Challenge Entry
Getting my entry in just under the deadline...
Title: If I Were Young
Author: C'est moi.
Rating: G
Warnings: Character death
Author's Notes: I started this story with lines from a different poem (The Fairy Reel by Neil Gaiman, for the curious), but rest assured, this was very much inspired Henley's words.
And as for the death, it's not what you think. This is a happy story :)
“If I were young, as once I was,
and dreams of death more distant then ...”
It’s a poem he’d read long ago, as a student at the Academy. He’d been a child then, and the words were already ancient. Well, he’s no longer young, and death no more distant now than many years ago. But he remembers those words.
He recalls, somewhat vaguely, the night they made the pact. Or was it morning? It’s getting harder to focus on the older memories now. And he often finds, these days, it does not do well to dwell on the past. He’d rather enjoy the days he has now, however few their number. The past is the past, he reflects, and all he has left is the now.
He grasps his cane, the handle worn smooth as glass from the years of use. With his slow and graceful three-legged walk, he leaves his home and moves through the garden, stopping here and there to inspect his bonsai trees.
He will deny that he is a hermit, despite what the locals say. His home is somewhat isolated, but not impossible to find, if someone were to put their mind to it. Katara and Aang still visit, a few times a year. As did Sokka, until his death almost twenty years before. He and Toph exchange letters frequently, and enjoy long games of mahjong by post. His is a simple, dignified existence. Small pleasures, rather than large, were what interested him now: strong tea, warm sunshine on his old bones, and days where his joints don’t trouble him so.
The night (or morning) they made the pact preceded the worst battle of the 100 Years War. Ten hours later, half the city would be buried, fallen down into it’s own crystal catacombs after the prolonged Earth- and Fire-bending had weakened the rock structures. Warriors, civilians, people on both sides all found their fates at the bottom of tons of rubble, in darkness two miles from the surface. But something about the beauty of that moment, ten hours before the disaster, the quiet splendor of that single peaceful day had awoken in them some sense of preservation.
Maybe they had felt the smallness of their own existence, watching the thousand-year old routine of the sun and the Earth. Maybe the fear, and the desire for closure prompted some preliminary goodbyes. The reasons are as much a mystery to him now as they were back then. In the changing light, they promised.
“We’ll die,” Jin said, kissing the backs of his hands, “Someday. Let’s not let it interfere.”
“We’ll not live carelessly,” he said. “We’ll live as we can, and we’ll live so it matters.”
They sealed the promise with more than a kiss. He’ll never know if she knew somehow; if she’d been granted some premonition, or vision, or just had a feeling how much the world would change by the next sunrise (sunset?). More than anything, now, he’s grateful. Whatever sublime force had inspired the pact, he’s grateful it was said. The sense of purpose it gave him, even as Toph had stood with him in the wreckage and rubble and told him that his heartbeat and hers were the only ones she could find within three miles and he’d felt more alone than he’d ever felt in his life, had truly saved him.
“Live as you can,” she had said, “And I will too. Whatever happens. We’ll both live as we can.”
They never found her body, and even after the years had fallen off the calendar like autumn leaves, Zuko still believes that she’s out there, somewhere. Living life her way, the way she always had. He had tried valiantly to find her, searching, leaving correspondence where she might find it, making connections in this town and that, always leaving a trail behind so that she might find it, and follow it. Years later, it had become too difficult to maintain, both physically and emotionally, so he’d stopped, and settled down to wait.
He still waits for her, although not restlessly. Easier than hoping each day that today will be the day she will walk through his door, he waits to be reunited with her in the next life. For now, he imagines her living life her own way. He imagines her with another man, surrounded by children and laughter and love. A mother, maybe even a grandmother. She deserves it. He tries to imagine her as an old woman, hair streaked gray like Katara’s, hands old and spotted like his own. But her image persists, stubbornly, as a young girl, forever nineteen and smiling.
He watches the sun set, and decides it had been a sunset. He looks back on his life, and decides that he had done well living it. Together in Heaven, they would sit and go over all the details of it, and he knew she’d agree, it had been good.
He gets up, stiff and aching, and walks back to his home. Lightning bugs flicker on and off in the cooling, night air, the cicadas chirp and somewhere off, a single bird warbles once, twice before stopping for the night. Something in the air says that summer is almost over.
