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kinkfestTitle: The Blood Witch
Author/Artist: anime_angel_ash
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Anything involving Hama, the events that took place in her past, and the abilities related to her.
Warnings: Blood and some torture
Word Count: 1376
Summary: The children want to hear a scary story.
Prompt: June 19 - Avatar: the last Airbender, Hamma: When young. Using her blood-bending to restrain someone - 'If she squeezes just a little bit harder, she'll break the heart completely'.
The hour has grown late and the sky dark, but the children elude sleep. There is too much excitement in the air—visitors rarely come here, after all, and receiving so many at once was a cause for celebration all its own. The children's eyes reflect the communal fire as they gather 'round it, fidgeting and fluttering as they beg for a story. A scary story, one child demands, and the others shriek, their delight unmistakable beside their mock-fear. Of course, as always, Jomu is more than happy to oblige them.
“This is a true story, mind you!” he says, waving his hands toward the heavens and audience theatrically. “Happened to my great—”
“Great-great-great grandmother's brother's aunt's cousin's blacksmith?” crows one of the older children (he'll be thirty-eight come next month), and a snicker runs through the crowd. Jomu glares at the man, eye twitching with irritation.
“Great uncle.” Then, pomp returning, Jomu thrusts his arms out again, as if to pull the lot of them in. He leans down, addressing the children. “Long ago, long before you or I—”
“Long before them,” shouts one of the older women, too young to be decrepit yet too old to care for a young woman's graciousness. “Not much came before you, old man!”
Jomu shoots her a grimace all her own, waving his arms like an old crow trying to imitate a hawk. “Shush, the lot of ya! I may be old, but I can still show you a thing or two!” He curls his feeble hands into fists, rolls them like a boxer, and the audience lets their laughter die to giggles out of a pitying respect for the old man. Once he's satisfied, Jomu turns once again to the children, and his theatrics: “As you all know, long, long ago, our Lord Sozen set out on a holy mission. He wanted to unite the divided world, bring all of its people together under one ruler. A holy mission it was, one that continues to this day.
“But back then, it was just like it is now, and many people were not moved by the mission of the Fire Lord. They fought against the Fire Nation, and many firebenders lost their lives in battle. Still, our men were able to beat the opposing armies and send the benders away, to places where they couldn't cause any more harm.
A young man toward the back (just touching the age where his ego became too big for his brawn), mutters something about a history lesson, but the few that hear him stifle their giggles. One more ungracious interruption, and the old man is liable to have an aneurysm.
“My uncle, he was working at one of these places as a guard many years ago. A prison for waterbenders who attacked Fire Nation soldiers on mission in the South Pole. But there was one there, a girl, the last one they managed to capture, and she wasn't just a waterbender. No, she was...a witch!”
The youngest children squeal, more out of excitement than fear, and are quickly and cruelly admonished by the older ones. A bit of pandemonium later (which consisted overwhelmingly of one child crying, another shouting angrily to quiet him, and the rest chanting “Witch! Witch!” with varying degrees of fear), Jomu clears his throat, clapping his hands together to continue. On the far side of the campfire, the strangers exchange looks, wide eyes reflecting the firelight.
“Now, you see,” Jomu goes on, “it was a dried up old place, and waterbenders aren't used to dry places, so it was normal to hear some moanin' and groanin' now and then. But one day, my uncle heard another one of the guards yelling like he'd just seen the white lady of death. But then, suddenly, it stopped. When uncle finally reached the place where it had come from, he peeked around the corner and saw the witch, out of her cell,”—Jomu thrusts his hand into the air, fingers curled as if squeezing something invisible—“holding a paralyzed guard up in front of her. But not a finger was touching the man. She was holding him by nothing but evil magic.”
The children gasp. One curls up into another's side, fear collecting at the corners of his eyes. There's a smile in Jomu's eyes, but he confines it there; this is not a subject to smile on.
“'Hard to talk when there's no blood in your vocal cords,' she said, and she laughed a witch's laugh right up to the sky. The poor guard couldn't do a thing, and neither could my uncle, in the face of this witchcraft. The floating man twisted when she moved her hands, and he would've been screaming if he could. She just laughed harder.” Jomu giggles for emphasis, imitates a voice high and sweet, that of an innocent, young girl, “'Why, Mr. Guardman, your heart is beating so fast. Are you in love with me?'”
Even the teens and older children, as they hold their hands over the mouths of the youngest to keep them from crying, twitch uncomfortably. They glance around at the faces of their peers, find themselves in good company, then turn back to the old man. Not even a whisper permeates the air, much less a joke.
