caught in the middle of.
The contingent of soldiers had meanwhile left just after they set flame to it. They mounted their horses and with irrational speed, set off a the solitary path that led out of the swamp, back to their camp that resided within a low grove of trees around two small hills. It was there that about twenty tents stood all around in a circle, it was there also, that the man had his quarters. He dismounted his horse and threw back the flap of his own tent. There in the middle of the small space was his oak desk. He pulled out his writing chair from beneath and silently sat there, then he pulled the pen and began delicately dipping it into the ink well on the right hand of the desk, and began scribing upon the small piece of parchment he had produced from his coat.
A little piece of time passed as he continued to write, until half of the paper was filled with elegant cursive writing. He checked his work and then proceeded to continue. Then, the tent flap was pulled back, and in stepped a sprightly young man with a dignified and grim demeanor appeared. He didn't wait to be spoken to. He addressed the man sitting at the desk with force and with exuberance. "Why did you burn the ship?"
The man at the desk didn't look up from his writing, and replied in an unassuming tone, "Because that was what was required..."
"To liquidate the cargo?"
He nodded his head, now looking up from his paper, "Yes..."
"But they were not cargo! Those were innocent men, women, and children! Civilians!"
He man replied back with all due seriousness, but not with any passion, his words creeping out of his mouth, "I understand your heart-felt concerns...but we must be ice cold when dealing with these so-called civilians. They choose to take the course, and they paid with it with their blood. In a war like this, there are no civilians...".
A graveness fell over the conversation, as the young officer tried to regain composure. He answered back, his voice now slow and more shaken, "And add to the death that has already been so prevalent?"
The man looked up from his desk, his eyes as soulless as his demeanor, "That is what young people are for."
The young man slowly saluted his superior officer, and his superior officer saluted him back. He then bowed courteously and left the tent. The man remarked to himself with a slight smirk, "That's what young people are for..."