A/N: This is my first venture into the ATLA fandom, so let's see how it goes. I hope you enjoy this.
WORDS
The words were spilled as he lay there, slumped against the wall.
Dark ebony hair drooped over his eyes, the matted fringes sticking to his face like merciless hands, grazing his skin. Lips parted he continued to stare ahead, the thirsty ochre gold of his eyes drinking his surroundings.
There was white all around him, white like freshly fallen snow.
It was all around him, wherever he looked, all four walls surrounding him stained with the pallid white, bright and burning. No colour surrounded him but the white, piercing his eyes like a brutal stab as if trying to leach away what remained of him.
The lights never went out.
There was no day or night, just the constant dominating and wounding brightness encompassing him. It was always white, since the day he came here. It never changed, never shifted, never burned into something different and that is what drove him insane, the never changing, everlasting, undying, ever bright and ever haunting presence of the white.
A dry chuckle left his lips as he saw the source of his solace.
The screen shifted with pictures, with people, who talked and moved. He heard their voices which were so different, so distinct from the others. He found it peculiar, always found it odd to hear them, the hoarse and dulcet sounds, the raspy voices and pitchy noises, the melodious screams and the agonised laughs.
He had been thrown here for days, months or years, Zuko did not know. But it had been a long time… a long time that he was sent here to learn, to study and to discover.
He often wondered what was it that he was sent to observe. There was nothing new to these people, nothing more to their lives. They created feigning illusions they termed as hope, pathetically fighting against something they could not win against only to fall headfirst into the pitiless protruding ridges of fate so they could be wrecked by the avalanche of misery.
Head tilted and eyebrows creased, he looked at the soft black curls that fell down her tan cheeks as she spoke.
There was nothing to them but misery…
Her eyes were glistening with the tears as the words tumbled down her plump lips.
…nothing to them but agony.
The transparent globule cascaded down, meandering its way from the encaging mesh of her lashes as she looked ahead, the sapphire orbs blurry and stained.
They crave for compassion and love…
There were arms around her petite form, Zuko observed, pulling her into a warm and soothing embrace, meant to comfort and console.
…but it only crushes them, crumbles them until they drown.
The streams of pain though never ceased. Her head rested against his chest, hands clasped the fabric of the shirt which was soaked with her tears.
Drown in the welcoming dread of loss, of indifference, of incredulity.
There was a pair of golden orbs looking at her, mumbling words that were spoken as a consolation, to impregnate hope in the shrivelling life that inhabited her frail body.
Words are said, phrases uttered, plans made to make them believe…
Lips quivering, her shaking hands cupped his face and he leaned into her touch, savouring and coveting for more. Always more.
…to make them believe that they can be saved.
The quiver began to subside and her lips formed words. Useless words.
They think that those letters put together could defeat the slaughtering rage of inevitability hurling its way towards them.
An incredulous stare.
They name those wretched words hope…
They think it is the treasure they have been searching for years.
He felt the words tearing and ripping him apart.
But it is only wreckage and spoils. It is only the deadly trap of disregard.
More words were uttered, but he only stared, shifting and rummaging through the scatter of letters to get hold of something that held more meaning than this.
It ruins them because they fall prey to what they fear most…
His hand came up to hold her hands and brought them down, a wistful smile curling his lips.
…what they want most and it wrenches all clarity from them.
He curled his arms around her, lips pressed to her forehead. Arms encircling him, the azure shifted up to gaze into the tawny depths.
But what is decided is to come. Silence descends.
They stare, hopeless and weak, unable to weave the strings of fate according to their wishes.
Lacking words. Lacking hope.
The tears fall, bringing with them what was written from the start and their words fade because the ruthless hands of fate have no regard for what they have, they want and need.
The quill scratches against the paper, white and clean.
They wait. They wait for it to end and plead for hope to reappear as they stand, motionless and frozen.
The ink stains and writes. It writes words that can never be called hope and works to embed something that is the very opposite.
The quill is held by a hand, numb and cold. It writes, over the words they spoke, cutting the previous sentences which they worked to form for years and scribbles over it with the rashness of despair and distrust.
He turns away from her. The strangled sigh leaves her lips.
The quill is pressed down roughly, cutting, amending and . . . destroying.
The final word is left, the final jumble of alphabets that they both would ever hear.
It tears; the paper is ripped by the impulsive movement, and the hand clumsily connects with something, causing a spill over the words, leaving nowhere to write.
Zuko's hands shake violently as he gapes down, her sweet voice still haunts him and he screams, curling up trying to shrink into a mass of nothingness.
He looks up at the screen where she is looking at him, face tear-stained and contorted with pain. Her hand is held out to stop him but he leaves.
He is surrounded by white…
He always leaves.
…White like a blank paper.
His attention is diverted to the mess in front of him.
It always stays white, never changes.
"Zuko?" she says.
He feels it shatter him, burning his veins with venomous regret.
Eyes darting around frantically, he searches.
He searches for a quill.
He searches for a quill to write.
He searches for a quill to write and bring her back.
The paper lies in front of him, the black ink etching words which he longs to say, but the blazing singe begins to consume it, so that the white ink stained surface begins to wither and turn to nothing but ash, making his words indecipherable.
The burning flame rises, obliterating all words, all hope.
The cruel auburn flickers that can raze the serenity of white and the solid ground of black.
Blinding and sizzling fire.
A/N: Reviews are appreciated. ^.^