The Blind Leading The Blind
There is no time for the worries of the inexperienced. Youth carries no meaning here; years pass by on chariots carved by the breeze, desperation acting as the steeds. She has come to him through her fears and panic, for when all the world is in drowning death—one would do anything to feel alive.
It is she who urges his tentative kisses and caresses onwards, her voice is what he seeks out in the darkness. They both know precious little of what is to transpire—the fumbling fingers and trembling arms are testament to that…they only know of what they need…a rainbow of sensation, a shelter from the dark torrent.
A Little Knowledge Is A Dangerous Thing
It is a strange, truly astonishing sensation, being tied completely, mind, body and soul, to another human being. This union is what breaks sown the shields of self preservation; it is what exorcises the demons of loneliness that plague a tender heart. It is here, in this tangle of arms, mouths and hearts that words, feelings are borne—dangerous things feelings are, especially in a war.
Not when every breath is a reason for thanks, not when every footfall puts one at risk for decapitation—no, silent remain these feelings, locked within the depths of their hearts, now both not so lonely due to this piece of information.
If Wishes Were Horses Then Beggars Would Ride
In the slumberous darkness that follows, she wraps her form casually in the torn robes of his nation and draws closer to his warmth. He is already asleep, she thinks to herself, and so she allows herself to become bold, fueled by the curiosity lying dormant in the dusk.
Her fingers trace his profile, his straight nose, much thinner than her own, the angular face and pale skin, so very different from her own rounder face and mocha skin…the contrasts do somehow find a way to upset the quiet euphoria that had been warming her body, she pulls herself away, thinking herself foolish for even ever considering that they might…that he could…
The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions
The dawn arrives too quickly, caking them both in the soft glow of the morning, drenching them both in the waters of molten suffering that their lives have so rapidly become. He looks at her, once, twice—perhaps more, but doesn't dare to speak; his soul is too full now, if he parts his lips, then, surely, he might burst.
She sees him looking, twice, three times…maybe less, but doesn't dare to comment, it pains her too much to think, to dream, for despite her mind's decision that it was only for a night, one night…her heart has already considered forever…and she knows that she must deny it.
It is the silence that hurts them both, two people so obsessed with their own self preservation that they allow themselves to die at the hands of peace…
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Regret calls only to those souls lonely enough to request its company, many a widow knock upon his door, hands bare, heads covered, eyes drowning beneath the liquid sadness that tortures them—he is not there to aid them, rather, it is he who causes them greater suffering, memories of the things that one could have said, could have done, should, would, if only, if only…
Katara watches the graceful descent of the setting sun, arms like wildfire move through the jealous winds to surround her, the loneliness does not leave with the sun's embrace. Rather, it intensifies, his name falls from her lips in a whisper of recognition, of longing…she knows it now, she's left a piece of herself behind—and what would she do to have it back…
A little bird told me
The war brings tales of sacrifice and bravery, of heroism unparalleled by the Gods themselves, of boys made men, of soldiers made immortals, if only through whispers of a frightened people.
Sokka watches his sister, and whispers of another kind flood his mind, there is no privacy left in the world…he knows, she knows—and they can all see it, she is changing. He feels that he must be the last person on earth who observes how her face has changed, how her arms, her legs…no, he's seen enough. Though he watches her still, and her arms wrap around her stomach, protectively? Oh yes, he sees the look the coats her face, the tears that linger for merely a second, then he looks away.
He'll kill that Fire Nation brat…
When it rains it pours
There are those grateful for the tears of the heavens, a reprieve from even the metaphorical rule of the sun, he, isn't one of them. Water does not carry the redemption that he seeks, merely echoes, songs, lullabies, that tell him only of her—she who took away a large piece of his being three months ago.
Zuko's well aware of the days, the hours, although he hasn't allowed himself the satisfaction of the minutes…he is more alone now than he's ever been, his body yearns for the satisfaction of her touch, her kisses, it burns in fact—and not even the rain can quench it.
Still waters run deep
Her eyes are hooded the next time that he sees her, her face darkens in a blush that goes down past the neckline of her thin dress. He is not yet aware of the etiquette that is expected of a man and woman in their situation, much less of the etiquette that is becoming of children, forced into a world such as theirs…
He moves towards her, his heart is racing, his blood scratching at his veins, he looks at her, opens his mouth, but cannot speak…there is nothing to say, nothing that he knows that will convey the pain, or the ache—he does see the sadness in her eyes, the regret that she wears like an emblem on her tattered clothes—he stares as though he could see something else, but she walks away.
Author: A while ago, I decided to try my hand at writing drabbles. You know, real drabbles that are 100 words. I failed miserably, but did do these things.
I wrote these a while ago in response to a quotations challenge on LJ. I was always supposed to post them here to but I kept forgetting. I hope that you enjoyed them. I'm actually pretty surprised at the response that I'm getting in Zutara land. And if it pleases you I do intend to do a full length Zutara fic once I have some time.