Author's note: Alright, this is IT for the next two weeks. Until then, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Avatar: The Last Airbender characters because they belong to bryke and nickeolodeoeanmnop.
"How pitiful," Katara heard her brother mutter. Truly, this man before her was a sad sight to see, but she understood the gravity of his plea. The people of the Earth Kingdom were strong, unbreakable like the element they bent. They were resilient and resourceful; steadfast. For this man to beg for death seemed a pathetic display of weakness, but in truth took strength. There was no desperation in his eyes, but determination. If he went in that water, he—like so many others—would suffer and only find respite in death. But if she killed him now she could make it quick. Relatively painless. Perhaps dishonorable, but easier.
"Send him back to the pack, Sister." Sokka's breath was hot and rancid in her ear. "He can die like the rest of these rats."
Katara lifted her chin, the only visible sign that she been taken back by his suggestion. He was probably right. This was expected of her. Still, it was her decision to make. Perhaps it would look like murder to the people in front of her. Perhaps they would despise her for it. But she was actually granting him mercy.
She raised her arm and the water followed obediently, thinning itself into a narrow stream in front of her hand. The man's tears stopped at once. His pleading ceased and his face softened into a disarming calm. She heard the crowd shift forward, waiting for her next move. She saw them watching every minute twitch of her body through the blurred screen of water. Her body tensed, preparing for its next action.
She went to deliver the killing blow—
And her move was arrested by a firm grip on her forearm. The water, only moments ago thrumming with anticipation, fell to the ground. She looked behind her.
Disregarding her decision, Sokka had stopped her. He looked at her with shaded eyes. "I know what you're thinking, sister dear. But you will not show weakness. Not now."
Katara narrowed her eyes at him. Mercy was hardly weakness, but that was not something he could understand. After all, he took after their father.
She ripped her arm from his grip, but did not recall her water. It took a few moments to compose herself, and then she looked down at the man. He stared at the two of them, confused. Then, as he realized what was happening, she could see the change in his eyes. Confusion to understanding to panic.
"No, no please! Do it, I beg of you!" His tone became more despairing and he lurched forward to grovel at her feet. Her guards moved to extract him, but she put up a hand to stop them. No, this man would not be made to suffer the same fate as his comrades. Sokka was watching her. He would report any sign of mercy—weakness, he would say—to their father. He would manipulate it and use it against her somehow. No, she had to make an example of this man.
And even though her heart resisted, and her throat seemed to close against the words, she beckoned her guards. "Take him to the Pit."
The man became terror.
"NO! No, please, please, don't! Anything but that, please!" Obviously rumors of the Pit had been circulating through the refugee camp. He would join the others who had been deemed unfit for the Empire in the Pit, where he would live out the rest of his days in isolation. It was bleak. Even drowning in the ice water of the South would have been better than the fate that awaited him.
The man continued to beg as he scrambled away from the guards only to be caught and dragged by his ankles. Some of the other refugees turned away from the scene, and Katara wished she could too. It was frightening to think she could instill that much pain and horror in another person.
Sokka chuckled darkly. "Very good."
Her hands tightened into fists to keep from slapping him. She had to get a handle on her emotions. She had to forget about what just happened. She had to keep moving forward. She replaced her mask.
"Line up," Katara called out, but there was a lifelessness to her voice that hadn't been there before. Everyone followed her order without comment or hesitation, obviously afraid. She had just confirmed their suspicions: That she had no heart.
She moved to the end of the line the refugees had formed and faced them; the old, the young, the girls and boys no older than herself. How easily she could have been one of them. Circumstance and luck had treated her well. Only when she registered the fists still balled up at her hips did she wonder if luck had anything to do with it.