Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

.

.

.

You might not have meant to, but it's done; you can't take it out.
You're shy about what fortune lent you—is that what this is about?
You might not have meant to, but it's done; you can't take it back.
You cry about where fame sent you without a plan of attack.
(Nickel Creek, “Brand New Sidewalk”)

.

.

.

happenstance :: (noun) :: coincidental; a coincidence.

.

.

.

Around the advancing navymen, the snow falls black, mixed with the coal-smoke from the Fire Nation ships. Yon Rha doesn't notice; he's been on too many of these missions to pay attention anymore. He's here in the Southern Water Tribe on a mission sent down the line directly from Fire Lord Azulon himself: to find and capture the last Southern waterbender.

Yon Rha has served in the Southern Raiders for years now, and all of the missions are the same. They come, they attack the dwindling Southern Water Tribe, killing men and taking women, diminishing their numbers as much as they can.

Sometimes, the tribe finds out ahead of time and meets them in the water. Those battles are always more interesting, because the tribe fights more comfortably on sea than on land, but the Fire Nation navy is the best in the world, and they outnumber the Southerners, so the fights almost always end the same way.

It's been years since the tribe had a waterbender to help them in their sea battles; Yon Rha has only heard of those days, not experienced them himself. But intelligence says there's a new waterbender in the tribe—although all they know is that it's a female, and she's never helped the tribe in any of their watery wars.

There are still many waterbenders in the North Pole; the Northern water bastards hold on to their icy citadel with tenacity. The North always has been larger than the South, and meets the Fire Nation's navy more equally, although Admiral Zhao has brought several waterbending captives from that region, as well.

All of the waterbenders are the same—well-trained in their art and backwards in their ways.

The Fire Nation hasn't traveled north for some time, though. Azulon has ordered that they focus their efforts on the South, in order to wipe it out completely. After that, they'll turn their gaze northward.

Yon Rha walks through the ice-cracked snow from the empty igloo he's just left, and he thinks of the rows of cells where the waterbenders are held, deep in the belly of various Fire Nation prisons.

The system works effortlessly now, and the waterbenders wither; they are always kept far from water, with hot, dry air pumped in to remind them of their location and their station.

Yon Rha snorts and spits into the snow as he walks. He's tired of these people and their ways, tired of delving into homes and disrupting cook-fires in futile search. He wants to find the waterbender and he wants to finish the mission.

If it were up to him, he'd kill the creature when he finds her, but Fire Lord Azulon has ordered that the waterbender be brought back alive. The Fire Lord wants a trophy to show off in the streets when times of waning support arise, as they sometimes do.

Yon Rha and his men have searched most of the savages' huts before he finds her—a woman who can't be more than forty, bending over a cooking-pot. She must have a family, and her bravery against his threats is for their sake.

It disgusts him to see her offer herself to the chains that way.

Yon Rha doesn't realize something is amiss until the woman's daughter runs in.

“Mom!”

The girl has her mother's big blue eyes and round face. She's pretty, but she's still very young, and she's skittish.

“Just let her go, and I'll give you the information you want,” the woman says.

Yon Rha snarls at the girl. “You heard your mother; get out of here!”

But the girl has set her feet and her stance is firmer than it was a moment ago. When she speaks, her voice is sharp. “Mom, what is he doing to you?”

The woman doesn't answer her daughter directly. Instead, she says, “Go find your father, sweetie.”

Yon Rha groans internally. The woman is pathetic, and she's delaying his departure. If she's the waterbender—which he suspects she may be—he just wants to take her and go.

“Mom, you can't do this!” The girl doesn't leave, and Yon Rha turns to slap her when some of the ice in the wall shakes and shatters.

Snow blows in through an ill-formed hole in the wall. The girl looks horrified and the woman's face drops.

Yon Rha snarls. Now he knows the woman's secret. He slaps the woman across the face for her audacity—imagine, trying to fool an officer of the Fire Nation!—and grabs the girl.

Both she and her mother are crying by the time she's in chains, and black snow is all Yon Rha leaves behind him when his ship retreats with his men and the last Southern waterbender inside.

.

.

.

The prisoner is kept in one of the cells designed for benders, with special chains so she can't move her arms or legs. Judging by the display in her home, though, Yon Rha suspects she lacks the control to do any real harm. Her bending that day had been accidental—instinctual, so far as he can tell.

Not that he really cares, because his job is done as soon as he hands her over to the prison in Caldera.

Still, he's annoyed that he has to spend more time away from home than he'd like, so he stops by her cell to talk to her.

“They would have killed your mother the instant they found out she wasn't you,” he tells her one morning.

She glares at him, her big blue eyes defiant in her dirty, foreign face.

“She was stupid to try to save you,” he continues, relishing the anger that blossoms more and more fully on the girl's face. “Too bad she failed. Your being captured won't save her, either, not in the long run. Not when Fire Lord Azulon succeeds at wiping out your kind from the world.”

Yon Rha sees fear flicker for an instant in the girl's eyes before her full glare returns. Yes, she's still young, to be able to feel anything other than resignation. Years in prison will break her of that.

He smiles thinly, and speaks as though he offers her a comfort. “But don't worry. You'll have a long life as the Fire Nation's prisoner, rotting away in a cell just like this one, if you play your cards right. Otherwise,” he tosses the words over his shoulder as he turns to leave, “you're dead.”

He walks down the corridor and up several flights of stairs, into the daylight, and doesn't look back. The Fire Nation capital waits far beyond sight on some distant horizon, over the crashing waves.

.

.

.

For the first several days of her imprisonment, Katara spends most of her waking hours praying to Tui and La that this is a dream. It has to be, because this is the sort of thing that fuels the nightmares of everyone in the Southern Water Tribe.

If it's only a dream, she'll wake up from it soon. She'll be home with her mom and dad and brother and gran, and the threat of a Fire Nation raid will only be the fear that hovers at the edges of all of their days, their activities, their conversations.

If it's only a dream, it won't be this reality that she's living now.

After she gives up on prayers, she tries to distract herself by clinging to any good thing that she can. At first, she's able to find some things to focus on as the hours pass.

She bled last week, so that indignity as a prisoner is delayed for a few more weeks.

The Fire Nation took her and not her mom; at least her whole family's still alive.

She can't bend well, but maybe she can practice in secret somehow. She can bide her time and hone her skills and plan her escape in the meantime.

The officer comes and spits angry words at her from time to time, making her wish she could stuff them all back in his mouth so that he chokes on his anger, but he hasn't touched her. She's known others who suffered worse at Fire Nation hands.

For most of the long, stretching days, the navymen and crew leave her alone. Twice daily, a guard passes a meal through an opening in the bottom of her cell door. She is served rice and meat that's too spicy for her to eat, so she leaves it on the side of the metal platter. The rice clumps in her throat and she longs for water, but she's only allowed a small drink that the guard hand-pours into her mouth once a day. They give her enough to survive, but no more than that.

There is a pail in the corner that she can use when she needs to, but doing anything with her hands and feet shackled is difficult.

But at least the pail is there.

