Old Member, New Member (written for the prompt 'celebrate')
Fat carried a tray laden with all of Sokka's favorites, and those were considerable, into the sun filled room where Piandao and the Water Tribesman languished on brilliantly red cushions. They were both already drunk.
Tsk tsking like a disappointed mother, the butler placed the tray on the low table and picked up two empty bottles of strong Fire Nation whiskey. "Didn't take you long," he chided. "Shall I bring some more?"
"Why you lookin' at me when you say that?" Sokka belched and then giggled, much like a child would. Fat rolled his eyes but said nothing. "He drank just as much as I did." The young man pointed an accusing finger at Piandao and then hurriedly sat up. He rested his forehead on the table and began to tap out an annoying tune with his knuckles.
"Yes, bring more, Fat," Piandao ordered. The sword master's tone was as dignified as he could make it. "Don't bring more fat…." He laughed then, a deep, melodic sound and reached over, poking the butler in the belly. "Bring more whiskey."
"There's food on the table, the entirety of your young friend's most beloved dishes; meat, meat and more meat." Shaking his head, Fat shuffled toward the doorway.
"No food," Sokkka moaned. He threw himself back onto the cushions, the smells of broiled and roasted and stewed meats, spices and sauces, flooding his nostrils and making him nauseous.
"Fat went to the trouble of cooking it all. You had better eat it." The swords master fumbled with his elegant black robes and fished out a well worn pai sho tile. "Remember, you're one of us now." He slammed the white lotus tile down on the table. "And we're s'posed to be cele…." He stopped for a moment, unable suddenly to get the word out. "We're s'posed to be having fun."
"I'll be sick," Sokka warned. "And then Fat'll have to clean it up. Then he'll be mad. You wanna make Fat mad?" He giggled again.
Piandao pondered the question seriously. A mad Fat was a formidable Fat and Sokka deserved a suitable warning. He did the best he could. "Mmm, no."
"Okay then, now you're makin' sense." Sokka closed his big blue eyes and within minutes was snoring loudly enough to rattle the windows and drooling enough to soak the collar of his tunic.
"Lightweight," Piandao snorted disdainfully.
When Fat returned a few minutes later, his master had joined Sokka in slumber.
"Never could hold his liquor." Sighing, the butler began to clean up.
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Cross-Border (written for the prompt 'mercy')
They found him in a field. He must have crawled for some way before he collapsed. Song and her mother could tell from the way the long grass had been crushed. His torn uniform was red, but the dried blood and the fresher stuff too, showed up well enough.
He was young, maybe twenty, and barely coherent. But the fear in his eyes, the pain, and the dismay at being discovered by two Earth Kingdom women, were all evident.
"What should we do, Mother?"
Song's instincts were to heal the sick and the wounded. And if healing was not possible, to bring comfort and ease suffering until the inevitable occurred. She had seen terrible things and she had seen her share of death and she could deal with each. But Song was not cold and she felt the agony of her patients as if it were her own.
The older woman's answer was written on her face, etched deeply into each line. Their village, raided more than once, would not tolerate aiding the enemy in any capacity.
"We can't just leave him here, like some animal. We could take off his uniform. No one would know that he's Fire Nation."
Song's mother sighed and touched a hand to the girl's arm. She pulled out a pouch then, filled with vials, each containing a different mixture.
"I'll hold him down while you rub some along his gums."
Song took the jar her mother handed her. She stared at the label and then into the soldier's eyes. He guessed what was happening and began a desperate attempt at escape. But all he could do was flop about like some broken doll. Feeble sparks emerged from his fingertips.
Grabbing hold of his shoulders, Song's mother kept him still. It didn't take much. The man's life ebbed away with every slow beat of his heart. Song pried his mouth open and rubbed the paste onto the man's gums. She half wondered if he would bite, but he lacked the energy and the inclination.
"It will be over soon," she whispered kindly. "I wish we could have done more."
As he slipped away, Song expected to see gratitude in his eyes, or peace at least. But all she saw was hate.
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A/N: At Private Fire's suggestion, I'm putting these things up here, despite my saying I was done with Menagerie….don't mind me...I'll be fine.
Quite a contrast in moods with these two drabbles…I never know what I'll come up with for any given prompt. I try hard to write something that hasn't been overdone. Not sure how well I succeed.
Thanks for reading.
Alabaster
