A Legacy of Fire
Prompt: Harmony: Zutara "Mature" by sylvacoer
Title: A Legacy of Fire
Author: heartstrike
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Warnings/Pairings: Vague Zuko/Katara
Summary: A son of Sozin’s house, Zuko contemplates one hundred years of hungry flames.
Notes: This was supposed to be porny. Instead, it took on a life of it’s own and became some strange, introspective, pseudo-philosophical thing. Yeesh.
*****
Fire consumes - it flares, hungry, ready to wreak destruction. That is the legacy of fire, in this world of four elements, four nations. Air is freedom, earth is stability, water is life, and fire is destruction. So long out of balance, the world has forgotten that fire also cauterizes wounds, provides warmth, illuminates the darkness, burns away the old so that the new can take it’s place. Even those born of fire have forgotten these basic truths, and see only the ferocity and power of their element.
Fire seared though Sozin’s soul, twisted him until he unleashed unspeakable horrors upon the world. Azulon took up his father’s mantle, laying siege to water and earth. In time, the dragons that once flew beside air’s sky bison vanished from the skies, taking with them the knowledge of fire as more than destruction. A world out of balance, a world left only with the hungry flames of a nation at war is the world that birthed Ozai.
Ozai. Though he lives still, he is dead and gone, his fire taken from him by the spirit of the world, payment for his crimes and the crimes of his forefathers. A cruel sort of justice, perhaps, for one who was nothing more than fire’s hunger clothed in human skin, but justice nonetheless.
Such a legacy of destruction does not leave the children untouched. Azula, the prodigy. Blue fire in her veins, the cold fire of lightning at her fingertips, she was a true daughter of Sozin’s house, a bender at the zenith of power. But she learned only one side of fire’s nature at her father’s knee, and she will never be whole. The blue fire consumed her, and now she cries for the childhood she never had, for the mother who left her and the brother who still loves her.
What of the brother? The banished prince, exiled to wander through what remained of air and earth and water. The scar a livid red across his face, he was angry, a son of Sozin’s house. But air taught him freedom, earth taught him stability, and he changed. And he learned of dragon’s fire, a thing of light and warmth and the essence of life itself. He changed, and the world changed with him.
Now his sits on his father’s throne, scar still livid against the pale skin of his face, crown heavy upon his head, and he wonders. He wonders at the legacy of fire, and whether he can truly escape the hungry flames that for one hundred years have consumed his family. He wonders, until a whip of water arcs through the air, shimmering, and cracks against his skin, soaking his ceremonial robes.
He splutters indignantly, rather unbecoming of a world leader, and glares at the water witch responsible. She meets his glare with one of her own, lips curled into a dangerous grin.
“All this moping has got to stop. You and me, outside. Now.”
She turns, a whirl of blue, and stalks out towards the gardens. Toph, improper as always in a loose-limbed sprawl across the royal dais, cackles.
Ignoring her, he stands and stalks after Katara, stripping off his outer robes as he goes. It’s hot out, oppressively so, though the sun is setting. He thinks back to another fight, a lifetime ago. It was bitter cold then, and he counted the woman before him as an enemy. So much has changed since then, but one fact remains the same.
You rise with the moon. I rise with the sun.
In the twilight gardens, the scent of jasmine-lilies hanging heavy in the air, they will be evenly matched. The sun and the moon share the sky, in balance for a brief window of time. At dusk, they stand as equals.
Katara opens, the whip flicking at him with deadly precision. He dodges, sends a gout of flame lashing towards her. The air hisses from the heat of the blast, creaks when she throws up a shield of ice. The rush of water, the angry crackling of fire, the only sounds in the garden are those of their elements. Some might call it a dance, the way they dodge and weave, striking out with great arcs of fire and water, but it is nothing so refined.
It is primal and dangerous, the world’s oldest adversaries lashing out against each other, locked in a short and vicious struggle. They are both dripping with sweat when they call a halt, breathing hard as they watch the moon and sun slide away from each other. One rising, one setting.
He sinks down onto the cool grass, and she follows suit, her body a hair’s breadth away from his. His whole body hums at the nearness, but he stays still. Her eyes flick to his lips, but they don’t kiss. They don’t even touch.
That’s not what this is about. This is about something bigger than the desire that pulls them towards each other like two halves of a whole. It will always be like that between them. Push and pull, yin and yang. Light and dark. Fire and water.
So they sit side by side, not quite touching, and Katara talks. Her voice flows like water on the syllables of her words, and he listens.
She speaks to him of the ocean, of the water’s dark and cold rage. Of storms that swallow ships and sweep away entire villages. Of the freezing chill of polar water, enough to kill a strong man in mere minutes. Water is more than just life, she tells him. It is death as well.
“Like fire,” she says. “Duality.”
And a son of his father’s house, heir to fire’s legacy of destruction, he believes her. For it is water that has tempered the hungry flames in his spirit, and so he believes.
They sit together in silence until morning, watching as the sun takes the moon’s place in the sky, moving through the heavens in an endless circle.