<3
Title: If I Were Young
Author: C'est moi.
Rating: G
Warnings: Character death
Author's Notes: I started this story with lines from a different poem (The Fairy Reel by Neil Gaiman, for the curious), but rest assured, this was very much inspired Henley's words.
And as for the death, it's not what you think. This is a happy story :)
“If I were young, as once I was,
and dreams of death more distant then ...”
It’s a poem he’d read long ago, as a student at the Academy. He’d been a child then, and the words were already ancient. Well, he’s no longer young, and death no more distant now than many years ago. But he remembers those words.
He recalls, somewhat vaguely, the night they made the pact. Or was it morning? It’s getting harder to focus on the older memories now. And he often finds, these days, it does not do well to dwell on the past. He’d rather enjoy the days he has now, however few their number. The past is the past, he reflects, and all he has left is the now.
He grasps his cane, the handle worn smooth as glass from the years of use. With his slow and graceful three-legged walk, he leaves his home and moves through the garden, stopping here and there to inspect his bonsai trees.
He will deny that he is a hermit, despite what the locals say. His home is somewhat isolated, but not impossible to find, if someone were to put their mind to it. Katara and Aang still visit, a few times a year. As did Sokka, until his death almost twenty years before. He and Toph exchange letters frequently, and enjoy long games of mahjong by post. His is a simple, dignified existence. Small pleasures, rather than large, were what interested him now: strong tea, warm sunshine on his old bones, and days where his joints don’t trouble him so.
The night (or morning) they made the pact preceded the worst battle of the 100 Years War. Ten hours later, half the city would be buried, fallen down into it’s own crystal catacombs after the prolonged Earth- and Fire-bending had weakened the rock structures. Warriors, civilians, people on both sides all found their fates at the bottom of tons of rubble, in darkness two miles from the surface. But something about the beauty of that moment, ten hours before the disaster, the quiet splendor of that single peaceful day had awoken in them some sense of preservation.
Maybe they had felt the smallness of their own existence, watching the thousand-year old routine of the sun and the Earth. Maybe the fear, and the desire for closure prompted some preliminary goodbyes. The reasons are as much a mystery to him now as they were back then. In the changing light, they promised.
“We’ll die,” Jin said, kissing the backs of his hands, “Someday. Let’s not let it interfere.”
“We’ll not live carelessly,” he said. “We’ll live as we can, and we’ll live so it matters.”
They sealed the promise with more than a kiss. He’ll never know if she knew somehow; if she’d been granted some premonition, or vision, or just had a feeling how much the world would change by the next sunrise (sunset?). More than anything, now, he’s grateful. Whatever sublime force had inspired the pact, he’s grateful it was said. The sense of purpose it gave him, even as Toph had stood with him in the wreckage and rubble and told him that his heartbeat and hers were the only ones she could find within three miles and he’d felt more alone than he’d ever felt in his life, had truly saved him.
“Live as you can,” she had said, “And I will too. Whatever happens. We’ll both live as we can.”
They never found her body, and even after the years had fallen off the calendar like autumn leaves, Zuko still believes that she’s out there, somewhere. Living life her way, the way she always had. He had tried valiantly to find her, searching, leaving correspondence where she might find it, making connections in this town and that, always leaving a trail behind so that she might find it, and follow it. Years later, it had become too difficult to maintain, both physically and emotionally, so he’d stopped, and settled down to wait.
He still waits for her, although not restlessly. Easier than hoping each day that today will be the day she will walk through his door, he waits to be reunited with her in the next life. For now, he imagines her living life her own way. He imagines her with another man, surrounded by children and laughter and love. A mother, maybe even a grandmother. She deserves it. He tries to imagine her as an old woman, hair streaked gray like Katara’s, hands old and spotted like his own. But her image persists, stubbornly, as a young girl, forever nineteen and smiling.
He watches the sun set, and decides it had been a sunset. He looks back on his life, and decides that he had done well living it. Together in Heaven, they would sit and go over all the details of it, and he knew she’d agree, it had been good.
He gets up, stiff and aching, and walks back to his home. Lightning bugs flicker on and off in the cooling, night air, the cicadas chirp and somewhere off, a single bird warbles once, twice before stopping for the night. Something in the air says that summer is almost over.
<3