“'Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Guardman, but you broke my”—Jomu twists his hand, whip-crack quick, and he is the blood witch, eyes and hands an unholy red, making the audience jerk back—“'heart!'
“Then, he stopped moving. Went completely limp. She dropped him and wandered away, and when my uncle finally got a chance to look at him, blood was dripping from everywhere—nose, ears, mouth. She'd torn apart his heart.”
Even the adults shift about now, glancing over their shoulders into the darkness. Some press their hands to their chests, patting at their breastbones as if to assure that their hearts are still secure.
“Some say,” Jomu continues, looking directly into the eyes of the children, voice a sinister whisper, “that she spends her days wandering the countryside, forcing people to come to her with her powers, and then tearing out their hearts. Others say that she is more ghost than witch, sent to haunt citizens of the Fire Nation. Still others say that she uses the blood of her victims to gain eternal youth, and even now continues her grizzly work, looking no different than any other young Water Tribe girl. In fact, some claim that she was recently seen in a village not far from here, holding an old woman hostage with her powers.
“But all are agreed: on nights like this”—he holds his arms up, gesturing toward the moon where it rests, full and pale, on the mountains of the sky—“the blood witch comes, scouring the cities and the countryside of the Fire Nation, searching for hearts. Hearts, just like YOURS!”
The old man flings himself toward the child-audience, hands curled into claws and wicked smirk made all the wickeder by firelight and shadow. It's all the children can take. Their screams of terror rip through the tranquil air, piercing the night. One or two of the youngest even leap up to get away, only to think better of it once they are out of the circle of firelight—what if the blood witch is there right now?—and bolt back to their siblings.
Jomu, meanwhile, has replaced his dark expression with a satisfied smile, chuckling at the results of his work. When the children see it, they lose their fear for shock, then for irritation, shouting at Jomu for his cruelty. The adults are in on it soon enough, half laughing along with the old man, the other half scolding and claiming that he has scarred the children for life. Nonetheless, the old man continues to laugh, and soon enough, the embarrassed children and angry adults are in on it as well, and the place feels of joy again.
In the midst of it all, one of the visitors—a beautiful young woman—stands and heads quickly away from the fire; her tears reflect the moonlight.
Author/Artist: anime_angel_ash
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Anything involving Hama, the events that took place in her past, and the abilities related to her.
Warnings: Blood and some torture
Word Count: 1376
Summary: The children want to hear a scary story.
Prompt: June 19 - Avatar: the last Airbender, Hamma: When young. Using her blood-bending to restrain someone - 'If she squeezes just a little bit harder, she'll break the heart completely'.
The hour has grown late and the sky dark, but the children elude sleep. There is too much excitement in the air—visitors rarely come here, after all, and receiving so many at once was a cause for celebration all its own. The children's eyes reflect the communal fire as they gather 'round it, fidgeting and fluttering as they beg for a story. A scary story, one child demands, and the others shriek, their delight unmistakable beside their mock-fear. Of course, as always, Jomu is more than happy to oblige them.
“This is a true story, mind you!” he says, waving his hands toward the heavens and audience theatrically. “Happened to my great—”
“Great-great-great grandmother's brother's aunt's cousin's blacksmith?” crows one of the older children (he'll be thirty-eight come next month), and a snicker runs through the crowd. Jomu glares at the man, eye twitching with irritation.
“Great uncle.” Then, pomp returning, Jomu thrusts his arms out again, as if to pull the lot of them in. He leans down, addressing the children. “Long ago, long before you or I—”
“Long before them,” shouts one of the older women, too young to be decrepit yet too old to care for a young woman's graciousness. “Not much came before you, old man!”
Jomu shoots her a grimace all her own, waving his arms like an old crow trying to imitate a hawk. “Shush, the lot of ya! I may be old, but I can still show you a thing or two!” He curls his feeble hands into fists, rolls them like a boxer, and the audience lets their laughter die to giggles out of a pitying respect for the old man. Once he's satisfied, Jomu turns once again to the children, and his theatrics: “As you all know, long, long ago, our Lord Sozen set out on a holy mission. He wanted to unite the divided world, bring all of its people together under one ruler. A holy mission it was, one that continues to this day.
“But back then, it was just like it is now, and many people were not moved by the mission of the Fire Lord. They fought against the Fire Nation, and many firebenders lost their lives in battle. Still, our men were able to beat the opposing armies and send the benders away, to places where they couldn't cause any more harm.
