Prompt #32: Empty: "Reaching Out" (rating: K ), Omoni
Title: Reaching Out
Author: Omoni
Rating: K
Words: 427
Genre: General
Char/Pair: Iroh
Warning: Spoilers for the Book Two finale, taking place a week or two after.
Summary: Locked away in prison, Iroh contemplates his hands.
Writer's Personal Note: I apoligise for my sudden absence from this community for several prompts in the past couple of months. I've been struggling with an illness that they have yet to diagnose, and it's affected my creativity. I'm hoping that with this fic comes more stories following. But if it's not up to my usual level of writing, now you know why =3.
Reaching Out
Iroh looked down at his hands. They were resting limp upon his knees, dirty from the floor of the cell, from many days without washing. The fingers curled slightly in their rested state, as if holding an invisible peach upon each palm. They stuck out of torn and gritty robes that were probably as old as he was, robes that did nothing to block the chill of the stone all around him.
His hands had done so much throughout the course of his life. They had reached out for his mother, to demand gentle hugs or milk from her breast; they had clenched in fury when he didn't get what he wanted, both as a child and adult; they had called forth flames, sometimes tinged with blue; they had cupped the face of his beloved wife; they had held the small swaddled form of his forever gone Lu Ten.
They had reached out so many times to hug his nephew, to stroke his hair, sweaty with the heat of his weeping. He had brushed those tears away, given him a cup of tea. He had taught him firebending, reached out and corrected his stance and movements, carefully maneuvering with him in order to bring success. He had poulticed Zuko's eye as it wept blood and pus and tears, cut away the dead skin, held him when he went into shock, dragged him back when he threatened to run away.
They remained at his sides when Zuko lashed out, when he rejected Iroh for trying to be kind. They reached out without his control when Zuko walked away, feeling a pain in his chest, worried that this would be the final time he would see Zuko's back.
They were large, creased, callused. They ached in wet weather, grew stiff after too much use, sometimes cracked along the seams when the air was too dry and the flames too hot. They were covered in blood in his military youth. They were covered in petals on the day of his wedding.
But now they held nothing. They were nothing. They were useless when it came to the final moment that mattered, that could have stopped the Avatar from being murdered. They were slow beneath the layer of crystal, the flames sluggish when he screamed at them to obey. He could no longer hold Zuko back. He could no longer keep him safe.
He stared at them. Empty and useless. Dirty and unkempt. And when the tears fell upon them, small circles of clean skin do nothing to erase his dread.
Author: Omoni
Rating: K
Words: 427
Genre: General
Char/Pair: Iroh
Warning: Spoilers for the Book Two finale, taking place a week or two after.
Summary: Locked away in prison, Iroh contemplates his hands.
Writer's Personal Note: I apoligise for my sudden absence from this community for several prompts in the past couple of months. I've been struggling with an illness that they have yet to diagnose, and it's affected my creativity. I'm hoping that with this fic comes more stories following. But if it's not up to my usual level of writing, now you know why =3.
Reaching Out
Iroh looked down at his hands. They were resting limp upon his knees, dirty from the floor of the cell, from many days without washing. The fingers curled slightly in their rested state, as if holding an invisible peach upon each palm. They stuck out of torn and gritty robes that were probably as old as he was, robes that did nothing to block the chill of the stone all around him.
His hands had done so much throughout the course of his life. They had reached out for his mother, to demand gentle hugs or milk from her breast; they had clenched in fury when he didn't get what he wanted, both as a child and adult; they had called forth flames, sometimes tinged with blue; they had cupped the face of his beloved wife; they had held the small swaddled form of his forever gone Lu Ten.
They had reached out so many times to hug his nephew, to stroke his hair, sweaty with the heat of his weeping. He had brushed those tears away, given him a cup of tea. He had taught him firebending, reached out and corrected his stance and movements, carefully maneuvering with him in order to bring success. He had poulticed Zuko's eye as it wept blood and pus and tears, cut away the dead skin, held him when he went into shock, dragged him back when he threatened to run away.
They remained at his sides when Zuko lashed out, when he rejected Iroh for trying to be kind. They reached out without his control when Zuko walked away, feeling a pain in his chest, worried that this would be the final time he would see Zuko's back.
They were large, creased, callused. They ached in wet weather, grew stiff after too much use, sometimes cracked along the seams when the air was too dry and the flames too hot. They were covered in blood in his military youth. They were covered in petals on the day of his wedding.
But now they held nothing. They were nothing. They were useless when it came to the final moment that mattered, that could have stopped the Avatar from being murdered. They were slow beneath the layer of crystal, the flames sluggish when he screamed at them to obey. He could no longer hold Zuko back. He could no longer keep him safe.
He stared at them. Empty and useless. Dirty and unkempt. And when the tears fell upon them, small circles of clean skin do nothing to erase his dread.