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i.
After returning from the Boiling Rock, Zuko mostly keeps to himself.
She is not complaining; after all, she wanted it to be this way, for him to learn his place and stop pretending to be someone he’s not.
ii.
Her father tells the stories now, tales of stars and ravens and their people’s great migration from the North Pole, but he is no great storyteller. The words do not flow from his tongue like water. His mouth works with a slow rhythm, each word a thought that has taken its time forming in his mind before coming forth on his lips.
And she has heard all these tales, many times over, and from her grandmother’s lips, who can make ancient stories feel fresh, new, and alive while telling them, as though they were still happening, as if she had lived through them.
It is a gift to be able to do such a thing, to create an entire world for others with just your voice and your heart and your memory. In the South Pole, great storytellers are remembered and respected alongside the great chiefs and wise warriors, for they hold the past and the future together, keeping them in balance against whatever changes may occur in the present.
For a long time, her grandmother had been the only person she knew who possessed such a talent, but now she knows another, and bitterness overcomes her like a fever when she thinks of him.
(And she often thinks of him, of what he has done to them, but also, just of his face—his eyes, so bright that they could set even steel ablaze, and his shapely mouth, that tricky, cunning thing that can twist into something so sweet, so caring when he wants it to be so.)
Katara does not know if the Fire Nation nobility treasures storytellers; perhaps they do not, their minds so focused on war, battle, and conquest that they hardly think about anything else.
But he is gifted, recounting tales with intent, energy, and passion. And this gift is just another of the many things he does not deserve. Zuko is a liar, a deceiver, an imposter—it is what he has shown himself to be. A person who is a liar, a deceiver, and an imposter does not deserve praise or admiration for their qualities.
Katara looks across the fire toward the vacant space where Zuko usually sits and convinces herself that it doesn’t feel like an absence at all.
iii.
As the sun begins to light up the sky above them early in the morning, Katara watches Aang and Zuko spar, their movements fast, fierce, and purposeful.
Zuko is hard on Aang, pushing and pushing and pushing until Aang’s movements begin to falter and he stops, his breath heavy and his skin flushed.
“Did I say we were stopping?” Zuko asks him, his voice hard and demanding, and when Aang voices out a no, they go back to sparing, and Katara sits, quiet and tense, as Aang struggles and maneuvers, round and round again.
Aang is an Air Nomad, peaceful and kind and good, but like all people, he has pride in his ability and strength, and it would embarrass him if she were to interrupt, to tell Zuko to ease up a little. So Katara bites her tongue, listening to Zuko’s voice, a rumble of power and authority, and watching his expression, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.
She bites her tongue until she can taste blood.
iv.
“We should wait for Zuko,” Aang says at their mid-day meal, his voice still hoarse from the strain of sparring earlier.
Katara watches as Sokka grimaces, and Suki places a hand on his knee, their eyes locked in silent conversation, but neither makes any move to comment.
“Spill, Snoozles,” Toph says, leaning forward on one elbow. “I can practically hear you thinking. Just share what you know already.”
“Toph, it isn’t my pl—”
“He’s one of us, and we should know if there is a—”
“Toph, I—”
“Spirits, just—”
“Fine!” Sokka exclaims, looking at Suki once before placing his hand over his forehead as though trying to shut them all out. “Today is her birthday.”
“Whose birthday?” Toph asks, a frown forming on her face.
“Mai’s birthday,” Sokka says with finality, and something that feels heavy and uncomfortable settles over the group.
They do not wait for Zuko, and he does not come, and they finish the meal in silence.
v.
First, she goes to his bedroom to speak to him, and she finds it empty, the room clean and tidy, so tidy that if she did not know that it was Zuko’s room, she would not believe that a person was living in it at all.
Then, Katara makes her way toward the clearing, the sun warm on her skin.
vi.
“What are you doing here?” Zuko asks her, his voice hoarse, his tone guarded. “You know that I come here to pray.”