A young man toward the back (just touching the age where his ego became too big for his brawn), mutters something about a history lesson, but the few that hear him stifle their giggles. One more ungracious interruption, and the old man is liable to have an aneurysm.
“My uncle, he was working at one of these places as a guard many years ago. A prison for waterbenders who attacked Fire Nation soldiers on mission in the South Pole. But there was one there, a girl, the last one they managed to capture, and she wasn't just a waterbender. No, she was...a witch!”
The youngest children squeal, more out of excitement than fear, and are quickly and cruelly admonished by the older ones. A bit of pandemonium later (which consisted overwhelmingly of one child crying, another shouting angrily to quiet him, and the rest chanting “Witch! Witch!” with varying degrees of fear), Jomu clears his throat, clapping his hands together to continue. On the far side of the campfire, the strangers exchange looks, wide eyes reflecting the firelight.
“Now, you see,” Jomu goes on, “it was a dried up old place, and waterbenders aren't used to dry places, so it was normal to hear some moanin' and groanin' now and then. But one day, my uncle heard another one of the guards yelling like he'd just seen the white lady of death. But then, suddenly, it stopped. When uncle finally reached the place where it had come from, he peeked around the corner and saw the witch, out of her cell,”—Jomu thrusts his hand into the air, fingers curled as if squeezing something invisible—“holding a paralyzed guard up in front of her. But not a finger was touching the man. She was holding him by nothing but evil magic.”
The children gasp. One curls up into another's side, fear collecting at the corners of his eyes. There's a smile in Jomu's eyes, but he confines it there; this is not a subject to smile on.
“'Hard to talk when there's no blood in your vocal cords,' she said, and she laughed a witch's laugh right up to the sky. The poor guard couldn't do a thing, and neither could my uncle, in the face of this witchcraft. The floating man twisted when she moved her hands, and he would've been screaming if he could. She just laughed harder.” Jomu giggles for emphasis, imitates a voice high and sweet, that of an innocent, young girl, “'Why, Mr. Guardman, your heart is beating so fast. Are you in love with me?'”
Even the teens and older children, as they hold their hands over the mouths of the youngest to keep them from crying, twitch uncomfortably. They glance around at the faces of their peers, find themselves in good company, then turn back to the old man. Not even a whisper permeates the air, much less a joke.
“'Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Guardman, but you broke my”—Jomu twists his hand, whip-crack quick, and he is the blood witch, eyes and hands an unholy red, making the audience jerk back—“'heart!'
“Then, he stopped moving. Went completely limp. She dropped him and wandered away, and when my uncle finally got a chance to look at him, blood was dripping from everywhere—nose, ears, mouth. She'd torn apart his heart.”
Even the adults shift about now, glancing over their shoulders into the darkness. Some press their hands to their chests, patting at their breastbones as if to assure that their hearts are still secure.
“Some say,” Jomu continues, looking directly into the eyes of the children, voice a sinister whisper, “that she spends her days wandering the countryside, forcing people to come to her with her powers, and then tearing out their hearts. Others say that she is more ghost than witch, sent to haunt citizens of the Fire Nation. Still others say that she uses the blood of her victims to gain eternal youth, and even now continues her grizzly work, looking no different than any other young Water Tribe girl. In fact, some claim that she was recently seen in a village not far from here, holding an old woman hostage with her powers.
“But all are agreed: on nights like this”—he holds his arms up, gesturing toward the moon where it rests, full and pale, on the mountains of the sky—“the blood witch comes, scouring the cities and the countryside of the Fire Nation, searching for hearts. Hearts, just like YOURS!”
The old man flings himself toward the child-audience, hands curled into claws and wicked smirk made all the wickeder by firelight and shadow. It's all the children can take. Their screams of terror rip through the tranquil air, piercing the night. One or two of the youngest even leap up to get away, only to think better of it once they are out of the circle of firelight—what if the blood witch is there right now?—and bolt back to their siblings.
Jomu, meanwhile, has replaced his dark expression with a satisfied smile, chuckling at the results of his work. When the children see it, they lose their fear for shock, then for irritation, shouting at Jomu for his cruelty. The adults are in on it soon enough, half laughing along with the old man, the other half scolding and claiming that he has scarred the children for life. Nonetheless, the old man continues to laugh, and soon enough, the embarrassed children and angry adults are in on it as well, and the place feels of joy again.
In the midst of it all, one of the visitors—a beautiful young woman—stands and heads quickly away from the fire; her tears reflect the moonlight.
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