So. Avatar stuff!
It's Jetko week over at jetheartszuko and I wrote this. Tragically, it does not feature makeouts.
He shouldn't have come here. He didn't have to. He should have stayed in the house with the others. If he was there now he would be content and wouldn't have to think. This is a time for celebration and togetherness, not... for this. Because this part of his story is over, and there's nothing here, anyway, to remind him, and he would be better off to forget it all.
Here the breeze is cold and ripples the surface of the water in paths as even as those of a stone garden. The lake is vast and deep. It reveals nothing.
Beneath the lake he knows that there are tunnels, caverns, hidden rooms. There are rock formations that glow softly in the darkness. But he has no idea how to get back down to them. Even if he could, it would make no difference. There's nothing down there anymore.
Even Jet probably isn't down there.
Tentatively he pulls a stick of incense from his pocket. He lights it with his fingertips, as he has seen Uncle do, and presses his hands flat together with his head bowed.
He isn't very good at this. He doesn't like the smell of the smoke, it's too much like a funeral. And he knows that if Jet were here, watching him, he would still be angry, would still hate him just as much. Maybe someday that will be a comforting thought. Right now it only clouds his heart with fear and sadness.
"I'm sorry," he says, hoarsely, to the lake. "I wish..."
And then he is filled with so many wishes he can't speak a single one.
If there were something here. He knows that such things aren't always there when you need them. But if there were some kind of place marker, a sign of what happened, maybe then he could start to put the pieces together. Understand why the things that should already have disappeared still weigh so heavily on his heart.
But there is nothing here.
What he intends is for the stick of incense to sink to the bottom of the lake. But it is too light to go far, and so when he throws it it lands at his feet, floating on the surface of the water. He watches as the wind carries it slowly away from him out into the middle of the lake.
There is no sense of completion. He has completed nothing. And when he walks away, it is with the same painful longing he has carried with him since he was last here.
He shouldn't have come here. He didn't have to. He should have stayed in the house with the others. If he was there now he would be content and wouldn't have to think. This is a time for celebration and togetherness, not... for this. Because this part of his story is over, and there's nothing here, anyway, to remind him, and he would be better off to forget it all.
Here the breeze is cold and ripples the surface of the water in paths as even as those of a stone garden. The lake is vast and deep. It reveals nothing.
Beneath the lake he knows that there are tunnels, caverns, hidden rooms. There are rock formations that glow softly in the darkness. But he has no idea how to get back down to them. Even if he could, it would make no difference. There's nothing down there anymore.
Even Jet probably isn't down there.
Tentatively he pulls a stick of incense from his pocket. He lights it with his fingertips, as he has seen Uncle do, and presses his hands flat together with his head bowed.
He isn't very good at this. He doesn't like the smell of the smoke, it's too much like a funeral. And he knows that if Jet were here, watching him, he would still be angry, would still hate him just as much. Maybe someday that will be a comforting thought. Right now it only clouds his heart with fear and sadness.
"I'm sorry," he says, hoarsely, to the lake. "I wish..."
And then he is filled with so many wishes he can't speak a single one.
If there were something here. He knows that such things aren't always there when you need them. But if there were some kind of place marker, a sign of what happened, maybe then he could start to put the pieces together. Understand why the things that should already have disappeared still weigh so heavily on his heart.
But there is nothing here.
What he intends is for the stick of incense to sink to the bottom of the lake. But it is too light to go far, and so when he throws it it lands at his feet, floating on the surface of the water. He watches as the wind carries it slowly away from him out into the middle of the lake.
There is no sense of completion. He has completed nothing. And when he walks away, it is with the same painful longing he has carried with him since he was last here.