On her way to the clearing, she had planned what she wanted to say in her mind, exactly how she wanted to chastise Zuko for his treatment of Aang earlier that day. But something always seems to happen to her when they are alone together; it is as if her mind cannot keep its thoughts straight, can’t quite get what she wants out.
“Oh, my apologies, your highness,” Katara says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you conquer this clearing? Is it yours now? Can no one else be here?” He narrows his eyes at her, but she continues in her mockery, determined to push him closer and closer to breaking and make him angry enough to lash out at her. That is what she wants more than anything. “What will you do, Prince Zuko? How will I make up for offending you? You must know that I didn’t mean it!”
“Katara,” Zuko begins, his voice low and confused, and in the sunlight, his hair looks much lighter, brown like the earth instead of black like coal.
She doesn’t allow him to continue speaking. Instead, she lets out a sound, angry and pained and halfway to a laugh, thinking of his people, their history, and their beliefs. “I am just a peasant, remember? And you are a prince. Therefore, you must teach me the noble path. You must teach me respect.”
He grabs her wrist, his expression so serious. “What is wrong? Why are you acting this way?” It sends a thrill through her body because it’s been so long since she has seen him: Zuko, the real Zuko.
“What is wrong? Why am I acting this way? Do you really not know?”
“No,” Zuko admits, staring down at her.
They are so close to each other, their lips just a breath apart. Katara could kiss him again; she considers doing so, if only for the chance to take his lower lip between her teeth and bite. But she decides against it, and suddenly, she cannot bear to be so close to him, his presence is too much, and the scent of agarwood is overwhelming.
Pushing past Zuko, Katara looks down at the small shrine with fruit and vegetables arranged neatly on top of it. “You say you have changed, but you said you changed before, in Ba Sing Se, and look what happened then.” Katara turns to look up at him, her eyes burning into his. “And you are out here, all alone, not because you realize that you shouldn’t be near us, that you don’t deserve to be a part of our group, but because you are sad that you can’t be with your girlfriend.” The last word comes out like poison because while she was traveling through his islands, tossing and turning and dreaming of those catacombs, Zuko was with someone else. And she knows then that he never thought of what happened between them, not in the same way she did, the way she still does. Those catacombs faded away from his memory like sand trickling through a person’s fingers.
“Don’t,” Zuko warns, anger flaring in his eyes. “Mai,” Zuko starts softly like her name is made of all things precious and rare. “Mai and Ty Lee turned against everything they have ever known to help us escape. Suki and your dad wouldn’t be here if they—”
Katara interrupts him with a bitter smile. “They did that for you and only you.”
“Does it matter why they did it?” Zuko presses on; his gaze is intense. “Because they are paying the price for it.”
In the catacombs, she had been so sure of everything, of being able to escape that place with Zuko and his uncle. She would have healed him later, when they were all safe, and been able to tell him more about her mother and listen if he felt comfortable enough to tell her more about his. But then, his gaze shifted from his sister to Aang, and she knew something was happening inside him. A barrier had come up between them, and she couldn’t reach him anymore. “No, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Again, she leaves first, and he stays there, with his altar, offerings, and the sun, that bright and dominant force that towers over all the things she holds dear.
vii.
In the morning, he bows before Aang, lower than she imagines a prince should bow before anyone, and Aang, with a smile on his face, returns it.
Apologies are given, amends are made, laughs are had, and soon, Zuko is back to sharing tales around the fire, stories of dragons, adventures, and love.
Everyone forgets. Everyone forgives. Everyone but her.
viii.
One night, her rest is fitful, a series of starts and stops. She thinks of what has happened since Zuko arrived, the changes within herself compared to the others. It is uncomfortable to think of because it leads her to some intense ache, so intense that it feels like it is breaking her into pieces and scattering them into the wind.
The half moon is high above her, the night air cool, and her rest returns to her, slowly and gradually. In her dream, she kisses Zuko again, except it is gentle and slow, and it does not feel like a dream at all. She can smell the agarwood all around her. His mouth tastes like summer, and he says her name like a prayer.