As the days turn into weeks, Katara grows tired, and it becomes harder to focus on anything good, so she gives up that tactic for a while.

Instead, she plots her revenge.

At this point, she doesn't have much to work with—she's not a trained bender and her hand-to-hand combat skills are adequate, but she's not sure she could pit herself against a trained officer—but she seethes in silence while she thinks of ways she could escape.

She waits as the days stretch on, and in the growing emptiness, she makes a discovery that pleases her as much as it surprises her.

She can feel the water around the ship.

The water's call is distant, which confirms what she's suspected all along—that she's trapped somewhere deep in the ship's bowels. But she can feel it rocking, and she can feel when the smooth rolls of the open ocean become choppier as they approach the shore.

At home, she never had the chance to be still long enough to feel the water around her, even though she was surrounded by snow and ice—the tribe's life was a busy one, and the chores that kept them alive shifted from season to season, constant in their change and activity.

Now, she finds something to be thankful for in her captivity. And she vows to use this new awareness of her element to conquer her enemies, in the end.

Sure enough, her guess at the shore's proximity is confirmed when the guard swings open the door to her cell and instead of her usual tray of food, he has chains to attach to the ones that already bind her.

“Stand up,” he orders. “We're in the Fire Nation now and you're going to see the Fire Lord.”

.

.

.

Katara had anticipated the heat in the Fire Nation, but she hadn't thought to anticipate the humidity. When she climbs the stairs from the center of the ship up onto the deck, the humidity hits her like a wall.

Inside the ship, the fires that heated the engine had kept the air relatively dry, but the Fire Nation itself is a series of islands—she remembers hearing that at some point in her childhood—and the nation nestles itself in water.

She feels as though she's instantly sticky from sweat as well as from the dirt she already carries on her body from her long stay in the ship's prison cell, but at the same time, she welcomes the wet air into her lungs.

She's not home, but this small aspect of being near her element comforts her.

She breathes in and out and relishes the air around her, but once her guards prod her into motion, her sense of comfort is short-lived.

Her guards lead her on a walk through the wide, colorful streets of the nation's capital, where people stare at her. Some of the Fire Nation citizens shy away in disgust. Some merely watch her curiously. But some shout obscenities at her. For the first time, she's thankful for the guards around her—they keep the angrier ones from physically touching her.

“She's going to the Fire Lord,” one or the other of her guards will say. “Back off.”

When she looks up, Katara catches glimpses of a palace in the distance. The closer they get, the more imposing its white, gold-embellished facade looms. Once her guards confer with the palace guards and are given entrance, though, the aspect changes from light to dark.

They walk through a large stone courtyard filled with sculptures and fountains that Katara barely has time to marvel or scoff at, and she's not sure which she's more inclined to do. In a short number of paces, they pass through a doorway, go down a flight of stairs, and walk through dingy passageways that blur together in her mind.

Even in the dim underground light, she can tell that these passageways are more splendid than anything she's seen before. The Fire Nation does nothing without a full display of grandeur, at least not when it comes to the Fire Lord and his home.

Katara is frightened and angry, and she's being led exactly where she doesn't want to go. Her legs, which were released for this part of the journey after she was deemed to be of little threat, are heavy and achy with disuse and fear, but she forces each step in front of the next.

She will not show weakness to these people.

After a walk that seems endless because she doesn't know its distance, they climb to the daylight once more. They are in front of a large, ornately carved door. Dragons dance in gilt and red across its surface, and several heavily armed guards stand in front of it.

Her guards speak to them, but she can't make out the words. Her mind is buzzing too loudly with the thrum of fear.

The palace guards make a few short movements, and fire blasts from their hands into portals on the door. Locks slide open almost soundlessly, and the door slides out of the way.

In contrast to the daylight she stands in, the Fire Lord's chamber is dark, lit by large fires that line all sides of the room.

Katara walks between her guards and stares straight ahead at the throne as they approach it. A wall of flames shrouds the Fire Lord's face, and the heat in the room is overwhelming.

Around her, the guards stop and bow low. Katara stands her ground until one of them prods the backs of her knees with a spear.

She stumbles to her knees and wishes she could fight. Her breathing is erratic and she struggles not to panic. She is Water Tribe; she is a warrior. She will survive and she will escape.

“So this is the waterbender.” Even though she can't see his face, she can hear the Fire Lord's voice clearly when he speaks. He sounds old, but his voice carries full authority.

For a brief instant, it crosses Katara's mind that they might kill her now, war's sacrifice before the Fire Lord's throne, but rather than a quick death, she gets an unpleasant surprise when she hears Yon Rha's voice come from behind her. In her worry, she hadn't heard him enter.

“This is the waterbender, Fire Lord Azulon. I captured her on the Raiders' most recent excursion to the Southern Water Tribe. Her mother tried to take her place, but the girl gave herself away when she bent water accidentally. She doesn't have strong control of her bending.”

Katara can hear the disdain in his voice and she wants to prove him wrong. The fact that he speaks the truth rankles. All of the other Southern waterbenders were captured decades ago, so Katara has never had any training, and she's been able to figure out little on her own.

The Fire Lord laughs in response to Yon Rha's commentary, a harsh rattle of sound. “No, she wouldn't,” he says. “Those savages in the Southern Tribe haven't had a proper master for years.”

Katara's mind screams insults at him—And whose fault is that? It's only because your family killed or captured all of our benders! It's because of your crazy scheme of trying to take over the world. It's all your fault!

But he doesn't care, and she doesn't speak. She's no good to her family if she dies defying the Fire Lord to his face.

Fire Lord Azulon looks her over cursorily, as though she's a piece of furniture or art in which he has a vague interest, before he turns his attention back to Yon Rha. “Take her back to the prison and let her rot.”

Katara's interview with the Fire Lord ends quickly.

.

.

.

When her guards lead her back through winding passageways and transfer her care to guards at the capitol prison, Katara lets them lead her to her cell and tries to memorize what she sees along the way, but the passages all blur into one. They're all dark, with echoes of fire at the edges.

The guards bring her to a cell much like the one on the navy ship. Katara settles in for what she believes will be a long time, and begins to plan how to practice her bending in secret and how she can escape.

.

.

.

For the first several days of Katara's imprisonment, life in the capitol prison is no different than life in the navy prison. The only alteration is that the guards' faces have changed.

And this time, she doesn't expect to see daylight again until she makes her escape.

One morning, after Katara has swallowed the last of her spiceless rice and pushed the platter over near the doorway, she hears feet outside her door. The steps are different from the usual measured steps of her guards, only there for duty: this time, there are several sets of feet, with different weights and measures to their gait.

Katara is as curious as she is suspicious of any unexpected change, and her apprehension only deepens when the first person she sees is one of her guards, who looks as though he's shaking in his boots. His fingers grip his weapon tightly, though, as he draws back, and the edges of white show at his knuckles.

When he speaks, his voice quivers ever so slightly. “Here is the Southern waterbender, Fire Prince Ozai.”

