BURNING BRANCHES

Genre:Angst

Rating:T

Summary:The story behind Mako's scarf.

Mako could still remember the day Bolin had become an essential part of his life. His mother was sitting up in bed, holding this red little bundle of crying snot, and Mako was pushed towards the two of them. He stopped at the side of the bed, trying to peer into his mother's arms before he felt himself flying, his father's strong hands clasped around his waist.

He settled at her feet and anchored his body to the bed, his arm holding up his weight as he leaned over to stare at the wispy dark head of hair before bright green eyes were blinking up at him.

"Oh, look, Mako, you made him stop crying," his mother's voice was soft and gentle, and he remembered it as the way she always sounded as she told him bedtime stories. "Do you want to hold him?"

Before he could answer, protest, the heavy weight of his brother was in his arms. He grew very still, sure this was some sort of test he had to pass like when he had been given the responsibility of carrying the basket back from the market.

That time he had failed miserably, his eyes wandering too much to take in the sights and smells around him until he tripped and went sprawling. A cabbage head rolled before him as his father tried to help him up and he burst into tears.

Bolin was gurgling in his arms now, blinking up bright emerald, trusting eyes. "Mako, you're a big brother now," his father said as he settled a hand on his shoulder. "Bolin will always be looking up to you to show him the right path, and I know that you can do it. You'll protect him and keep him safe."

The words were the ones he clung to after the police force had ripped him from the burnt bodies of his parents. The smoke of charred flesh clung in his nose, even after he couldn't breath from the hard cries that racked his small frame. He had finally gotten loose from the cold, forceful grasp of the man holding him back.

He ran towards home, towards the last bit of family he had, not answering the neighbor woman that watched Bolin while they had gone to the market. He grabbed the red scarf that his father always wore when he went to work, wrapping it tightly around his nose as if the familiar scent could somehow replace the one already burned into his memory.

That night, he laid with his brother as the cold reality settled on his shoulders.