Zutara Week 2012

Day four

Prompt: Whimsical

A/N: It took me the longest time to get an idea for this particular prompt, but when the idea finally came, the words just flowed. I hope you like it!

Whimsical: [hwim-zi-kuhl, wim-]adj. given to whimsy or fanciful notions; capricious

While the entirety of the street is empty, windows on houses boarded up; this tent seems particularily abandoned, hollow. It looks horribly misplaced on the desolate street; a toy that fell from the absentminded grip of a child and was left there, forgotten. Crimson, gold, and silver flags flutter in the wind, standing on poles that protrude from the ground at all four corners of the tent; the lonely dregs of whimsy.

But as Katara stands there, drinking in its odd appearance, she thinks she can smell cinammon wafting through the evening breeze; a subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.

She takes a step towards it.

A fevered hiss comes from behind her. "What're you doing?"

Katara half turns and shrugs, not the least bit deterred by Zuko's scowl. "We've been wandering for hours." She crosses her arms over her chest and quirks an eyebrow, somewhat amused by the entire situation; or, perhaps, amused by how seriously Zuko was taking it all. "Admit it, Zuko, we're lost."

Zuko shakes his head. "I can take us back to the upper ring."

She shushes him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Maybe someone in there can help us."

"In there?" Zuko echoes incredulously. "It's empty."

A waft of cinammon breeze tickles her nose; a small, oddly knowing smile curves her lips. "No, it isn't."

With that, she moves forward decisively, and Zuko has no choice but to follow.

Zuko holds the flap of the tent open for her, but Katara rolls her eyes in response. They enter together, Katara's breath leaving her in a short gasp. "Oh."

Everywhere, there are candles; hundreds, perhaps thousands, little columns of wax that are perched upon ancient shelves and ornate chests and dusty books. Every single one of the incredibly small candles is lit, diffusing the room in a warm, muted glow. The walls of the supposedly shabby tent are lined in a crimson velvet, the pools of light landing on it giving the illusion of heat.

Someone clears their throat; and Katara gasps again, her roving eyes falling on a woman that lurks in the shadows.

The teenagers are frozen as she approaches them, somehow unable- or unwilling- to bat an eyelash. The woman's hair is the color of ravens, streaked through with brilliant silver. Her eyes are huge and hazel, lined with some dark and sooty makeup that only increases the exotic air she carries. Her robe, surprisingly, is a simple black, though she wears a charm around her neck that falls beneath her bust, a charm that neither teenager recognizes.

"Kohl," she says, and Katara sucks in a breath. "I can give you some, if you'd like."

Without waiting for an answer, the woman picks something up from the edge of a table, hiding it in her closed fist. When she raises her hand to Katara's face, Zuko knocks it away.

"Back away, woman," Zuko seethes.

The woman responds to the threat of his clenched fist, the threat in his eyes, with an utterly bored expression.

"Why?" she asks, genuine inquiry in her voice. "I can't possibly hurt her more than you have."

Zuko's eyes widen, stricken; the woman watches his hand fall with apparent noninterest, as if he couldn't have hurt her even if he wanted to. She raises her hand to Katara's face; unfurls her fist to reveal a short black stick, resembling charcoal.

Katara's eyes do not waver from the woman's as she presses the stubby end of the stick to her eyelid. She starts, but the woman shushes her; her palm is pressed so tightly to Katara's cheek that she thinks she can almost feel the lines that mar them.

"There." The woman pulls away. "Beautiful."

She turns her back on the mystified couple. Katara swallows, tries to force her lips to formulate coherent words. "Who are you?"

The woman is bent over a table when she answers, the sleeves of her arms billowing as they moved, working on something they could not see. "I am a woman."

"Yes, but.. what's your name?"

"It matters not." Her reply is as swift as the movement of her hidden hands. "Names are not of nearly as much importance as people like to think they are."

She turns, faces them; in her hand is a thin, long stick, one tip of it aglow. A tendril of smoke escapes it, lazily moving towards the ceiling.

"What's that?" Katara asks.

"Bukhoor," she replies, without further explanation. She walks leisurely across the small space and wedges the stick between two candles; more smoke wafts through the air.

"You may find that when things seem irreparable," the woman says, cryptically. "It is best to dance."

Befuddled by her sudden statement, Zuko and Katara exchange a look; when they turn away from each other, the woman is gone.

The fragrant smoke tickles Katara's nostrils. "It.. it smells good."

Zuko nodds, ridden by a surprisingly fierce guilt that arose at the strange woman's words. "Would you..." He exhales. "Would you like to dance?"

Katara's lined eyes grow impossibly wide; the implications are too great. "But..." She racks her brains for proper words. "There's no music," she ends up saying.

Zuko raises a hand, palm up; and suddenly, it doesn't matter.

They move together, guided by something instinctual, by the universe, by the candles, by the bukhoor. Her tapered fingers slide into Zuko's warm palm, his hand sliding down her side to cup the curve of her waist. They step forward, and back, then forward again; neither one of them leads, but neither one of them follows, either.

Despite the inexplicable haze, despite Katara's proximity, Zuko can't rid his mind of the woman's words. "I never meant to hurt you."

Katara smiles sadly. "It doesn't matter now."

And, for some reason- perhaps the fragrant smoke, perhaps the ludicracy of the entire situation- Zuko realizes that it doesn't.

So they dance; they spin and weave and waltz to the beats of their own hearts. From her unattainable perch, the woman with the kohl watches on, her head tilting forward in a nod of approval.

"You know..." Zuko's hand lifts from the curve of her waist to trace the collar of her maroon robe, gilded at the sleeves and hem. "This is... this is nice."

Though it isn't exactly a compliment, Katara can't help but blush. "Uh.. thank you."

"I mean, it looked nice in the market, but..." He pauses, takes in a shallow breath. "It's... exquisite on you."

Exquisite. Katara swallows.

"You should wear it," he finishes lamely.

Katara's eyes are wide, the beginnings of a smile tinging her trance-like expression. "I am wearing it."

"Oh, um... right." Zuko's hand falls back to the curve of her waist, but continues to move in an absentminded caress.

Katara's head falls against Zuko's shoulder; her eyelids slip closed. "This is weird," she whispers. "I'm happy, and I don't know why."

"So am I." Zuko's response is hushed. "I'm never happy."

Katara chuckles, raises her head. "I feel a little... dizzy, though."

Zuko nods; he feels it too. "Sort of lightheaded."

"Yeah... " Her voice trails off as Zuko's hand begins to move up and down her side. "My head hurts."

Simultaneously, they stop moving. "Probably from the spinning," Zuko volunteers. "We should stop."

Katara's eyes are wide; Zuko notices, as if from a distance, that the kohl has smeared. "We have stopped," she says.

Compelled by something they could never quite understand, they simultaneously glance down at themselves; they find themselves closer than they thought they were, the edges of Katara's robe fluttering against Zuko's tunic, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over the soft skin of her wrist.

The corner of Zuko's mouth quirks upwards. "Have we?"