A/N: I’m not completely dead from tumblr dot com. Here’s some Sokkla tho. Unbeta’ed. Unedited.
Sokka was ten years old when the South Pole was burning. He had flashbacks sometimes, of red, violent red, and the smell of smoke in his senses. He could hear his mother’s screams. He could see his father’s back.
His father placed his hands on either of his shoulders.
“You’re my son,” he said. “You’re in charge of the South Pole’s last defense.”
It was fervour and pride and in the name of justice. He could see himself—they’d call him a hero—as the dismantler of traps. The grand strategist. That’s until Gran Gran told him to go to sleep.
When he was eleven, he thought he would conquer the world and he’d be fire emperor. Those were lazy days for Sokka. He’d entertain whims and fancies, because he was a boy who lived in a society that loved to tell stories.
The men would return from their hundred year war, and his father would tell him stories. He’d have something to say too.
Back in those days, Sokka thought, the world was divided into Fire Nation and everyone else.
It was nearly four years after the war, and Sokka was travelling for Zuko and Aang for diplomatic work. He stopped on one of the Fire Nation islands for the night, and he realized there was a play being held that evening. Paying for the last performance, he stepped into the auditorium of fifty or so people who were seated and waiting.
There were mostly families and some couples. Sokka decided to take a seat beside the entrance, incase… well… incase the memories brought back flashbacks.
He pushed down his heavy cloak when he sat in the dark of the auditorium.
Streams of red and blue ribbons popped up on stage and Zuko performed a few moves. The drum beat. The woman who played his sister was kneeling. The audience oohed and aahed. Sokka yawned and tapped his foot.
Blue flame was a rarity, Zuko told him once. He watched the stream of ribbons fall to the stage as the Avatar and his group moved in.
The problem was that no one could really play someone as cold, as calculated and as driven as Azula. Someone who still haunted Zuko’s nightmares, and she remained one of the most powerful architects of the Avatar’s hunt.
No, there was a reason why the play was so boring. Because, heroes were as good as their villains.
Tag: enigmatic-bass
(A/n: What the hell am I writing the day before a job fair? I need to edit my resume. Anyways please have some unedited and angsty Sokkla.)
When Azula breaks out of the facility, and she burns the
place to the ground. It was the water-bender who stays back to help the nurses
and patients evacuate, so she couldn’t catch her. Katara curses after her.“Bitch!”
And Azula leaves with her blue flames, with a skip in her
step. Her long, uncut hair trails after her like her engulfing flames lick the walls.
She was free. Azula laughs at the smoke, the cinders and the debris.The street burn with blue flames.
Her disused arms and legs slow her, but she bears on. The
streets blur behind her in blue flames. Azula is free, she hums the old Fire
Nation lullaby of Azulon’s reign.Eventually, she gets only so far.
A boomerang whizzes past her.
So she glances at him and smiles.
“Hello,” she says. And maybe his eyes burn bluer than the
streets, and maybe for some reason—Azula doesn’t mind being outdone. “Sokka.”“Why?” he snarls
at her. “I thought you’d changed! We all thought you were changing!”A half-shrug. What did he expect from a dragon in chains?
“Because I knew that your friends would play heroes and save
the day. And all the peasants will remember and fear me because of their burns,” she
says. “Look.” She gestures towards the Avatar and his wife and the steam that follows them. “The
streets are saved.”
His eyes narrow. Then she ducks, and his boomerang returns to him. Sokka is momentarily distracted by a beam that falls with a crash beside him. When he looks up, he sees a flame swirl.
She’s gone.A few minutes later, as he helps an old lady and her grand-daughter, Sokka realizes that her implication lingers.
And I knew that you’d
come after me to try and stop me.
A continuation of this post right here. Sokkla. I’ll eventually get around to writing a full-fledged story about this but I also make no promises haha.
I hope you enjoy, regardless. Also unedited properly.
Azula bides her time.
She scratches the skin on her wrist which is clamped onto
the book. The bending-suppressant bracelet jangles. Her fingers feel weaker. But
she fills her mind with poetry—metaphors of her life—of blue, beautiful blue flames.Even Father couldn’t manage to create such art. She imagines
the walls encased in flames, thick, swelling, tumultuous flames with burning
the red wallpaper into crisp, burnt and dark remnants. Soon. Soon she’ll be out
of here—free—and in the sun is. The steel beams fall and crash, the sparks
dance, the hallways collapse, her prison crumbles and the true Fire Lord laughs—“Do you think the world would have been peaceful if the
fire-nation never attacked?”She peers at him over the cover of a book like he’s some
sort of fly, buzzing ver her tea. He smiles back at her. Maybe he’s
enamored by her. The thought pleases her.She puts the book down and folds the flap over her fingers
and straightens her posture. Always indulge the simple-minded—because, Ozai tells her, you can command them with your
words.“Peasant, war is necessary.”
“Why?”
my bitty contribution to the sokkla fandom. thank you for reading my unedited garbage.
She dragged a single chipped nail underneath a golden
stitch, and tugged at it. It popped out of the seams.Mother loved her cushions.
They were propped on the seating area by the
window. The window had a beautiful view of the garden. Zuzu held that room with
a lot of sentimental value. They would play there together while mother, over
her delicate, refined embroidery, glanced up and watched them.They played everything from tag, to building towers out of
wooden blocks, to sword fights in imaginary worlds. Even back then—he was the
servant. She played the king.After mother left, father occupied that room. He shut the
doors. No one played there. And the two of them were ushered away to their
lessons, admonishments and into the refined culture of fire and etiquette that
fit the throne.She plucked out another stitching from the botched bird.
Now Zuzu, with his ever-mournful, dull mind,
gazes out into mother’s garden and mooned over his devastated family and his
insane little sister.She ripped out the cloth, bearing fleshy cotton and dug
her fingers through the ripped fabric and pulled out a fistful of cotton.Mai, no the traitor,
she corrected, laces her arms around his shoulders. Zuzu would take her hand and sigh.They share a long moment. They wish things were different.
Then—she rolled her eyes—they talk about visiting her
with flowers. The traitor wouldn’t, she’d say she wasn’t ready to face her. Zuzu would though. He brought his
wretched flowers and she always burned them to the petals.Like mother would do to father before she escaped his
clutches.And the traitor would lean over and whisper into his ear
with pity and romance him with her words of consolation for his loss. His loss and not hers. Her castle, her
castle—now ridden with filth—with Zuzu
and his friends who—“You’ve got a really scary look,” he said.
And just like that—the world crackled back into her little
furnished “cellar.”Ah yes, the water-tribe boy, who’s mouth ran like a leaky
tap of irrefutable nonsense, punctuated by spurts of sense, followed by disappointing, annoying drips.
The faucet was broken, she added.
Fanwright 