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The trees near the clearing shook as the wind howled and roared its grievances. Colorful leaves drifted off the branches, scattering across the sodden ground like insects on sweets.
It was a day just like this one where it all happened. The day that his childhood ceased to exist.
"Jet! They're coming!"
The little boy looked all around him in confusion, his eight-year-old mind unable to wrap itself around the chaos that surrounded him.
"Who's coming?"
"The Fire Nation! It's the Rough Rhinos! They're back again!"
Oh no.
He had to find his mother—his father.
Where were they?
"Mom! Dad! We have to go—"
The last of his words tasted like ash and fire in his mouth, the tendrils of smoke enveloping his senses. His mind had to be playing jokes on him. There was just no way.
Their small house was in flames, the bodies of his parents on the ground, eyes still open. There were three burly men surrounding their bodies. One had a ponytail as big as Jet, the flames of his home reflected in his dark pupils.
Jet didn't want to leave his parents, his home. But he didn't have a choice. His body made a run for it before his mind did and soon enough, he was at the top of the hill, gasping for breath. The other villagers were running as well, and all he could do was stand there and stare as his life burned to the ground.
That was eight years ago. He could still taste the ash on his tongue as sweat poured from his dark skin. He wiped his eyes, ridding himself of the tears or sweat, he didn't know.
He looked into the sky, his gaze caught on two sparrowkeets that were flying side by side.
In another life, maybe he'd be that free too.
He glanced down at the ground where his parents rested for eternity, his eyes watering despite his internal pleas. He couldn't let anyone see him like this.
Not like this.
He suddenly choked on a sob, his shoulders shaking as he slid to his knees. The flowers in his hands falling to the ground, the white petals scattering like leaves. His head was in his hands now, his tongue tasting salty trails across his mouth.
How long could he continue living like this?
"Jet?"
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no, no—
No!
She couldn't see him like this. He was supposed to be brave and strong and courageous and everything she deserved.
Not an orphan who was so close to taking his own life at the tender age of ten when he was imprisoned for stealing bread so that he wouldn't starve.
He didn't deserve her, she deserved perfection.
Flawlessness.
She was scarred enough.
"Jet…" The words died on her lips as she saw the graves he knelt by. Were those his…?
"Go away!" Her heart broke when she heard the vulnerability in his voice. Sadness wasn't even the word to describe how he sounded.
A wounded animal was probably the best way she could describe it. She felt tears well up in her eyes as she scanned his huddled form.
"Please." He whispered. It was almost imperceptible, the way he softly said the word. But there was no strength in them, no vindication or conviction.
He sounded defeated.
The proud Freedom Fighter she knew wasn't here right now. This was someone entirely different. He was only a year or so older than her yet he sounded so much younger.
It was easy to forget that he was a child when he became the leader of the resistance.
Katara knelt quietly next to him, taking one of his hands in hers. His hand was shaking, palms clammy and cold.
This time, he didn't protest. Instead, squeezing her hand as the tears flowed down his face like curtains.
The waterbender held him close as the sobs continued to spill out of him. She understood all too well, the grief that never seemed to subside even years after it all happened.
She thumbed her mother's necklace in a subconscious effort to feel her presence.
After a few moments, his sobs turned into the occasional sniffle. His attempt at wiping his face growing feeble as his sleeves just kept making it worse. Despite everything, Katara couldn't help but smile at his stubbornness.
"Here," she said, handing him a small cloth. "You'll just make it worse."
He took it gratefully, still unable to face her. He tried to give it back to her, a watery chuckle escaping him at her baffled expression, despite his best efforts.
"That's gross and you know it." Leave it to Katara to make him snicker at a time like this.
A brief silence danced between the two, engulfing the air like smoke. Katara didn't want to be the one to break the ice. Part of her felt like she interrupted a rare moment of vulnerability from the swordsman. The last thing she would ever do was demand him to explain himself. His feelings were his and his alone. Whether he talked about them was up to him.
Some things Katara knew about Jet was that he was suave and charismatic and brave—all things she loved about him. But underneath that tough exterior he was cautious, wounded, and so very scared.
In the confines of their shared home, she'd see the scars. The countless ones littered on his body.
But then there'd be ones you couldn't see. Not entirely. The way he'd lash out in his sleep, screaming for his parents. Yelling for someone— anyone —to help.
She would sing songs her mother used to sing to her and her brother to help lull them to sleep during the harsh and gusty winds of winters back home.
And he'd go back to sleep in minutes with a soft thank you on the tip of his languid tongue.
"I'm really sorry, Katara." She turned to him, taken aback by his words. He seemed to be trying to get his thoughts together so she squeezed his hand, letting him know she was here and waiting. For however long it took, she would be here.
"I'm sorry for what I said before. That I told you to leave. I was just—"
She pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping her arms around him while inhaling his scent of pine and sandalwood. It was oddly soothing.
"I know, I understand. You don't need to apologize to me. You were hurting, you still are hurting, Jet." His grip on her waist grew tighter.
"Even after all these years, it still…"
"Hurts?" She finished. He nodded.
"I thought it would get better and maybe in some ways it has, but it still stings. Maybe time doesn't heal all wounds like the saying says. Maybe it just numbs it." Katara shook her head.
"If that was the case, you wouldn't have cried."
He couldn't argue with that.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, not saying anything, letting the wind speak once again.
"Today's the anniversary. Of their passing."
Katara's eyes widened, her heart hurting for him. She then recited a prayer her tribe often chanted when one of the tribe members passed on to the next life.
She then took a blue flower—a hyacinth—that laid dormant in her hair and placed it onto the graves. She met his watery gaze with a small smile.
He tucked a curly stray of hair behind her ear. She blushed. He relished in the fact that he made her do so. "You know something?"
"What?"
"My parents would've loved you."
She was sure she would've loved them too.