Katara chokes on her own heartbeat for an instant when she hears the name. Even at home in the South Pole, and even in the depths of the prison, she has heard the rumors about the younger of the Fire Princes—Ozai is known for his cruelty and his power struggles. His older brother, Iroh, stepped down from the line of succession years ago, after his son Lu Ten was killed in battle, and so Ozai stands next in line for the throne after his father, Azulon.

Ozai steps into view beyond the guard, and he is sharp, and angular, and strong. His gaze is cruel as he looks at her.

Katara meets his gaze, but after he looks her over, she can see the change in his expression as he dismisses her. She can tell she is of no importance to him.

There are other people with Ozai and the guard—there is a woman, who is tall and beautiful, and also a boy and a girl who Katara guesses are around her own age. They have to be Ozai's family. They look like him, with pale skin and dark hair and yellow eyes that are keen and seem to judge her in her squalor in a matter of seconds.

The woman's face is the kindest of them all, but even she wears a mask of solemnity.

Ozai curls his lips and speaks. “That's the last of their line,” he says, the words clearly directed at his offspring.

She is a lesson to be learned and a mockery to be made here, with no comfort even in isolation.

“We are going to cleanse the earth of people like her, and spread the greatness of the Fire Nation to all the world.”

Katara seethes where she sits, her back ramrod-straight. She knows this is their plan; for the past century, they've been acting it out, systematically overtaking and destroying the other nations. But hearing is spoken so plainly, so openly and clinically and impersonally, makes her stomach drop to her feet.

She fights a wave of nausea, but she swallows hard and maintains her posture.

The boy looks at his father very seriously, listening to his words and nodding. He reminds her vaguely of her brother, Sokka, but this boy is taller, and his face is much more serious. When he looks at her, he looks perplexed, as though he doesn't know what to make of this strange creature he's been shown.

The girl, though, doesn't spare her father a glance. She looks at Katara with an appraisal that mimics her father's, and when the family starts to walk off, their mission of seeing Katara as a glory-trophy, a spoil of war, apparently finished, the girl stops them.

“Father,” she says, in a voice that is as cool and calculating as that of the man she addresses, “could I train with her?”

The interested look that had blossomed on Ozai's face when the girl began to speak drops in disappointment. “She's a prisoner, Azula. She's not here to be trained; she's here to end her lineage.”

“But couldn't I have some fun in the meantime?” Azula asks. “The report said she didn't know very much at all about bending, so it won't be very hard to beat her. She's trapped in here anyway; won't it do her some good to know that she's here for a just cause, that the people who are taking her place in the world deserve it?”

Ozai looks interested again, the mother looks disapproving, the brother looks uncertain, and Katara quakes.

Ozai shrugs. “I suppose you may. She doesn't know enough to be a threat. Just make sure she's properly guarded while you have you have your fun.”

“Of course, Father,” Azula says, bowing her head in respect. As an afterthought, she adds, “Thank you.”

Ozai doesn't reply, only turns his gaze over his family, from his daughter to his son to his wife—and Katara thinks she sees increasing disapproval as he passes down the line.

Then he looks at Katara again, and there's no question of his disapproval.

She maintains her blank stare back at him.

He sneers. “Have her ready tomorrow morning,” he instructs the guard, who has been listening in on the whole exchange with interest.

The guard has regained his composure enough to lead the family away with aplomb, but he walks by Katara's cell later, when she's eating her dinner, and leers. “Enjoy the food,” he says with bitter enjoyment, “The Fire Princess wants to play with you, and that never ends well for anyone.”

Katara can barely stomach her rice that night.

.

.

.

The next morning, Katara's guard is female. She's noticed that there's a fairly even mix of male and female guards, but she hasn't asked any of them about it yet. There would never be female guards in the Water Tribe, and it surprised her, at first, that a country as cruel as the Fire Nation would allow its women more opportunity than her own beloved people. It occurs to her early in her imprisonment that, if women are in the armed services, guard duty might be a way to keep them close at home, near their families, but the more she thinks about it, the more she decides there must be some hidden cruelty here she doesn't see; the Fire Nation can't be that considerate of its own people when they are so unkind to all others.

At this point, Katara is still in the 'plot in silence' phase of her escape plan, which she figures will turn into 'befriend the enemy to make them less suspicious of you' in a few months. But for now, she's still hurt and angry and doesn't feel ready to pretend.

It's not like she has a shortage of time on her hands.

Katara looks up when her guard walks in. Usually, she only sees her guards from a distance—through the small, barred window at the top of her cell door or through the small opening for food at the bottom. Today, though, her guard breaks the space between them and comes into her cell. She's carrying a bucket, a sponge, and a bundle of clothes.

“Here,” the guard says, setting the items near Katara and moving to unlock her manacles and fetters. “You're going to see the royal family this morning, and you need to be clean for that.” She pauses before she finishes undoing Katara's chains and looks her in the eye, her gaze clear and stern, but not unkind, from under her helmet. “I'll face the door, away from you, and let you wash, but if you try anything, your chains go back on and I'll finish the job myself. Do you understand?”

Katara nods. She will cooperate this time; she's not ready to escape, not yet. Better to have them think she's compliant. That will lower their suspicions. And it will feel so, so good to be clean.

Once the guard's back is turned, Katara strips off her dirty prison uniform—they'd taken away her own clothes back on the Fire Nation ship—and grabs the sponge. Her limbs feel achy and stiff with misuse and malnutrition, but she works as economically as possible. She finds that weeks of dirt and grime take a long time to scrub off.

If she takes too long, the guard doesn't comment. Eventually, Katara feels like she's human again. She puts on the clothes the guard brought for her—a loose set of pants and a tunic, with slippers to match. They are red, like everything in this nation, and she hates them for that, but they are made of a much finer cut than her prison uniform. The fit isn't quite right, but it's close enough.

For a moment, Katara closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath and tries to forget where she is. She focuses on the fact that she's clean, and clothed, and not in chains.

It feels good.

“You finished?” the guard asks.

“Yes,” Katara says, and the guard turns to face her.

“You're going to the royal family compound,” she says as she fastens Katara's chains again. “Good luck.”

.

.

.

Outside of her cell, Katara's guard is joined by others, and they follow a set of passageways that can't be the same as the ones they took from the palace, but Katara can't tell the difference. It's all dark, cool stone underground.

When they are above ground again, they are not in a crowded section of town. Instead, they walk through nearly silent streets bordered by high walls with elaborately crafted gates.

They enter one gate that looks nearly like all the others, and the guards lead Katara into walled gardens. These are impressive, like the Fire Nation royal palace, but not in the same way. They feel opulent in their crafted perfection: nature doesn't grow like this. The grounds are manicured and all of the plants have been pruned into submission, but even so, it's the most greenery Katara has ever seen at one time.

Plants don't grow this freely at the South Pole, and she looks around her in wonder. She hates the Fire Nation, but they do know how to make pretty things.

They walk in quiet, through rustling leaves and the clinking of armored feet on cobbled walkways, until they reach a far part of the garden, where training grounds have been set up. The plants are culled back here, leaving only earth and stone in neat patterns where firebenders can train without setting fire to any of the lush plant-life that fills the rest of the area.

