Zutara Week 2012
Prompt: Faded
Rating: K
A/N: Gah, Zutara week's almost over! I've been having so much fun with these drabbles D: And for two of them- Transcend and Whimsical- I won Honorable Mentions on Zutara Week's official tumblr!
This drabble made me sad ;_;
Faded: [feyd-ed] adj. to lose brightness or vividness of color. to become dim, as light, or lose brightness of illumination. to lose freshness, vigor, strength, or health. to disappear or die gradually
The breeze, somehow, was gray. As Zuko made his way up the hill, the thought wormed its way into his brain; he latched onto it, allowing it to echo over and over again through his skull. It would make what he had to do easier.
He was careful not to tread on the fire lillies that grew in random patches, navigating his booted feet carefully through the wild growth. Finally, he reached the apex; where an intricately carved stone jutted from the ground.
With trembling hands, Zuko drew what he needed from the folds of his robe. A stick of incense, candles, a portrait. A knife that had passed from hand to hand; Never give up without a fight. He stared at the inscription for a moment- Mine? Really? - then savagely pushed it into the hard soil. Now it read: without a fight.
He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.
"You fought." The words wrenched themselves from his lips. "I know you did."
Tears were beginning to blur his vision; he quickly squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his palms to his face. It really wouldn't do to cry; Katara would see when he returned home, and she'd smiled at breakfast today. She'd drank all of her tea. He couldn't ruin that.
Eventually, when he thought that he'd regained a semblance of control, he lifted his hands from his face. Two fingertips extended; lit the candles, the incense. Fragrant smoke rose in lazy, elaborate wisps.
In them, he saw Kuzon's face. Mine? Really?
Yes, Zuko had answered, smiling in response to the boy's enthusiasm. It's yours.
Wow. He'd quietly turned the short blade over in his stubby fingers, trailed a fingertip over the inscription. What does it say?
Never give up without a fight, he'd told him, and Kuzon had smiled.
I'll never go anywhere without it! He'd hopped around the crimson chamber enthusiastically. Never! Never!
Zuko closed his eyes, breathed; in, out. In. Out.
"Good evening, my son." A small smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. "I remembered."
His son's innocent, lifeless eyes stared back from the portrait; the child's cheeks as round as the day he was born.
He's beautiful, Zuko had whispered when his eyes first fell on his son; tone filled with reverence. Carefully, Zuko had allowed a finger to snake out and touch the downy hair, then trail down to the baby's smooth forehead.
Of course he is, Katara had replied, propped up against mountains of pillows. He looks like you.
His hair was ebony, like his father's, his skin a few shades darker than Zuko's own pallor. A heartbeat later, his eyes fluttered open; revealing irises as blue as the ocean, as the sky, as his mother's.
Zuko had smiled. He looks like you, too.
The tears, now, were imminent; Zuko pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a vain attempt to suppress them. He couldn't lose it; for Kuzon, for Katara.
He had yet to sing.
He swallowed again, cleared his throat. "Leaves from the vine... falling so slow..."
What had Katara said after that comment; after he'd told her that Kuzon looked as much like his mother as he did his father? Zuko couldn't quite remember.
"Like fragile little shells... drifting in the foam..."
The tears were imminent now; running down his face in unabashed rivulets. "Little soldier boy... come marching home..."
I'll never forget who I am, father.
"Brave soldier boy..." The portrait, the grass, the rock, the knife, the memory; all of it was somehow faded. "... Comes marching home."