This popped out when I was trying to fill in a prompt for my Bolin-centric collection. I don't even. Anyway, I always liked Asami. This takes place possibly after the end of Book 1. I'll explain myself further in a note at the end.
Whirring, the hum and roar of her favorite satomobile echoed through the bustling streets. Simple gray riding clothes sheathed her creamy skin, tinted glasses protected her eyes. Though she bustled with purpose, swerving and speeding– a strange cloud marred her demeanor. Fluid, her route clued none to her purpose. But though the sun peeked over the horizon, entrenched in blue, a storm loomed ahead. Screeching to a halt– swerving for style– the satomobile stopped at the yard of a looming, comforting place.
Entering softly, the gentle thud of her boots alerted the masterless butler of her presence. He rose from a nearby chair, dressed in his finery even after the descent of her father from the top of Future Industries to the bottom of the prison cell. Decked in the crisp contrast of black and white, resembling a penguin, he asked her if there was anything she needed. Dismissing him with a shake of her ebony tresses, he retired to another room. The sunset crept through the massive windows, bathing the empty room in fire. Her painted lips twisted into an sad smile. Fire. Flames always seemed to lick at her life, singeing it with every rise and flicker. Ascending to the upper-level, she stepped like a casket-bearer, respectful yet rife with mourning. Soft, manicured hands urged a wide door open. Her domain greeted her– a monument to her life– magnificent, crumbling ruins after a siege. Wooden, stiff, she awkwardly approached a decorative shelf.
The sun's blistering light ended as a soft darkness arrived. Not yet night; not quite evening. Rooted, she faced the assembly of oaken planks and nails. A bite to cherry lips, and a contortion of the face. Three frames scrutinized her. Earlier, when fire's heat and light lit her only in passion– she neglected to bring the frames along to the windy island. Earlier, when her innocence hoped for a return, she left three behind to anchor her to the freshly-emptied space. But fire– though versatile, tends to burn. Even when previous patches of scorched flesh ripened pale; when fear of flames dissipated– with confidence restored, a young girl lit the fireplace.
Verdant eyes overlooked the three frames again. The first– wooden-framed– portrayed a willowy sapling flanked by trees. A younger Asami along with her parents. The second– with a classy sheen of brass, contained the embers of the previous forest. A more mature sapling and one remaining tree re-rooting amid the rubble. Asami and her father. The third– ornate in metal– was simply a flame. A giddy Mako and herself standing before the track, sporting giddy smiles only available to youth in love. At least, it seemed.
The sky darkened: finally entering the bask of evening, creeping toward the mysteries of night. Tears escaped green cauldrons– streaming down paled and powdered cheeks. Lips trembled. A forest, burned to ash. A forest, regrown. And finally destroyed again. Sinking, falling into the dense airyness of ash. Slipping beneath remnants of rubble, suffocating from the arid scorch of heartbreak. Young Asami lost her mother. The first frame acknowledged this. Yet she spared the flames the bucket. Her father betrayed himself, engulfed by the same flame. Yet she spared it. She saw it, flickering, licking, jumping, living. She knew it lacked malice. She recognized its sides: passion, love, destruction, life, warmth, burns, smoke. Yet... sobs wracked the girl's frame, tumbling the tree. That sapling– maturing by frame, fell.
Asami's broken heart longed for a bucket of water, something to end the flames flickering at the ends of her life. Thrice shattered, now. The wooden frame hid as she flipped it away from herself. The brass frame clattered to the plush carpets of her room.
The fire took two. Unbearably, the burns from those raging pillars of destruction ached. But just as they peeled, readying to heal: another scorched. This fire burning bright in the sky, benevolent as the sun. Passion, warmth, love. But somehow, inexplicably, she turned toward the sunrise and it transformed. Yellow became red as flames rose and arced into a burning wave. The metal frame landed across the room as she threw it.
Unleashing, quaking sobs ransacked the heiress. Sounds and noises erupted from her mouth, uncontrolled. The quell of night settled over the looming mansion. Where a fire should light– an ember of hatred– water washed. Nothing starts where the water runs.
Standing from her kneeled corruption, she sniffled. Before the vanity, the fortress of an impeccable face took form. Resilient to sieges, she powdered the soft skin atop her brow, tinted her eye's covers, and replenished the brightness of her lips. Tonight, as darkness bled into dawn, she resolved to forget.
Sunsets, evenings, nights, and dawns melded into her days. Mornings, noons, and days faded into dark.
Swaying as the dots above brightened the street, she linked arms with old friends. Glamorous, rich, glittering friends. Lightly amused, comments flew from glistening lips. Her friends compared potential flames from the previous establishment, giggling. Aware the morning's rays met them with a particular type of illness, Asami suggested preparing early. Unanimous, agreement reached. Stopping before a shop, they stilled their stalking through nightlife. The maroon-dressed heiress broke from the cluster, entering the establishment. Stumbling gracefully, she purveyed the teas. Unaware, she bumped into a stranger. Laughing, apology fell from her lips.
Somber golden eyes peered into her jade irises. Asami flinched. Quickly, she reached for the best tea for mending broken foreheads and other such muggy aftereffects of nightlife. Assuming the stranger moved away, she grabbed two more and turned toward the portly shopkeeper. A tap to her shoulder occurred as she placed her containers on the wooden counter. Turning, she saw gold again. The man with honeyed eyes spoke: "Puer tea would help,". She paused. She stared. The imperial red of his coat conjured Mako's scarf; his eyes brought her his face. A fake smile graced her sculpted face, and a polite thank you followed. Vague images of another time during the struggle clouded her mind.
"Ah, General Iroh, what a pleasure to see you," she lied. For now, a temporary peace filtered through the city. For now she was free to forget the fires. A final plastic smile darted at the general. Like the wind through billowing clouds, she slipped away. A patched sapling hid from the light of a daisy: the similarities between yellow and fire– daunting. At any hint of a smolder, she now drenched the fuel.
Note: Asami turned to nightlife because she's A) an 18 year old B) reconnecting with friends from before the Krew C)Trying to heal from the burns inflicted by her father and Mako. I did not intend for this to make her seem weak, overall. I believe everyone has moments of weakness, no matter the strengths one may posses. I personally think Asami is a a bad ass mother fucker. She took Mako's bullshit like a champ in canon. But beneath that, she had a time of pain. And afterwards, a time of searching and healing. And then Irosami, because it is delicious.
Apology: The tree metaphors were probably excessive. The angst was probably excessive. The writing is most likely too convoluted for comfort. The mood changes probably gave anyone reading this whiplash.
Warning: This fic's future contains more angst. I want to explore Asami's journey. (Because she's a bamf)