The Fire Princess—Azula, Katara remembers from the day before—is in the middle of a form when they arrive, and flames swirl around her in a large, controlled spiral until she reins them in and finishes her movement with a smooth joining of her hands as the flames disappear.

She takes a breath in to recenter herself, but she doesn't seem at all exerted by the move. Her clothes are similar in style to Katara's, but they are finer still and have obviously been tailor-made for her.

But she's a princess; Katara would expect nothing less.

Azula flicks a wayward lock of hair out of her face, then looks in Katara's direction and smiles. Her yellow eyes light up with delight. It's eerie.

“Oh, good. You're here.” She turns and addresses the guards who brought Katara. “Unchain her.”

One of the guards steps forward and unlocks Katara's chains, then steps back, holding them.

“You're dismissed,” Azula says to all of them. “Stand by the wall.”

The guards file over and take up positions, holding their spears, faces blank behind their helmets.

Azula comes closer to Katara and circles her, assessing her. Her movements are precise and measured, like her firebending was earlier. She is skilled, and Katara knows she's no match for the princess, but she stands her ground without flinching.

The rest of the family is there, too. Ozai stands at the edge of the training ground, next to someone who might be a firebending teacher. The mother stands farther back, a servant by her side with a parasol to block the sun's strong morning rays.

Katara finds it ironic that anyone in the Fire Nation hides from the sun, but their skin is so very pale here.

And the brother stands on the other side of his father, dressed in a version of the same training clothes Katara and Azula wear. He looks sweaty and uncomfortable, and Katara wonders how long the family has been here. She looks at the sky; it can't be past mid-morning, but the heat is already unbearable.

Before Katara can think any more, Azula comes to a stop in front of her. The princess' bright eyes narrow.

“Bow before your superiors, peasant.”

Katara does not want to bow, but she learned from watching the men of her tribe hunt leopard seals that you don't start a battle before you're ready to fight. She's here to spar with the princess; she will pick other battles with the Fire Nation later—so she bows, stiffly and formally, imitating what she's seen the guards do in the royals' presence.

The princess curls her lip in response. “You're pathetic,” she says quietly. She nods toward a nearby pool of water. “There's water for you to use. Let's fight.”

With no other warning, Azula lashes out with a plume of fire. Katara jumps backward, startled. Azula narrows her eyes and strikes again, but more slowly this time, with less flame.

Katara knows Azula is testing her, discerning what her Water Tribe opponent knows about her art, and Katara draws water from the pond, but it shakes and drops in splashes on the way over.

Her face burns with embarrassment, but she plants her feet and holds the water.

When Azula strikes a third time, Katara attempts to block the flame with her water and partially succeeds. What flame doesn't fizzle in steam strikes the dirt beside her.

Azula circles her a few times more, walking, observing, and Katara stands still, holding the water between her hands and waiting for the next strike. She hones her focus in on the girl fighting her, and she feels out of breath and shaky from fear.

After what seems like forever, Azula raises her hand and sparks fire in her palm—but this time, the flame is blue.

“Azula, don't.”

The young prince's voice breaks into the fight, and Azula drops her flame and flicks her gaze over to her brother, annoyed. “Why not, Zuko?” she asks.

Zuko takes a few steps forward. He's frowning, and he shakes his head. “You know you're going to beat her. Don't hurt her in the process—the blue flame is too hot and she won't be able to protect herself.”

Azula purses her lips, then rolls her head as though considering her options. She stands in front of Katara for another long moment, then sighs as though this is the dreariest thing she's ever done, and when she speaks, she sounds bored and bitter. “You sound like you care about the peasant, Zuzu. That's so beneath you. But fine. If you don't want her to fight me, then you take her place.”

She throws her next words at Katara. “Like I said, you're pathetic. You're not worth my time. Go wait with your guards until you're dismissed. Now I'll show you what a real bending battle looks like.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, almost.”

Katara crosses Zuko's path as she walks toward her guards, and when she passes him, she mutters, “I don't need you to fight for me.”

He glares at her. “Yes, you do. You should be thanking me.”

“I'll never thank your nation for anything,” she says.

Zuko ignores her and keeps walking until he faces his sister.

Katara walks the rest of the way over to her guards, stiffly, and she feels the weight of everyone's eyes on her.

Then the siblings shift into bending stances, and the attention moves to them. Katara looks at the people around her—their mother is watching them with a disapproving expression, but Ozai's face gleams with curiosity.

The man Katara has decided is a firebending tutor—he'd called out praise for Azula's precision of movement during specific moves in her fight with Katara—watches impersonally.

Katara feels a tinge of worry building in her stomach, and based on their parents' expressions, she wonders if this is as fair a fight as Azula seems to want her to believe.

Then Zuko clears his throat, rolls his shoulders and adjusts his arms. The tutor calls out a start to the fight—something he hadn't done when Azula was fighting Katara. But this seems to be more of a training exercise than her own torture sequence.

The siblings spar with fire sparking from their fingers. They whip, roll, and evade as well as attacking. Zuko's skill nearly matches Azula's, but Katara can tell that he spends most of his time blocking rather than attacking, and in the end, he yields, looking embarrassed and frustrated.

Azula seems unsurprised as she accepts her victory with slight disgust.

“Counter Azula's side whip with a fire ball next time, Zuko.” Ozai's voice comes across the courtyard, and even from her position, Katara can see Zuko's shoulders stiffen where he stands at the sidelines, wiping his sweaty brow with a towel. “Your teacher will have you practice those tomorrow.”

The man at Ozai's side puffs himself up and nods.

Katara tells herself that she doesn't feel sorry for Zuko, because he's just as much Fire Nation ruler as the rest of them are, but she does wonder what he's done to make his father and sister hate him as much as they do.

It's funny, she thinks distantly, that Azula looks so much like her mother and Zuko looks so much like his father, because they seem to take after the opposite parent, as far as she can tell.

“Yes, Father,” Zuko says obediently, bowing his head in deference. He shies away from the hug his mother attempts to give him. “Mom, I'm all sweaty,” he mutters, but anyone can tell he's really just humiliated.

Ozai nods toward Zuko after the prince's nod, then proceeds to congratulate Azula on her win.

Azula preens like a peacock and looks entirely self-satisfied. Then she hands her own towel to an attendant and strides over to where Katara still stands between her guards. “See, Water Tribe?” she asks. “That's what a bending duel should look like.”

Katara only meets her gaze evenly. Azula stares at her for a moment, then snaps at Katara's guards. “I'm done with her. Take her back to the prison.”

Ozai looks on impersonally. The mother looks displeased—and so does Zuko. He frowns at the back of his sister's head.

The guards move quickly at Azula's orders, and suddenly Katara's chains are clinking again.

Katara's heart sinks; she'd almost forgotten about the chains. They feel heavier this time, after she was free of their weight for a while. She's been judged by the Fire Nation rulers for her novelty and has been dismissed as being of no account, and her chances of being free of the chains' weight again diminish with that judgment.

Once the manacles are in place, she walks between her guards back to the prison, retracing the path from earlier that morning. Katara tries to trace them in her mind, commit some track to memory, but the passageways blur one into the next, all dark and damp with large stones and torches.

