What We Left Behind...
May. 18th, 2006 07:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
princeinexile[This covers episodes 2x3 and 2x4 of canon; respectively, 'Return To Omashu' and 'The Swamp'.]
Azula always lies.
Azula always lies.
Azula always lies.
Zuko remembered that mantra; it had been shuffled off to some dark corner of his mind in the years since his exile. He did not wish to think of it, no, did not wish to think of the cruel crescent of her smile, the sharpness of her words and her nails (the cuts on his brow had long ago healed but his heart still bled).
He thought he had put it all behind; that it was nothing, a spectre he would put to rest upon his triumphant return home.
But there was no going home; not even no a stolen ostrichorse, not with the sparse coin they had, not with uncle.
This changes nothing.
This changes nothing.
This changes nothing.
Damn right it didn't. Nothing changed. It was one losing battle after the other, no matter which side of the door he was on, his world or the other.
He tried to put her-- blond hair, bright eyes, easy smile, wet mouth, soft skin-- far from his mind. It wasn't that hard; in the weeks that followed as they traveled with little rhyme or rhythm, Azula returned to his thoughts and Stephanie fled them.
One can guess though, when he tossed and turned and could not sleep, it was not Azula he was thinking of. But honestly, it wasn't Girl Wonder either.
The future was uncertain, and Zuko was afraid.
You have a place under my roof.
You have a place under my roof.
You have a place under my roof.
He dreamt of his father, of Iroh, of Wells, of Annie and his mother, and he did not know why by day he thought bitterly of his sister and compared her to Stephanie, but by night he longed for home. There was no relief, not with the rising of the sun and his strength, or with the changing face of the moon in the night sky.
But it was a dream of time lost -- stripped from him through the passage from one world to the other, the years he spent with Wells -- that he realized he had something he could do.
The mask was terrifically easy to steal, and the Blue Spirit's demon grin betrayed no sleepless nights, no confusion. The Blue Spirit took what he wanted, betrayed no guilt at taking food from some grubby peasant's mouth, and would be remembered better then the old begger man (oh, uncle, how could you dance for a coin, even gold? how could you?) and his weary nephew.
It was good to have blades in his hands, after all this time. It felt right.
It was the only thing that felt right, anymore.
Azula always lies.
Azula always lies.
Azula always lies.
Zuko remembered that mantra; it had been shuffled off to some dark corner of his mind in the years since his exile. He did not wish to think of it, no, did not wish to think of the cruel crescent of her smile, the sharpness of her words and her nails (the cuts on his brow had long ago healed but his heart still bled).
He thought he had put it all behind; that it was nothing, a spectre he would put to rest upon his triumphant return home.
But there was no going home; not even no a stolen ostrichorse, not with the sparse coin they had, not with uncle.
This changes nothing.
This changes nothing.
This changes nothing.
Damn right it didn't. Nothing changed. It was one losing battle after the other, no matter which side of the door he was on, his world or the other.
He tried to put her-- blond hair, bright eyes, easy smile, wet mouth, soft skin-- far from his mind. It wasn't that hard; in the weeks that followed as they traveled with little rhyme or rhythm, Azula returned to his thoughts and Stephanie fled them.
One can guess though, when he tossed and turned and could not sleep, it was not Azula he was thinking of. But honestly, it wasn't Girl Wonder either.
The future was uncertain, and Zuko was afraid.
You have a place under my roof.
You have a place under my roof.
You have a place under my roof.
He dreamt of his father, of Iroh, of Wells, of Annie and his mother, and he did not know why by day he thought bitterly of his sister and compared her to Stephanie, but by night he longed for home. There was no relief, not with the rising of the sun and his strength, or with the changing face of the moon in the night sky.
But it was a dream of time lost -- stripped from him through the passage from one world to the other, the years he spent with Wells -- that he realized he had something he could do.
The mask was terrifically easy to steal, and the Blue Spirit's demon grin betrayed no sleepless nights, no confusion. The Blue Spirit took what he wanted, betrayed no guilt at taking food from some grubby peasant's mouth, and would be remembered better then the old begger man (oh, uncle, how could you dance for a coin, even gold? how could you?) and his weary nephew.
It was good to have blades in his hands, after all this time. It felt right.
It was the only thing that felt right, anymore.
