(Assume that everyone’s about a year or two older than they are in Avatar canon- enough that early love-games and jealousy were a possibility for all involved at the time of banishment.)
The full moon is on the rise, and Zura is staring at it over the rail of the ship.
She’s heard that the moon turned red, then black, while she was hauling the Avatar across blizzard-burned tundra, seeking a way back to the ship and losing sight of the stars in the howling gale. There are stories, about the terrible rage of the oceans and the loss of half a fleet- the death of a beautiful princess to make the moon rise again.
The thought makes her shudder, and not because she might have been at fault for it (she was there, she could have gotten what she wanted and got out, she had, but no one ever said she had to be in the same room to cause trouble).
The moon’s still there, though- or there again, pure and shining, and the terrible night of its death has passed away into history.
She doesn’t hear Mao ghost up to her until he lets her know with a footfall, knowing better than to sneak up on a soldier.
“You cold?”
“Everything’s changed. Nothing has.”
“I asked if you were cold, I didn’t ask for philosophical nothings.” She can feel him resist the urge to roll his eyes, and glowers away to the side- another moment ruined by mutual malfunctions. But he tugs off his long black cloak, rich as sin in the fur of some dead platypus bear, and she lets it settle around her shoulders.
Mao looks at her funny- she can read his ghost-mask better than most, although that isn’t saying much- and stands next to her at the metal rail, looking upwards as if he can’t quite think of what to say.
The waves slap at the ship’s hull for a while.
Her brother’s bodyguard looks at her sidelong from under his girlish fringe- he keeps his nails like an Imperial lady’s, black and deadly, and no one says him nay. Zura puts her hand in his, feeling the different calluses between them; her nails are short and blank, filed down harshly to keep out of the way.
Mao traces the fuzzy outline of her hair, growing out from the adulteress’s cut. Now she has a peasant’s shaggy bob, her face a little too sharp for true beauty even under the scar framing her eye like a phoenix-wing.
He leans in and kisses her jaw anyway.
“Stop worrying. Come inside- I’ll make you tea.”
He learned the art from Lo and Li, Azulon’s tutors- he doesn’t flatter himself that he knows all their secrets, but he’s mastered a trick or two, including some that would blanch his mother’s hair if she knew. He’s pretty sure Azulon learned a few things as well.
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timeasmymeasure
Questions About Lan Min's Father- Zura Reacts 1/2
Date: 2009-12-06 08:47 pm (UTC)The full moon is on the rise, and Zura is staring at it over the rail of the ship.
She’s heard that the moon turned red, then black, while she was hauling the Avatar across blizzard-burned tundra, seeking a way back to the ship and losing sight of the stars in the howling gale. There are stories, about the terrible rage of the oceans and the loss of half a fleet- the death of a beautiful princess to make the moon rise again.
The thought makes her shudder, and not because she might have been at fault for it (she was there, she could have gotten what she wanted and got out, she had, but no one ever said she had to be in the same room to cause trouble).
The moon’s still there, though- or there again, pure and shining, and the terrible night of its death has passed away into history.
She doesn’t hear Mao ghost up to her until he lets her know with a footfall, knowing better than to sneak up on a soldier.
“You cold?”
“Everything’s changed. Nothing has.”
“I asked if you were cold, I didn’t ask for philosophical nothings.” She can feel him resist the urge to roll his eyes, and glowers away to the side- another moment ruined by mutual malfunctions. But he tugs off his long black cloak, rich as sin in the fur of some dead platypus bear, and she lets it settle around her shoulders.
Mao looks at her funny- she can read his ghost-mask better than most, although that isn’t saying much- and stands next to her at the metal rail, looking upwards as if he can’t quite think of what to say.
The waves slap at the ship’s hull for a while.
Her brother’s bodyguard looks at her sidelong from under his girlish fringe- he keeps his nails like an Imperial lady’s, black and deadly, and no one says him nay. Zura puts her hand in his, feeling the different calluses between them; her nails are short and blank, filed down harshly to keep out of the way.
Mao traces the fuzzy outline of her hair, growing out from the adulteress’s cut. Now she has a peasant’s shaggy bob, her face a little too sharp for true beauty even under the scar framing her eye like a phoenix-wing.
He leans in and kisses her jaw anyway.
“Stop worrying. Come inside- I’ll make you tea.”
He learned the art from Lo and Li, Azulon’s tutors- he doesn’t flatter himself that he knows all their secrets, but he’s mastered a trick or two, including some that would blanch his mother’s hair if she knew. He’s pretty sure Azulon learned a few things as well.
Three years now, Mao’s always made a fresh pot.