Back in her cell, Katara sits boiling with anger and humiliation. She has to get out of here and help her family, her people. She's been watching her culture be slowly destroyed her entire life, and she's tired of it. The men are gone, fighting. The women are almost gone, captured.

Before long, there won't be any Southern Water Tribe left.

That's exactly what the Fire Nation wants, she thinks angrily. And that's exactly what she has to keep from happening.

Katara closes her eyes, partly to keep her tears at bay and partly because bending, even the little that she did this morning, exhausts her. She needs to learn how to channel the energy better, more efficiently. She frowns in thought. She needs a master, but that's impossible here.

She fights the tears for some time, but eventually she lets them escape. She cries for her embarrassment, for her imprisonment, for her family and her tribe. Once she regains her sense of relative calm, she listens to the gusts of dry air being pumped through the corridors and to the clack of the guards' feet as they walk on patrol, and against that backdrop, she considers how to move forward with her plan of escape.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

vigil :: (noun) :: a period of keeping awake during the time usually spent asleep, especially to keep watch or pray

.

.

.

Katara's days fall back into their previous pattern, where she hears only the guards' footsteps and the grate of her daily meals being pushed in to her cell twice a day.

Her time stretches into long silences between meals. She listens whenever guards speak to each other in the hallway, trying to overhear some information she can use, but that effort yields few results. She doesn't learn much except what's coming for the next meal--the guards eat what she does when they're on duty. She hears names, too, sharp-syllabled names that echo in the metal of her cell, names that float without association in her mind.

They are people, too--all manner of family members--but their names sound so foreign. Sometimes, Katara leans against the wall and tries to picture a Fire Nation family. She draws up images of the few streets she saw in the capitol--streets full of color and heat--and places people in them.

Maybe the name that makes her guard's voice soften a little when he speaks it is his daughter. Katara pictures a little girl with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in red and playing with a doll.

The image fades by the next gust of hot air through the corridor.

For all of her efforts, her mind usually takes her back to the one Fire Nation family she's seen up close--Ozai's. She takes a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that, for all that Azula has labeled her a peasant, the only close contact she's had with the Fire Nation is with royalty.

She considers the repercussions of pointing that out to Azula if they ever cross paths again.

When night comes, Katara practices sensing the movement of the moon. She finds that on some nights, its pull is stronger than others, and is able to piece together an approximation of the moon's phases as they pass.

One day, as she pushes her meal tray toward the door, she leans forward and asks her guard when the new moon is. The guard tells her it's that night.

Katara smiles to herself. She thought she'd felt the moon's power waning, and she was right.

.

.

.

Further proof of time's passage comes with her monthly cycle, and Katara is thankful that she has a female guard on duty when she has to ask for supplies.

The sympathetic look on the other woman's face as she hands Katara what she needs triggers the pinprick of tears at the back of her eyes.

Some things are beyond the definition of nations, and Katara's thanks are genuine.

The guard smiles at her, but Katara only lets her shoulders shake with silent sobs after the guard has shut the cell door again.

She tells herself the tears come from her cycle, not from starvation for human contact.

She sleeps restlessly that night.

.

.

.

Katara is tired and achy when she wakes up the next day, and she rolls over to face away from the door, closing her eyes against the never-changing dimness.

She can feel the moon when it comes and goes, but she still misses being able to follow the days by seeing them firsthand.

While she waits for her meal to come, she stares at the solid mass of the wall in front of her and tells herself that the unchanging darkness here is not so different than the long winters at the South Pole, when the sun rarely shows its face.

But it is different, and she knows it. Her jaw aches from gritting her teeth in resentment.

The metal flap that guards the food-port creaks open, and Katara weighs the benefits of staying on the floor or eating breakfast.

She chooses food, but her body makes her regret the movement. She scoops the rice up with her fingers and eats slowly.

The meal is nearly the same every time--they give her rice and meat and sometimes fruit. There is a fruit of some sort with the rice this morning, and Katara eats it slowly, too, savoring the break in her routine of staring at the walls more than even the taste of the fruit itself.

It's not as good as sea-prunes, but at least she can eat it, unlike the spiced meat.

Sea-prunes remind her of Gran Gran, and Katara blinks back tears. She cries more often these days; she's losing the early shocked numbness of her situation even as her anger still roils beneath the surface.

She misses her family and she wants to go home.

While she eats her meal, she thinks about her grandmother. Gran Gran grew up in the Northern Water Tribe, and she had told Katara stories when she was young, tales of her childhood in the Northern Water Tribe. Katara had always been fascinated by them, in the distant way that children are fascinated by sea-birds or by underwater creatures. They seemed surreal; distant words that painted pictures with no grounding in the daily life of children whose tribe is not so large and whose waterbenders no longer rule.

In the Northern Water Tribe, waterbenders still have a revered place in society. The reality is foreign to Katara, but she thinks it must be something like it is here in the Fire Nation, only the element bent is water, not fire--and the people are not quite so cruel.

Still, her grandmother had told her, too, that not all waterbenders are treated equally in the Northern Water Tribe. While they are all respected, the tribe has specific roles for each bender--the women heal and the men fight, using their bending in hunting or in sailing or in war.

The Northern Water Tribe has isolated itself, and has not fought much in recent years.

Now, Katara wishes she knew how to heal. She could soothe her own pain better then, if she only had some water.

Another wave of pain comes and she pushes her food away. Katara curls up on her mat again, and she sleeps even though it is morning.

.

.

.

Not very many days pass before Katara's routine is interrupted again. Instead of the clinking metal of her food being delivered, Katara awakens to the creak of her entire cell door being pushed open.

The morning's guard walks in with a roll of cloth in his hand and a smile on his face. A few days earlier, he'd sneaked her a cup of foul-smelling tea with her meal.

"To help," was all he'd said.

When Katara's fingers hesitated near the teacup, even though she was longing for a real drink that she could control, the guard had continued, "I had a daughter. She was killed in the front lines in the Earth Kingdom last year, but she used to use these herbs."

That explained the smell.

"Thank you," Katara had said, her throat inexplicably tight, and then she'd drunk the tea.

It had helped.

This morning, the guard has brought a bucket and sponge, just as on the day she fought Azula. "You've been summoned by Ozai's household again," he says, and even Katara's desire to be clean and out of the prison's walls doesn't stop the dread chill that runs down her spine at his words. "The Princess Ursa wants to see you."

The knot of tension in Katara's stomach melts a little but lingers still as she nods and moves to take the bathing supplies.

"Right," the guard says. "So, you've done this before; you know what to do. Get yourself clean, get dressed, then let me know. I'll wait outside."

Katara waits until her guard's back is turned, and then she pulls off her outer garments but keeps her undergarments on. She pulls in a breath and holds it as she moves her hands over the water in the pail.

It moves with her, and she pulls some of it up to use. She doesn't have much time to spare here--the royal family's orders aren't meant to be followed slowly--but she wants to see what she can do. She's been practicing bending moves in her cell, too, during her long days of solitude. She had rehearsed the moves she saw Azula and Zuko do when they sparred, and even though the movements are sharp and precise and she doesn't remember them exactly, she's sure what she remembers can be adapted to water's flow.

