Chapter Text
Bashin never considered himself to be a forgetful man, but it seemed just his luck that he would forget to properly secure his boat right before a big storm was set to roll in.
He keeps his lantern held aloft in front of him as he checks once, twice, three times to make sure that the ropes are secure, to make sure that the sail is furled, and that everything on deck is tied down and able to withstand whatever wind is headed his way. Storms that come for their little village aren't usually a big concern, but one can never be too careful. He nods to himself, satisfied with his work, and sure that his boat won’t be lost in the coming days. He hears a distant roll of thunder, and turns to head home, hoping that the rain won’t start until he’s made it there.
The dock gives him a good view of the beach, and he casts a quick glance at the waves and sand, already swelling from distant rain. The clouds cover the moon, but Tui and La must be trying to tell him something, because there’s just enough moonlight to see a figure walking along the beach.
‘They must not know about the storm coming in,’ he thinks to himself, even though it sounds like pure stupidity to him. He doesn’t know what brings the stranger out for a midnight stroll on the cusp of bad weather, but Bashin knows he’ll be up all night worrying if he doesn’t at least try and warn them. With an irritated sigh, he makes his way off the dock, and instead of running back to his warm, cozy house, he trots down the beach in pursuit of the mysterious figure.
When he gets closer, Bashin is… surprised to say the least. The figure is small. They can’t be anything other than a child. Maybe a teenager, but a little one. That’s not the only strange thing about them; their clothes aren’t Earth Kingdom. They’re not anything, really. A plain white robe that hangs loosely on their frame, dragging in the sand and seawater, the ends soaked through with each wave they walk through. Bashin suppresses a shudder as he can’t help but remember the last time he saw someone wear something so white, he was at their funeral. The strange child’s hair flows freely, longer than he would ever keep his hair, and so pitch black they almost blend into the night. Bashin wonders if he ever would have seen them if it hadn’t been for the brightness of their clothes.
“Kid? Are you okay?” Bashin calls as he approaches from behind. The kid doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge him. They keep trudging along through the beach, barely picking up their feet as they move at a MantisSnail’s pace- feet that he’s just now noticing don’t even have shoes.
Something in Bashin’s stomach tells him that something is wrong, a rising, dreadful feeling that urges him to stay with the kid. He gets closer, cursing as his feet hit the cold water. He lifts his lantern a bit to try and catch their face, or at least get their attention, “You shouldn’t be out here. There’s a storm rolling in soon, you should head home before you get caught in it.”
The kid finally stops walking, but Bashin honestly isn’t sure if it's because they heard him, or if they’ve just run out of steam. Bashin hears another roll of thunder, and feels the temperature drop even lower. If Bashin is cold, then the kid has to be freezing, but they hardly seem to react to anything. Not even the waves lapping at their legs, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
(Something is very, very wrong.)
He walks up slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild animal. Anxiety has taken a deep root in his stomach, his limbs tingling as his free hand hovers over the kid’s shoulder. He takes a steeling breath before gently bringing it down to rest, to get the kid to look at Bashin.
And gods, what he found will be burned into his mind for the rest of his life.
The kid lets Bashin turn him easily. (Too easily. Far, far too easily.) and when he does, the man finally gets a good look at their- at his face.
Red. Angry, inflamed red. A wound that spans almost a third of his face, right over his eye- It’s a burn. A burn that still pulses and throbs with its freshness. Parts of the damaged skin have already split open again and tears of bright, crimson red spill down his face and soak the collar and front of his white robe in a grisly scene. The kid’s eyes are unfocused and dazed, golden eyes that don’t lock on to Bashin or anything around them. Bashin has only seen eyes like those on dead people.
Then, before Bashin can get his bearings. Before he can say anything to the kid, to ask if he needs help- (Of course he needs help, you idiot, LOOK at him-!) The kid is falling. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the kid just crumples, careening towards the sand and sea. Bashin only just barely catches him, and does his best to keep the boy’s head out of the water, even as both of them get even more soaked. The boy’s skin is broiling hot, sickly pale that he almost glows in the dark. He can’t tell if the wet on his face is from the sea or sweat. He feels his heartbeat against his chest, and it feels both too fast and too weak, like the last fighting beats of a HummingFly’s wings. The boy is scarcely breathing-
“Shit-!” Bashin curses, his lantern slips from his grip and is quickly swept out to sea, but he can’t be bothered to worry about that when he has his arms full of a dying boy, “Help! Can anyone hear me?! We need some help over here!” he calls, but he knows that his voice won’t carry all the way to the village from here.
The boy makes a noise, something small, weak, and it’s the first noise Bashin has ever heard from him, and it’s so damn pitiful. The boy's eyes are starting to slip closed, and that sends a sharp spike of fear through him, “Hey, hey-! Stay awake, kid! Stay awake- Hey! We need help! Help us!” he calls again, desperately. Bashin feels drops of rain hit his head, hears a roll of thunder, and feels the weak pulse coming from the boy. Lighting illuminates the boy’s ill, injured face for a fraction of a second, and Bashin makes a choice.
He scoops the boy into his arms, soaked robe and all, and runs faster than he’s ever run in his life, all the while knowing he carries a young boy’s fragile life force in his arms. He carries him all the way back to his house, and as he lays the boy in his bed, and digs through what meagre medical supplies he has, he wonders just what on Earth happened to this poor child.
~*~
Deep in the Fire Nation capital, the royal palace mourns (Celebrates) the death of Prince Zuko. People shed the appropriate amount of tears, (Which is none) and they deliver half-hearted words of sympathy, (“If only the boy knew how to keep his mouth shut in front of his betters-”)
~*~
Somewhere in the middle of the sea, the captain of a ship is wondering how to break the news to the Dragon Of The West that they lost the precious, injured cargo that they were specifically tasked with protecting. He contemplates just jumping into an active volcano instead. It’d be the safer option.