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Nov. 30th, 2006 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
princeinexileHe knows he's dreaming; that is always disconcerting, to Zuko. Rarely does he know when he dreams-- when he walks the woods on four paws and knows, without a doubt, that he is not the wolf.
But tonight it is not loam giving way under heavy pads; no, it is cobblestone and earth, it is beaten paths and broken roads. He hears a whine, a high pitched shrill, and seeks it out. There is a vibration in the earth as he runs, as if something heaved up, and then fell back--
--and the shrill goes silent.
He stops; he sniffs, he catche the scent of fur, of musk and green and smoke and blood and fear. His jaws gape open, and he breathes it in--
--aware that his paw is light in a muddle puddle that now fans out into the shape of a three-toed bison's track.
The silence does nothing to comfort; he turns back into the night, and flees the scene. The Lower Ring (how does he know the name?) is dingy, and there are canthers in the alley that will gladly challenge the lone canine. He avoids the dark, and instead finds a place lit with lights, a fountain, and something stabs at his heart--
--he runs for other streets.
Here he smells tea, in all varieties. Sweet and strong, bitter and bracing. He sniffs around the room, and finds the scent of smoke, of feet that are never cold at night, of Firebender.
He follows; was this uncle's new haunt? Was he hiding here? He crept through the building, past the broken doors (uncle in a slum?), down further, further-- till he was certain this door was his-- whining, he psuhed against the door and was grateful when the shabby latch gave.
Uncle!
The old man sat, sleeping, sleepnig, still-- but not ni a bed. No, there was another in the bed; had he been replaced, already (like Luten) -- was he forgotten now? How long, how long--
The body twisted, rolled over, and Zuko bared his teeth--
--at his own face.
He was here, he was here asleep and he was there in the Bar and he was dreaming and he was not--
-- he was not --
-- pathetic --
-- he was not in two places --
-- wasn't possible --
-- his human face opened his eyes, shaggy hair heavy with sweat, clinging to his brow.
This is no ordinary fever-- the mouth moves, but no sounds come out. Still, the words are plain, falling from his mute lips like blood oozing from a gash-- Come back to me. You can't deny me. You know this is your destiny. You cannot walk other worlds, and ignore the call of your own.
Zuko felt his teeth curling back, back; he watched himself roll onto his side, forcing himself up, trying to reach--
--the lunge was instinctual, the snap of jaws over flesh equally so.
He woke in his bed with blood in his mouth, gagging on the taste. He rolled out of his bed, staggered to the bathroom, and spit blood into the sink. He'd bitten his cheek when he had torn own his double's throat.
Pathetic.
Zuko splashed his face with water, but did not look at the mirror. He just went back to the bedroom, dropped back into bed, and waited for sunrise.
But tonight it is not loam giving way under heavy pads; no, it is cobblestone and earth, it is beaten paths and broken roads. He hears a whine, a high pitched shrill, and seeks it out. There is a vibration in the earth as he runs, as if something heaved up, and then fell back--
--and the shrill goes silent.
He stops; he sniffs, he catche the scent of fur, of musk and green and smoke and blood and fear. His jaws gape open, and he breathes it in--
--aware that his paw is light in a muddle puddle that now fans out into the shape of a three-toed bison's track.
The silence does nothing to comfort; he turns back into the night, and flees the scene. The Lower Ring (how does he know the name?) is dingy, and there are canthers in the alley that will gladly challenge the lone canine. He avoids the dark, and instead finds a place lit with lights, a fountain, and something stabs at his heart--
--he runs for other streets.
Here he smells tea, in all varieties. Sweet and strong, bitter and bracing. He sniffs around the room, and finds the scent of smoke, of feet that are never cold at night, of Firebender.
He follows; was this uncle's new haunt? Was he hiding here? He crept through the building, past the broken doors (uncle in a slum?), down further, further-- till he was certain this door was his-- whining, he psuhed against the door and was grateful when the shabby latch gave.
Uncle!
The old man sat, sleeping, sleepnig, still-- but not ni a bed. No, there was another in the bed; had he been replaced, already (like Luten) -- was he forgotten now? How long, how long--
The body twisted, rolled over, and Zuko bared his teeth--
--at his own face.
He was here, he was here asleep and he was there in the Bar and he was dreaming and he was not--
-- he was not --
-- pathetic --
-- he was not in two places --
-- wasn't possible --
-- his human face opened his eyes, shaggy hair heavy with sweat, clinging to his brow.
This is no ordinary fever-- the mouth moves, but no sounds come out. Still, the words are plain, falling from his mute lips like blood oozing from a gash-- Come back to me. You can't deny me. You know this is your destiny. You cannot walk other worlds, and ignore the call of your own.
Zuko felt his teeth curling back, back; he watched himself roll onto his side, forcing himself up, trying to reach--
--the lunge was instinctual, the snap of jaws over flesh equally so.
He woke in his bed with blood in his mouth, gagging on the taste. He rolled out of his bed, staggered to the bathroom, and spit blood into the sink. He'd bitten his cheek when he had torn own his double's throat.
Pathetic.
Zuko splashed his face with water, but did not look at the mirror. He just went back to the bedroom, dropped back into bed, and waited for sunrise.
