The Dragon and the Heron
A Fable
the-rose-has-wilted
Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA
Warnings: Slash, yaoi, nakedness, yadda yadda yadda...
Sokka threw up his hands, stretching. Light from the east entered the cracks in his eyes, and he knew he wasn't ready to get up. The coast wasn't clear. The coast was never clear. The thin flap which covered him slipped off, and landed on his pillow, The wind rustled the shrubs, and Sokka cringed in his nakedness. But it was something he had to do. Over the mountain, he saw the morning rays of the sun etching a path through the sky. The morning stillness twisted at his insides, but he made his way up the path, unprotected. Because that was the way that he went. A warrior to the core, clothing or not. Stumbling along the path deer had taken years ago, he walked over the dry dirt, dried in place. Nothing moved except for the few wisps of tall grass. Everything had a dead yellow, dull as crushed poppies. He stared at his toes, his warrior-feet. He counted pebbles as he walked.
The loose dirt collected on his feet, turning them dust-brown. he sighed into his empty mouth, morning air greeting his sugared lungs, babied into meeting warm air. The cold shocked his through, and he winced. The path was cool and open, the trodden ruts in the ground met his gaze, and they smiled as an old friend would do as you met him yet again. These ruts were dragged into the ground and immovable. The air held no clouds, and blew no smells. Only harsher wind as he climbed the narrow path up the mountain. Because that's what it was; a mountain. But if he just looked at his feet, than he would be fine. Because things swallowed in small amounts were more manageable than swallowing a whole mountain in one gulp.
And the Earth could swallow him up in one gulp any time it wanted to. Sunlight stared him down, and the light made him blind. He could not see where he was; he followed his feet as they decided his path for him. The world was made of smears of paint to his side, or a child's drawing made from the charcoal found in an old fire pit. He crested the hill, as it was to him. Now he faced a small plateau. They slept on the side of the mountain, the top was not far from it. He needed no education to be able to see the seagulls dive, miles away at the edge of the sea. Light winked off the sea, and made him cringe, even more aware of his stark lack of clothes. He took a deep breath, an jumped off the pinnacle of civilization.
Cold water shocked him, made his heart explode, He rose to the surface, gasping, the silence broken by his gasps. The water broke his sleep, letting conscious thought spill down his body, as if an egg had been cracked over his head. The little watering hole he jumped into was clouded now with mud. The little creatures of the earth awoke around him. He flicked the hair out of his face; it was plastered to his cacao bean skin. Dirt from his skin sloughed off in the muck, and he reclined as his body adjusted to the temperature shift. He drank deeply from this life in his body, and then awoke from his bubble. Dragging himself out of the water, the frigid air ate his skin.
Magic could not explain it. He wandered back down the trail, no longer stumbling. The light in his eyes saw the little birds in the brush chirping as he passed them. No one stole the morning from his stealing-hands. Not this morning, no. He walked home, frozen air drying frozen skin. Little wind blew past him, his ghosts complaining to his mind, as emptiness set down upon the trail behind him. Crisp crinkling sounds of dried leaves were all there were to it.
All this I saw. I saw it well, just as I see it every morning. Watching his perfect form, his perfect eyes, his perfection waking, ethereal morning coaxing my light from it's cowry shell. Those cocoa bean lips so desirable, ghostly breath wishing to be warmed by mine. For I am a warrior, just as he is. Each day, his feet pad up the path to me, I watch him pass me, and I awake from my tired bones-rest. I cannot move fast enough to catch him. He is too fast even in his morning tiredness. The beauty of hindsight is that it does not require action, merely observance. The same goes for afterthought. I am his afterthought, alone as a boulder on a plain. The plain that eats my fire, because it cannot care if I scorch it, and because it can absorbed the light I send it.
I cannot stop from staring as I follow him up in his nakedness. My nakedness is not innocence, but shame. His breath is childish, mine is embittered. And I know I do not have the right to love him, and I know I do not have the right to love him and it burns my skin as hard as I can fight back. I fight as a dragon eats the wind, because it will always lose. And I will always lose. I fight a dragon's fight, and I cannot beat the Earth. Because the Earth never stops, and I must stop. And I must stop. But I cannot stop as I follow his padding feet up the rut to his morning spot. I watch him with his eyes clothed, and I bend to see him arch his back as he jumps into the water, spraying it like glass shattered on a stone floor.
I watch him do all of this in his morning perfection, knowing that I am not good enough. I am never good enough; my face can prove it to you. and I know each and every morning that no matter how much the dragon wishes to hold the blue heron, he knows he must never do so. And I must never do so. Because, like an egg, once I shatter his innocence, I can never put it back, and he is forever a broken egg. It torments me, just as it torments the dragon that he cannot hold his heron, but the heron cannot know. For the heron will flee when he hears danger approach. And the dragon is most certainly a threat, his flaming tendrils scarring the heron, scorching his soul. But the dragon cannot stop. And just as he cannot stop, I cannot stop. I will watch, and that is all I will do. The longer I stay, the longer I can watch. And watching is as sweet a candy as I will ever enjoy.
linelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelinelineline.
I watch my dragon watching me. his nakedness is on fire, warmth and passion I long for. And I long for it, and I long for it. Zuko watches me every morning. When the dark that is clinging to my eyes is washed away, freeing me, I see his guilty gaze trying to hide from me. He stares at my morning nakedness. My morning nakedness chills me, and I have trouble getting over it. But that is what my watering-hole is for. It helps me release my morning thickness and thins the molasses in my head until I can see through it. The light helps me make sense of my world. I can appreciate so much more. Zuko watches all of this, and his bittersweet eyes take in all they can.
But my dragon is mistaken. He has forgotten that I am a warrior. He has forgotten that this harsh wind has no harshness compared to the harshness of my home. I am not a delicate flower that cannot be moved, nor am I fickle beyond reason, nor can he break my innocence. He cannot break what I open and give to him willingly. Nor am I morning perfection. I may be arrogant, but morning quiet shows me the big picture. And my picture has grown to include my silent companion. my dragon is mistaken. As much fire as he breaths he cannot destroy me, and he cannot make me forget. I cannot forget the love that I have for him, were he to burn my body ten thousand times over, he could not damage the love I have for him.
My heart aches, though. I ache every day. It was always like this. I loved Zuko from the moment I met him, though he hated me. And I loved him from this moment, even if I covered my heart with layers of leather just to prevent this truth from entering it. This love I had could not overcome the love laid over it, over the leather on my heart. And I never told myself a lie to make me love Suki, and Yue. It was never a lie. My dragon was just more persistent. He has left a hole in my side that makes me fail, that I cannot fill with all the living in the world. I need to fill it, and I cannot fill it.
Gods, I am empty some days, and Zuko is guilty, and I am empty, and I am dying. I am dying from emptiness. Zuko is killing the flower that he is bound to protect. I am desperate for his touch, the touch that can make me full again. His perfect warm lips could warm me, and could warm me. Each night I know his embrace could save me. His embrace would warm my dying heart. Kisses could envelop me, and I am hoping for my dragon to help me. I am on my knees, begging my dragon to save me, and he will not move himself to move me.
My warrior body aches for my dragon, and Zuko longs to hold me. And as I watch him watching me, I watch me slip away. One day I will kiss him, and I will kiss him, and I will kiss him. And the story of the dragon and the heron will draw to a close.
fini.
Well, that was short, but passable. I'll post it, and that will be that.
Don't make me beg for reviews. (I'll do it, too.)
P.S. I know both characters are naked, but I don't think that it makes this M, since nothing happens. If people feel differently, leave a review. If enough people fell it should be rated M, than i will change the rating.