Carefully, Katara moves the water around her. She succeeds in getting it to wrap around her arm, and she tries to feel its flow and spin it in a loose scrubbing motion. For a few moments, it follows her lead--but then she loses control and it splashes to the floor.

"Everything okay in there?" the guard calls.

"Everything's fine!" Katara says, fighting back panic. She can't get caught, or she's sure they'll never let her bathe herself again. "I just tripped. I'm almost ready."

She bends the water back into the bucket, disappointed to have to give up her experiment, and finishes washing herself quickly, without bending.

As she scrubs, her mind buzzes with curiosity and apprehension. She hadn't expected to leave her cell again, and certainly not to go to the royal compound where she'd met such humiliation weeks before.

Inevitably, she finishes her task, and when she goes to pull on the clothes that have been provided for her, she sees that it's a dress this time--dark red, with long, loose sleeves and a long skirt that almost covers the pants that are worn underneath.

Even though the material is fine and thin, Katara grumbles to herself as she pulls it on. For a nation that's so warm, the upper classes certainly keep themselves covered.

When she is escorted out of her cell again, she sees that, if anything, the Fire Nation weather only seems to have gotten warmer.

She doesn't know how the people in this nation survive the heat. She misses the frigid bite of air at the South Pole.

Katara manages to shuffle her sleeves up a little around her chains so that the air hits more of her skin, but the material falls back into place after a few steps, and she decides it's not worth the effort.

The heat only makes her sweaty, which reminds her that she hasn't had access to enough water in weeks. It seems like ages since she's been able to drink enough to be fully satisfied, and she feels like she's going to crack somewhere and ooze herself dry.

The gates of the royal compound loom before her now, and she swallows the lump in her throat and follows her guards inside.

.

.

.

The compound is made of several buildings spread out over gardens, and in the distance, Katara can see the area where she fought Azula. The small ponds that are scattered over the grounds call to her, and she savors the fact that she can sense their presence, even though she can't do anything with them right now.

She isn't led to the gardens and their forbidden ponds this time, even though she glances at the water longingly. Her feet want to walk that way, but they don't. She walks obediently down a stone-paved pathway toward one of the larger buildings.

Here, trees line the path and their shadows move with a breath of wind that winds its way through the air, providing a small break in the heat. The flickering leaves provide some respite from the sun's glare.

The door they approach is red, like so much else in this nation, and is covered with ornately carved dragons and a kind of bird Katara doesn't recognize--one with flames for plumes. The building itself, though, is white, to better reflect the sunlight and keep its occupants cool.

The gate at the entrance to the compound was guarded, but this door is not. Instead, one of her guards knocks with the heavy metal knocker and the sound pounds, deadened by the heavy wood of the door.

When the door opens, it glides on smooth, silent hinges, and a short, wiry man with dark hair just beginning to grey stands before them.

Katara's guards bow to him, almost in unison, and Katara notices the distance of their bow--it is much shallower than when they had bowed to the royal family. Katara copies them, hoping to avoid another spear butt in the back of her knee.

The man bows in return. When he rises again, he looks at her, but she can't read the expression of his yellow eyes.

She schools her face into blankness, too. She didn't come here to be judged by servants or by royals, either, although it seems that she can't avoid it anywhere she turns. In the Fire Nation, she is judged by her skin, by her race, by her bending skills.

She is never judged for herself, because she is no person here. She is only the waterbending prisoner, the last of her kind from the South.

The man raises his bushy eyebrows at her guards and says, "This is the waterbender that the Princess Ursa requested to see?"

Katara scoffs internally. As if she could be anything else.

"She is, Yao," one of the guards replies.

Yao's eyes focus on her again, and Katara swallows, the feeling grating in her dry throat.

"Very well." Yao nods. "Bring her inside."

Katara and her guards walk behind Yao in a hallways that is dim but not dark--sunshine hovers around the edges, even though it takes Katara's eyes a moment to adjust to the lighting after the bright morning sunlight outside.

The hallway they traverse is long and covered with a thick carpet. On the walls, various tapestries and paintings display battle scenes and faces that must be members of the royal family. At the far end, they turn aside and walk through another heavy door into a room that is brighter, although it, too, is shaded from the sun. This time, the barrier comes from loosely woven shades that are positioned along the large open wall that looks out into the garden.

Katara blinks as her eyes adjust slightly again and she looks at her surroundings.

In this room, Ursa and Zuko sit beside a low table with a tea set laid out between them.

Zuko looks startled by the interruption, and Katara sees him sit up straighter the moment Yao enters the room, ushering in Katara and her guards.

In contrast, Ursa's stance softens--she was expecting them--and she smiles in acknowledgement of their arrival. "Welcome," she says with a nod.

The guards bow and, following a second later in stilted slow motion, Katara does, too.

"You can wait outside the door." Ursa addresses Katara's guards. "I'd like to meet with the waterbender privately."

After a brief hesitation, Katara's guards obey the order and file silently out the door.

Katara observes Ursa, wondering at the amount of faith the woman seems to have in her, quiet assurance of her own safety. Or, more likely, Ursa remembers Katara's poor bending display and thinks she poses no threat to her person.

Katara sighs internally and almost wishes she were dangerous enough to have her guards stay.

With the guards gone, Yao turns to Ursa. "Do you need anything else, Princess Ursa?"

Ursa nods toward Katara. "Just another teacup for our guest."

Katara rails internally--she isn't their guest; she's their prisoner and it degrades her suffering to have it denied.

Yao bows and leaves on his errand.

When he's gone, Ursa turns to Katara and indicates a spot on an unoccupied side of the table. "Come here," she says, "and sit with us."

Katara walks over, conscious that each step she takes brings her closer to her captors. She watches them warily, and Zuko watches her with caution, as well--he's been staring in surprise between her and his mother ever since she walked into the room.

Ursa, for her part, sits calmly. Katara wonders if that's because she's in control of the situation or simply because she's spent too many years masking her emotions. The Fire Nation doesn't seem like it rewards open feelings.

She wonders, as she has occasionally since her first meeting with the royal family, how someone as kind-seeming as Ursa is ended up married to someone as wicked as Ozai.

It was probably an arranged marriage, she thinks. Those seem to transcend cultures. Her gran had traveled south to avoid one, and while Katara had occasionally imagined she might find herself in one--the lack of boys her age in the South Pole meant her options were severely limited--seeing its reality played out before her makes her take back those fancies with disgust.

She will not become anyone's victim, or sit silent while evil men take over the world.

As she walks, she watches the royals closely. She wonders, fleetingly, if Zuko is married. He looks old enough for it, at least in by Southern Water Tribe standards. But maybe they do things differently in the Fire Nation.

And at any rate, wouldn't his wife be here with him? The compound is so quiet, and the only people she's seen on her two visits here are the immediate royal family and a few servants.

In the space of those thoughts, she reaches the carpet. She sits down gingerly at the edge of the table, her back ramrod-straight and her jaw tense. She can feel beads of sweat forming on her back and along the edge of her hairline--she's alive with nerves and with the heat of the day.