Harmony.
Title: A Legacy of Fire
Author: heartstrike
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Warnings/Pairings: Vague Zuko/Katara
Summary: A son of Sozin’s house, Zuko contemplates one hundred years of hungry flames.
Notes: This was supposed to be porny. Instead, it took on a life of it’s own and became some strange, introspective, pseudo-philosophical thing. Yeesh.
*****
Fire consumes - it flares, hungry, ready to wreak destruction. That is the legacy of fire, in this world of four elements, four nations. Air is freedom, earth is stability, water is life, and fire is destruction. So long out of balance, the world has forgotten that fire also cauterizes wounds, provides warmth, illuminates the darkness, burns away the old so that the new can take it’s place. Even those born of fire have forgotten these basic truths, and see only the ferocity and power of their element.
Fire seared though Sozin’s soul, twisted him until he unleashed unspeakable horrors upon the world. Azulon took up his father’s mantle, laying siege to water and earth. In time, the dragons that once flew beside air’s sky bison vanished from the skies, taking with them the knowledge of fire as more than destruction. A world out of balance, a world left only with the hungry flames of a nation at war is the world that birthed Ozai.
Ozai. Though he lives still, he is dead and gone, his fire taken from him by the spirit of the world, payment for his crimes and the crimes of his forefathers. A cruel sort of justice, perhaps, for one who was nothing more than fire’s hunger clothed in human skin, but justice nonetheless.
Such a legacy of destruction does not leave the children untouched. Azula, the prodigy. Blue fire in her veins, the cold fire of lightning at her fingertips, she was a true daughter of Sozin’s house, a bender at the zenith of power. But she learned only one side of fire’s nature at her father’s knee, and she will never be whole. The blue fire consumed her, and now she cries for the childhood she never had, for the mother who left her and the brother who still loves her.
What of the brother? The banished prince, exiled to wander through what remained of air and earth and water. The scar a livid red across his face, he was angry, a son of Sozin’s house. But air taught him freedom, earth taught him stability, and he changed. And he learned of dragon’s fire, a thing of light and warmth and the essence of life itself. He changed, and the world changed with him.
Now his sits on his father’s throne, scar still livid against the pale skin of his face, crown heavy upon his head, and he wonders. He wonders at the legacy of fire, and whether he can truly escape the hungry flames that for one hundred years have consumed his family. He wonders, until a whip of water arcs through the air, shimmering, and cracks against his skin, soaking his ceremonial robes.
He splutters indignantly, rather unbecoming of a world leader, and glares at the water witch responsible. She meets his glare with one of her own, lips curled into a dangerous grin.
“All this moping has got to stop. You and me, outside. Now.”
She turns, a whirl of blue, and stalks out towards the gardens. Toph, improper as always in a loose-limbed sprawl across the royal dais, cackles.
Ignoring her, he stands and stalks after Katara, stripping off his outer robes as he goes. It’s hot out, oppressively so, though the sun is setting. He thinks back to another fight, a lifetime ago. It was bitter cold then, and he counted the woman before him as an enemy. So much has changed since then, but one fact remains the same.
You rise with the moon. I rise with the sun.
In the twilight gardens, the scent of jasmine-lilies hanging heavy in the air, they will be evenly matched. The sun and the moon share the sky, in balance for a brief window of time. At dusk, they stand as equals.
Katara opens, the whip flicking at him with deadly precision. He dodges, sends a gout of flame lashing towards her. The air hisses from the heat of the blast, creaks when she throws up a shield of ice. The rush of water, the angry crackling of fire, the only sounds in the garden are those of their elements. Some might call it a dance, the way they dodge and weave, striking out with great arcs of fire and water, but it is nothing so refined.
It is primal and dangerous, the world’s oldest adversaries lashing out against each other, locked in a short and vicious struggle. They are both dripping with sweat when they call a halt, breathing hard as they watch the moon and sun slide away from each other. One rising, one setting.
He sinks down onto the cool grass, and she follows suit, her body a hair’s breadth away from his. His whole body hums at the nearness, but he stays still. Her eyes flick to his lips, but they don’t kiss. They don’t even touch.
That’s not what this is about. This is about something bigger than the desire that pulls them towards each other like two halves of a whole. It will always be like that between them. Push and pull, yin and yang. Light and dark. Fire and water.
So they sit side by side, not quite touching, and Katara talks. Her voice flows like water on the syllables of her words, and he listens.
She speaks to him of the ocean, of the water’s dark and cold rage. Of storms that swallow ships and sweep away entire villages. Of the freezing chill of polar water, enough to kill a strong man in mere minutes. Water is more than just life, she tells him. It is death as well.
“Like fire,” she says. “Duality.”
And a son of his father’s house, heir to fire’s legacy of destruction, he believes her. For it is water that has tempered the hungry flames in his spirit, and so he believes.
They sit together in silence until morning, watching as the sun takes the moon’s place in the sky, moving through the heavens in an endless circle.
Harmony.