Horizon Line, an avatar: last airbender fanfic

Horizon Line

Summary: Kataang, OneShot. When he pushed her down he said, "I've always been above you." And though she was a clever girl, she didn't quite catch the metaphor.

Author's Note: I really liked the idea of this, and I wanted to write it down. So I did. Both Katara and Aang have lively spirits and I liked the thought of symbolism. The Avatar universe is filled with it, and it makes the world seem like such an energetic, wondrous place.

As you read this, please keep in mind that the horizon line is used as a symbol for a point of passage. Anything in italics isn't being said. It's just being implied.

Any poetic little things are my original works. I hope it tickles all of your fancies, and reminds you to review.

As always, happy reading!

You are the ocean, I am the sky.

The sun binds us at the horizon line.

We share a single glowing secret,

A single longing sigh.

There was something about watching a Southern Water Tribe sunset that could bring secrets forth—that could stun lovers to confession and push the most exclusive questions out. As the Avatar sat beside his fiancé, gazing out over the water and snow to the break of horizon, he was struck with waves of realization.

This beauty, he thought, these red hues and tones that changed the composure of the cliffs of ice below them, had been there forever. This broad and definite consciousness of time filled him with quiet happiness.

It had been Katara's suggestion. A wonderful suggestion, at that, to watch the sunset together.

So he tore his eyes away for a moment to study her reaction. She looked at the glowing orb of energy with an anxious, almost distracted gaze. The tension in her expression wasn't too noticeable, but Aang could sense it, and suddenly he knew something was bothering her.

He reached for her gloved hand slowly. When she turned to him her eyes looked preoccupied with some distant thought, lips parted, eyes widened. She stared at him with a distinct curiosity.

He murmured, "Are you okay?"

Katara gave a quick nod, still watching him. The light from the sunset—Aang thought amusedly—made her look as though she were blushing.

He asked, "Is something wrong?"

She lifted a brow and moved a little closer to him. "Actually," she stated quietly, "I've never liked sunsets."

"Oh?" He made a face and looked back over their cliff.

"I've always hated them."

"Then why'd we come here?"

She shrugged and looked away. "I don't know. I thought it was a good suggestion. I thought this would make me happy—to be up here with you. But it's not. I feel sick."

A sigh escaped her throat after the explanation. His comprehension of her was rather limited—what could she possibly hate about twilight, he wondered. He touched her shoulder and she looked at him and fell wordlessly into his chest, as if she had heard his thoughts.

"We can go back if you want to, Katara. We don't have to stay up here." His voice was low and smooth. Aang felt her silence a sniffle against the cloth of his parka. He didn't know if she was about to break out in tears or if the cold weather was beginning to take a toll on her health.

Katara took on a scattered pitch. Her eyes stared blankly into his chest and she spoke quickly. "I don't want to. If I leave, I'll feel guilty—for forgetting."

The rest came out in rambles, illegitimate scraps that escaped too rapidly and too furiously for Aang to understand completely. She spoke with a new found passion. "Swirling ball of…and it's not like I was old enough to realize…it's all we ever saw—the sun…and nothing…such desperation, like I ever knew." She spat the words swiftly, as if they needed to come out. And when Aang could no longer keep up he merely sifted his fingers through her hair and nodded. "It's the only scene I remember," she whispered, "the sun setting…after she died."

The bluish glow of life is reflected in you, my darling sea.

Your waves reflect my whirlwinds and you captivate me.

We create the very storms of existence, of trout and clouds and parakeets.

She stopped talking. Half of the sun was gone now, plunged into the murky depths of the ocean.

He felt Katara look up at him. "I always think of my old life," she admitted bitterly, frowning. "I wonder where you were before. Why couldn't I have found you earlier? To help us—to save us."

In the silence that followed Katara pushed herself off of him and rubbed her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her lips. The sun was almost gone, and she admitted to herself that she felt rather pathetic, and didn't kiss him back.

The question came out as if it were made of dirt and stones. She said dryly, "Where were you?"

He kissed her again. She backed away but he succeeded regardless. The only proof of the sun was the redness that illuminated the sky, spread out in painted strokes. She repeated, "Where were you?"

Katara could have been saying anything—it looked as if he didn't hear. For the third time he crushed his lips against hers. When she moved back, he moved forward, and her back thudded softly against the snow, and so did his hands, above her shoulders.

When he had accomplished pushing her down he said, "I've always been above you."

She was a clever girl, but the metaphor made no sense to her. In his position, on top of her body, she merely thought he was being suggestive, and tried to shove him away. When he wouldn't budge she muttered, "But that—what do you—"

He leaned in closer. Reflex forced her to move even deeper into the paper-thin layers of snow. She didn't like this. Aang's flirting was fine when they were in some covered, quiet room—with the doors locked and everyone away. But out in the open it only made her feel tense, and barely flattered.

"Katara," he started, "the sunset shouldn't upset you."

She didn't speak. She couldn't see his eyes—he was whispering into her ear. The heat of his breath was melting some of the snow. She felt a trickle of water on the side of her face.

He continued, "When I look at nightfall, I am reminded of you. Did you know that?"

She hesitated. "...No."

"Now you know."

"Where is this going?" she asked, and it sounded desperate, and upset.

"It makes me so happy," he said, "to see the sky and the ocean reacting like that. It's like we were meant to be, Katara. The last airbender and the last waterbender in the Southern Tribe."

She blushed at this. She didn't have to look at him to know they were both smiling.

"It's like we share a glowing secret—it's like we share the sun."

And yet she didn't understand. And though he had patience of her rambling, she was growing confused at his. He didn't stop her when she pushed him away and dusted the snow off of her coat. "I'm sorry, Aang," she whispered awkwardly, crossing her legs. "I don't think I'm following this."

He touched her face so that she would look at him. He seemed transfixed—preoccupied. It was the same expression that had graced her face moments before. He murmured pensively, "You are the ocean. I am the sky. The sun binds us at the horizon line."

At the moment he didn't know that, many years after his death, lovers would use this as a pick up line to express their sentiments and other various passions. He was merely stating what he could observe.

And you are the ocean, and I am the sky.

And together we touch at the horizon line.

It was getting dark. The red shades dissolved against the heavens—darkness enveloped them. They sat there—awestruck, captivated. Aang had never sounded so deep, and Katara had never admitted her distaste for sunsets, nor the reason why. These confessions floated between them—filled the void that seemed persistent before.

Admiration ran over Katara in waves. She wanted to tell him how beautiful his remark had been—how wonderful it made her feel—how she would never look at the sunset the same way again. But she couldn't say anything. She muttered, "I—um…"

"I was always here," he said apologetically. He curved his head down at an angle. She could trace the guilt in the lines of his face. Katara noticed that his complexion was rather pale, especially now that most of their lighting was gone. He whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Katara. So, so, sorry."

She touched his shoulder. When she kissed him it felt invigorating—refreshing. She pulled at his parka and wrapped herself about his shoulders. It no longer mattered. It was going to be too dark to see soon, anyway.

A whisper said into the darkness, in a shy and mesmerizing way, "I love you."

And another answered, "I have always loved you."

And the first replied, with a small and timid laugh, "I want to watch the sunset with you tomorrow, too."

Aang responded steadily, "Katara, we can stay here until sunrise."

And it was a wonderful suggestion.