Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA
This was written for Summer's Day fanfic contest. I chose the Historically Inspired prompt, chosing to write about the American Civil War. If you squint, there is some actual historical terms mentioned. There is also (major) hinting at Zutara.
You should all check out Summer's Day by Sun Daughter. She gives great tips on writing for the Avatar Universe and for writing in general:)
Also thanks to Ptolomeia on tumblr who edited this for me!
Has anyone seen Star Wars the Force Awakens? Because OMG it was amazing:)
America, 1863
The uniform is baggy but is able to hide her curves tightly pressed to her chest. The band itches. It's too tight and is presumably scoring red marks into her skin that she cares to ignore. A shard of glass is perched in front of her, acting as a mirror. She turns her lips down, trying to emulate her brother. With her brown hair chopped short and buried under her hat, she can pass as a man, if a surgeon doesn't look under her clothes.
A scream cuts through the thin fabric of her tent, startling away any butterflies from her stomach. Another amputee victim. She wonders if this one will survive. She wonders if he had charged into battle the day before or was left on the battlefield from many days and had only been recently discovered.
She wonders if she knows the man.
When she pushes the flap of the tent back, her eyes catch dawn on the horizon. The pinks and yellows shoot across the sky. The artillery is still smoking, but there are no more distant blasts. She hopes bodies are no longer littering the field. Flies buzz around her head. But she isn't a dead body, so she swats them away.
"Kata- Kato!" A harsh whisper cuts through the buzzing, and she turns her head slightly.
Her brother has his forage cap tucked under his arms and leans by the tree. He will be shipped off to a voluntary regiment today; she declined to go with him. Katara is needed here. On this current battlefield.
"Yes?" She deepens her voice, for the practice.
A bear hug awaits her, and she buries her nose into his golden buttons and navy blue fabric. "I'll miss you," he chokes.
'I'll never see you again,' is what she wants to say in return. Instead, Katara voices, "I'll miss you too... Don't die on me."
"Be good, little sister," he whispers to their shadows.
She watches his back fade into the rising sun. Katara salutes him as he hops up into the carriage with the other volunteers. As her fingers leave her forehead, her lips part to form 'I love you.' Sokka is too far away now to hear her silent words.
The medical tent is infested with flies again. Eight, nine, ten bodies are covered with sheets the corpses cannot afford to keep. Katara will have to take them off of the bodies later; it's not like the dead will be cold.
There can be no sentiment in war.
There can be no love in war.
The bodies of the scared, of the comatose, and of the dead soldiers pass before her as if they are on an assembly line, but this is not one of the factories her brother used to work in. Katara's throat contracts; her airway is cut off, and she chokes when she sees the next body plopped on the table.
His face has been marred, probably from being caught in a shell blast. She stifles a sob, a gasp, and a scream. Katara will not be able to help every man; she will not be able to help this man even if he is her... friend.
The whole left side of his face has been scorched. It is still bleeding, leaking into his black hair and onto the unsanitized table below. His red blood now belongs with the dried patches of others. He is now one of the injured when the day before his eyes were alight and laughing, and his hands were cupping her face. She never realized he went into battle with the rest of the regiment.
Her mind had been too clouded with possibilities of the future for reality to set in. He would have been at the front of the line.
Their last whispered words had not been ones of goodbye.
Katara dips her hands in the tinted water, and she grabs the spare cloth beside the basin. She has to help him. She has to make him comfortable.
"What happened to you?" she mutters to herself.
She tries to wash the blood away, struggling to find where the marred flesh starts. His eyebrow and some of his hair has been cleanly burned away. Jagged flesh races up his temple. His ear is now a nub; she assumes his left eye is lost. His breathing is too shallow and wheezy for his body to sustain itself. His forehead, though still sticky with blood, is too hot to the touch. There's sweat running down his nose, but his body is unmoving.
No one is looking. Katara draws her fingers over his lips, wanting so much to kiss him. He's still beautiful, she thinks. Her fingers trace the bow of his upper lip. The surgeon walks in before she can lean down. Before she can have one final kiss.
"Name? Condition?" The surgeon's hands are stained with blood, and his tone of indifference pierces Katara's heart.
"Lieutenant Zuko. Burn to the left side of his face; possible inner trauma as well." Her voice does not waver.
Zuko won't last the night.
Katara's heart clenches for another lost friend, for a lost love, and allows him to be carted away to the back of the med tent where all the lost causes- corpses -have been accumulating. Her hands are caked with blood; her uniform is more red than blue.
She is of no army now.
Katara catches Aang's eyes from across their camp. A pacifist who tried to avoid war but got dragged in against his will. And now Aang is loading his musket, already accepting the fate of joining the bodies on the battlefield.
The medical tent will be filled soon. Filled with more buzzing flies, rotting corpses, and the screams of the dying. Aang may be among them; he may stay out on the battlefield, dead instead of dying. With a slight nod, Katara lets Aang go and turns back to the bourbon placed in her hand by the surgeon. He tells her it's for the impending amputees. There is no more chloroform left.
One sip won't hurt.
The hot liquid pricks her throat, and tears collect in the corners of her eyes.
All Katara can do is wait. It will be her turn soon, as all of her friends have already had theirs. When it comes, she will lose. She will lose like everyone else.
There can be no victor in war.
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