Katara is relieved that Azula and Ozai aren't here, but she still has no idea what to expect from this meeting.

She folds her hands quietly in her lap, in part to hide their shaking, and waits, continuing her close watch of her hosts. This play at civility could well be a trap.

The door to the room swings open again, its gentle push loud in the near silence. Katara startles and turns, but sees that it is Yao, returned with her teacup.

He walks in quickly and sets an ornately decorated teacup in front of her that matches the rest of the set her hosts are using--it's white, with red swirls in a pattern that might be writing or might be merely decorative. Which of those it might be, Katara can't tell.

As quickly as he came, Yao exits, bowing at Ursa's words of thanks and shutting the door behind him again.

Now the silence in the room is deafening. Outside, insects hum outside in the heat, in the trees and the flowers, hidden behind the decorative screens.

After a few moments of awkward stillness, Zuko--who has been staring at Katara in confusion for most of the time she's been here--speaks.

"Mom, why did you bring her here?"

"Zuko," Ursa says, her voice carrying a gentle reprimand even as she smiles and pours Katara a cup of tea, "that's not any way to greet our guest." Her thin hands move gracefully and with the ease of practice.

The knot in Katara's stomach tightens at the repeated use of the word guest.

Zuko flushes and mumbles, "Good afternoon," in Katara's direction. Then he turns back to his mother. "But...she..."

"Is someone I've invited to join me for tea this afternoon," Ursa interrupts, "just like I invited you."

Zuko frowns, his brows knit together. "Does Father know she's here?"

"No." Ursa replaces the tea kettle in the center of the table. "I don't tell your father everything, dear."

How interesting. Katara watches them very, very closely now.

Zuko swallows visibly and he doesn't say anything else.

"Now," Ursa says, her eyes on Katara where before they had focused on her tea service, "what is your name?"

Katara's voice cracks when she speaks and she winces. "My name is Katara," she says. Her fingers cramp where they're folded too tightly together in her lap, the skin stretching tense over her knuckle-bones. Her throat aches for the water in the tea.

"Katara," Ursa repeats. "That's a pretty name. I am Ursa, wife of Ozai, heir to the Fire Nation throne." She nods at Zuko, who by now sits nearly as stiffly as Katara does, unable to tell what game his mother is playing. "That is my son, Zuko. You met him informally the other day on the training grounds. He is next in line for the throne after his father."

Ursa speaks about her family so formally, and Katara feels as though she's been called to a summit meeting between the nations, not afternoon tea.

Being a prisoner of war changes the tilt of everything.

At his mother's introduction, Katara sees Zuko raise the tilt of his head slightly. The statement must be a balm to his pride in front of Katara after his defeat at his sister's hand the other day. She knows he did her a favor, stepping in to take her place, and probably saved her some injury.

But he's still a spoiled prince, if not as spoiled as his sister, and his mother is still the wife of a tyrant, so Katara nods toward him but stays silent, at a loss for words.

What can she say? That's nice? I'm so glad to be having tea with the people responsible for destroying my tribe and ripping me from my family and home?

Ursa picks up her own teacup and says, "You can drink your tea, Katara," before she takes a sip.

Katara's fingers unwind themselves and she picks up her cup carefully. It is a long time since she has eaten or drunk out of anything besides rough prison dishes. In the Southern Water Tribe, tea was a medicinal affair, brewed with bitter herbs to treat any number of ailments. The tea she'd drunk in prison served the same purpose.

This tea, she can smell as she lifts the cup to her mouth, is more delicate and less offensive.

When she takes a sip, she finds that the taste matches the smell. It's actually good.

And it's liquid, freely given. Katara is careful not to rush her drinking too much, because she refuses to allow herself to add to the Fire Nation's idea that Water Tribe people are barbarians with no manners, and she copies the way Zuko and Ursa hold their cups.

But she drinks several cups of tea, always politely accepting Ursa's offer of more.

After the awkward beginning of their conversation, Zuko says little and lets Ursa maneuver the direction of their speech. He watches Katara, still wary despite his mother's assurances--but he blushes and averts his eyes every time Katara makes eye contact.

So Katara tries to make eye contact frequently. She's the prisoner in this place, after all--she might as well let herself have a little bit of fun.

As Ursa talks, Katara watches both of them, and listens as the conversation continues with innocuous topics--the history of the house, the gardens, the animals on the grounds, the scope of Caldera around them.

Katara is not required to speak much, so she listens and takes as much comfort as she can from being somewhere clean and bright; she is headed back to prison as soon as this interlude is over.

Despite Ursa's soft words, it irks Katara that she seems to have been brought here so they can gawk at her, albeit inconspicuously. It seems pointless, in the end.

A few cups of tea later, Katara feels better than she has in weeks, and she takes the opportunity when Ursa pauses her speech to ask the questions she's had since her guard first walked into her cell that morning. "Why did you bring me here?" she asks, looking Ursa in the eye. "What do you want from me? And why is Zuko here, if all you want to do is drink tea with me?" She can see Zuko frowning out of the corner of her eye, although Ursa's expression remains calm. "He didn't know I was coming, but you did. Why didn't you tell him?"

Zuko sets down his teacup and speaks on his mother's behalf. "It's not your place to ask those questions," he says. And for a moment, his stern expression seems more like his father's than Katara thinks he would want it to be.

Ursa shakes her head and, to Katara's surprise, she laughs. "It's all right, Zuko," she says. "I'm sure Katara has a lot of questions. You would, too, if you were taken from us as a prisoner down to the South Pole and then called for a dinner with their chief with no explanation, wouldn't you?"

Zuko thinks this over, then nods slowly, his shaggy hair falling over his forehead as he does. He looks embarrassed and also angry that he is embarrassed.

Katara takes the opportunity to make it worse. "My father is the chief," she says, "and he would never do something like that."

She expects Zuko to snap at her. He's a prince with some measure of compassion, and he's clearly been trained in good manners, but he also has a hot temper, and she's baiting him.

Instead, he says, in a heavy tone, "The war is for the good of the world," and before she can open her mouth to protest, he continues, "and you don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what people will do until they actually do it."

Now it's Katara's turn to be embarrassed, and she feels her cheeks heat. Still, she returns his gaze stubbornly. "How can war be good?" she asks, forcing her voice to be calm. "When people are taken from their homes and killed for no reason? When entire people groups die out just to feed someone's power complex?"

Zuko's eyes shine with anger, but he seems at a loss for words. His mouth gapes open and closed for a few seconds, like a fish, before he seals it shut.

Ursa clears her throat in the thickness of the room. "You are right to have questions." She addresses Katara. "This must be terribly difficult for you."

The words are patronizing, but Ursa's tone is not. Katara doesn't know how to react, so she waits. That's all she's been doing for the past several weeks, it seems--waiting for the Fire Nation.

"You are here, Katara," Ursa continues, "because I want to get you out of that prison."

Katara's brain stutters. She narrows her eyes, presses her lips into a thin line, and sets her teacup down on the table again.

"Why?" she asks. Fire Nation royalty is not supposed to help her; they're not supposed to care, so of course she's suspicious.

