weak
. helium lost .
Author's Notes: This fic doesn't follow exactly the dialogue, etc. of the episodes; it's just my take on it, and how I see it from Zuko's point of view.
Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender © Nickelodeon and the others involved in the making and distribution of it. I'm just a teeny little fan. :)
"No! Uncle!"
A shot straight to the chest. His uncle falling unceremoniously to the ground, his calm composure shattered; all that was left was this hollow shell, hardly breathing. And in another flash, she was gone, that cursed creature who he could only call his sister by definition.
The sound of dashing feet, worries pitter-pattering on the hard, dirt ground. Shock. Disbelief. Trembling hands, cradling his limp body; thoughts rushing through his mind, every one worse than the one before it. Silence, shaking, waiting and hoping for any sign of life. He was always so filled with energy—even when he sipped tea, he was charged, filled with life. But now, this—this—breathing shallowly, as if every breath were a struggle; fingers limp and loose, those weathered fingers, like old parchment.
"Wake up…" he whispered beneath his breath, almost too soft to hear, tears forming in his eyes. "No… wake up…" Meaningless words, uttered over and over again; how was this going to help? Meaningless, meaningless, meaningless, meaninglessmeaninglessutteringoverandoverand—
"Zuko… I can help."
Soft steps, coming toward him. Anguish exploding, enveloping him in a curtain of fire; he heard himself screaming for them to leave, leave and get away from them; he could handle himself; what could this weak, weak waterbender do? Weak, weak—the snow-white full moon against a dark, azure sky—weak, weak—water rushing up around him, pinning him to the wall—weak, weak—helpless, the tiny flames sputtering and dying in the palms of his hands, palms like old canvas, left out to yellow and crumble.
Another step, and another. Her hand reaching out, offering—offering, even though they were enemies, offering to help someone who'd tried so hard to kill her—trying to give, trying to help, when all he'd ever tried to do was take, take take. Why? Why did she even care? Did she think he was—weak? Tumultuous feelings, churning and dragging along within him; the firey pit of confusion and he was so confused; why was she being so kind, why was she being so kind, he couldn't take it, her gentle, smiling face, her softness, just like the mother he'd lost—
"Leave!"
The fire rushing out from his core, sweeping over them like a devilish wind; they scattered back and then he heard their footsteps gradually getting softer and softer, and they were finally leaving, leaving him to be alone; he didn't need anyone to support him, and he never did, and he never would, and—
He hoped that he hadn't hurt her.
Author's Notes: All sorts of feedback appreciated, though try to keep it diplomatic :) I'm interested to see reactions toward the writing style, also—I tried out something new here.
