Falling For You ✰༄ ѕσkkα

Water || Linger

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Happy two year anniversary!
I made this chapter a bit longer
than usual as a token of
my gratitude <3
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I wearily watch Aang leave our sheltered corner, refusing to look away until his body is hidden by sheets of rain. I coax a steady stream of flames from the fire, watching the dancing flickers of orange claw at the air. Sokka mumbles gibberish to himself as Katara restlessly shifts in her sleeping bag. Her coughs faintly echo in the damp air seeping into my skin.

I rummage through Katara's sewing supplies, finding an extra scrap of cloth. I fold it over once, twice, then secure it behind my head. I vaguely remember my Mother doing something similar when my Father was sick, so I take advantage of the memory. Once I feel it won't slip down I approach the siblings. I pour Katara a cup of water before gently placing the back of my hand on Sokka's forehead. From what I can tell, there's been no change.

I huff out a heavy breath, sitting back on my heels. I know Aang is looking for proper medicine, but I feel at a loss without attempting to sooth the ailment held by the rest of our party. I take one of our few pots, swathing myself in a torn tapestry to block the rain. I quickly scoop up water, trying not to slip on the slick rocks. My fingers dig into the mud, scrounging recognizable roots out of the loose dirt. I hurry back, ducking my head to watch where I step. After securing a sturdy spit over the fire I begin chopping up the newfound ingredients. Collecting leftover meat scraps, small daikon radishes, additional herbs and spices, I introduce them to the steaming water. Once I feel they have all been properly incorporated, I cover the mix with a lid to let everything stew.

Scavenging any kind of wood has become a chore. I pick over every available piece of this great village's history, tossing it away as the embers dance overhead. Guilt creeps over my flesh but I have to brush it aside considering our circumstances. I continue to check on the siblings, as they have both found refuge in sleep. I keep my mind busy with cleaning, brushing aside rubble, neatly piling miscellaneous objects.
Sokka begins to stir in time for the stew to be served. I pour a generous portion into his bowl, settling myself beside him. "Hey there, I got something for you."
"Smells good. What's this for?" he tentatively reaches out, pinching the fabric covering my face between his fingers. His voice is hoarse, thick with scratches from his congested body.
"I don't want to get sick, so I'm blocking your nasty cough-air from my wonderful lungs."
He drops his hand, "Ha ha, make fun of the sick man."
"Well what else? It's one is my responsibilities to make sure you get better, and I plan on staying healthy." I firmly press a spoon into his hand, Sokka's sour expression lightening with every mouthful.
As we eat the rain thins. Light mist creeps past stone pillars, swirling through tendrils of smoke to create patterns. Katara rouses, and I hand her a warm bowl that she slowly takes sips from. Sokka pesters Momo with a string of unanswered anecdotes and questions. He soon turns back to me, asking for a story. Katara agrees with his request.

I decide to talk about the soaps we used to make as a family. It was Mother's specialty, something Father would always be astonished by. He said that she must've had spirits running through her veins because she could always tell the correct amount needed for every ingredient. He would watch her with a gentle smile on his face, passing dishes and bowls of fragrant plants he purchased as a gift. I was astonished by her skillful fingers dancing around the vials and flower petals in her workspace. When I wasn't in school I often went to the market with them, setting up our booth with an array of colorful scents on display. There was a woman who came all the way from Ba Sing Se every few months to buy our products. She would rave about our scents to her friends, having to purchase a basket full in order to hand it out to them. She liked to keep our location a secret, as she claimed that rivaling companies would come here by the dozens to try and uncover my mother's methods.
I always thought she was being a bit silly, but an idea of her being some famous icon in Ba Sing Se lingered in the back of my mind. She wore a thin pastel green veil over the lower half of her face with silky gold flowers embroidered into the material. Her hair was so long that it reached all the way down her back, the black contrasting the light green and gold hues decorating her figure. Now that I recall her elaborate appearance, maybe she was an opera singer.