Ursa smiles sadly. "There are too many prisoners and too many dead on all sides of the war," she says. "I can't help all of them, but I think I can help you."

"Why me? Aren't I a dangerous prisoner to set free?"

"That's precisely the point," Ursa says. "You are a highly regarded prisoner, a good catch for the Fire Nation. A prize."

Katara's stomach twists and the hope she'd allowed herself to feel melts away.

Ursa continues, "I can't set you free to go home."

Katara's heart drops, even though she'd known the thought of that was too good to be true.

"But I believe I can get you out of prison."

Zuko, who watches the conversation wide-eyed and with nearly as much suspicion as Katara, breaks in. "Mom, how can you do that? How are you going to convince Father it's reasonable to set her free?"

"Your father has already seen how poor her bending is. Azula did her an unwitting favor that way. There's not much risk of Katara escaping through a fight if she comes to live here, with us, as my attendant. She'll be under house arrest and perform simple tasks. In a house full of firebenders and firebending guards, she has little chance of escape. She would be out of prison, have a good place to live, and your father would be able to brag that he has the last waterbender from the Southern Water Tribe as a member of his household. Pretty good bragging rights for the next Fire Lord, don't you think?"

Zuko looks as if he doesn't know whether to be disgusted or impressed. "Father would probably like that plan," he agrees somewhat begrudgingly. "But are you sure about her?"

Ursa turns to Katara. "What do you think?"

Katara folds her hands in her lap and considers. She doesn't particularly want to spend any more time around Fire Nation royalty than she has to, especially now that she's seen the cruelty with which they can treat even their own. Zuko, for all his stubbornness, has his mother's kindness in him in a way that Azula does not.

But it would probably be easier to escape from a gilded cage than from a literal one, and here, she could learn their secrets, perhaps glean some information to help her tribe after she escapes and returns home.

When she speaks, she chooses her words carefully. She can be a diplomat, if she needs to be. "I thank you for your kindness, Princess Ursa. It would be nice to leave my cell, and I accept your offer."

Ursa smiles, and for a moment, the expression reminds Katara of her mother. A sharp pang runs through her heart. "I'm glad you did, Katara." She picks up the teapot and pours another cup of tea for everybody. After a sip from her cup, she says, "I'll talk to Ozai tonight, but I believe he'll agree to the plan."

Her eyes are sad when she looks at Katara, and Katara wonders again how this woman ended up in this family.

"If he doesn't, I apologize for getting your hopes up. But if he does, you'll soon be out of that dark prison cell. I think you'll find life here much more appealing."

"Yes, ma'am," Katara says, although she doesn't know if it's the truth.

Then, as if nothing serious had passed in their conversation, Ursa again begins talking of everyday matters while Katara's mind buzzes with possibilities and mingled uncertainties.

She wants to get out of prison--oh, how she wants to get out of prison!--and Ursa has offered her a looser cage. If she can avoid Ozai and Azula, the family is not all unbearable. Ursa seems kind and Zuko seems...well, he seems as nice as any boy who's been raised to believe in his superiority could be. He has his mother's heart, if not her experience. Katara wonders how much he's been hurt by his father and sister throughout his life and what sorts of scars he bears from living here.

She also, with a subtle shiver, wonders what sorts of scars she might bear, if her future escape attempts fail.

Before she realizes it, the shadows have nearly disappeared with the noontime sun, and Ursa dismisses her, calling for Yao to return with the guards.

As Yao hurries to follow orders, Katara asks Ursa, "Why did you trust me enough to bring me here? How did you know I wouldn't smuggle in a knife and slit your throat?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," Ursa says. "You are a strong young woman who is very, very angry. I knew there was some element of danger in asking you here. But you are also a good person, I think--although you may yet prove me wrong. I am not a firebender or a combatant, but the guards here are. And that's also why Zuko is here: he is an excellent firebender and can protect me if the need arises."

That makes sense, and Katara suddenly feels uncomfortable for some reason. Maybe because Ursa has judged her so well. Or maybe because the shocked look on Zuko's face at his mother's praise breaks her heart a little bit--or it would, if she could feel any sympathy at all for the second in line for her enemy country's throne.

She glances at Zuko, who recovers and sets his face in a stony, neutral expression.

"I see," Katara says. Then, partly because she feels bad for him and partly because she knows it will make him uncomfortable, she adds, "Prince Zuko's display of bending the other day was quite impressive. I am sure he would have proven a formidable opponent had I chosen a fight today."

As if you would have stood a chance, her mind mocks her. She pushes the thought aside and lets her statement stand.

Zuko averts his eyes again, clearly uncomfortable.

The look Ursa gives her carries part amusement and part reprimand, but at that moment Yao returns with Katara's guards, so Katara stands up, bows to Ursa and to Zuko, and allows herself to be escorted back to the prison.

.

.

.

Katara barely notices the journey back to her cell. She's too preoccupied with thoughts of the future.

She's grateful for Ursa's invitation to tea--for the offer, and for the actual drink. For the first time since she was captured, she doesn't feel parched. In prison, they only give her enough water to keep her alive: a dehydrated waterbender is better than a hydrated one, they assume.

They're probably right.

But now, for the first time in weeks, she feels sated with drink, although she would have chosen cool, fresh water over tea if she'd been given the chance.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Gran Gran's voice echoes in her mind. And she is grateful for the drink.

When she goes to sleep in her cell that night, Katara expects--she hopes--that someone will be there early in the morning to take her away. But after a restless sleep, she feels the moon recede and no one comes.

The morning guard changes, and no one comes.

Katara thinks, as she hasn't allowed herself to think all night, of the things that could go wrong. Ozai could have refused Ursa's request. And not only that, he could have decided that Katara should be targeted for something worse than prison--she really isn't of any use here, after all, and she wonders why she hasn't been killed yet.

But later, her heart leaps with relief when a messenger comes and speaks to her guard. She's been summoned to the royal compound, to stay.

Katara leaves the prison once more, and she hopes it's for the last time.

She wants the next place she leaves to be the Fire Nation.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

clandestine :: (adj) :: kept secret or done secretly (illicit)

.

.

.

Katara moves into the house discreetly.

Zuko stands in the hallway, watching as Yao directs a few other servants in moving items—hairbrushes, soaps, old dresses of Ursa’s, a few spare clothes of Azula’s—into a spare room near his mother’s and cleaning the furniture that’s already there, long unused.

The morning has been full of the servants following Ursa’s orders to get the room ready for Katara. It’s a room that used to be a servant’s room, and it’s relatively sizeable, although windowless.

Katara won’t like that. He’d noticed the way she’d stared longingly at the sunshine in the gardens yesterday. She doesn’t like being caged.

But it’s necessary for propriety—Katara is still a prisoner, although she’ll be a more comfortable one once she arrives, and proper precautions must be taken.

Zuko can’t remember the last time the house had this much activity in it, and this activity is only confined to a small portion of its grounds.

Everything important happens in the palace or in city government buildings—war meetings, celebrations, festivals—but his family’s home, although near the palace, is in its own quiet world of Fire Nation nobility.

Katara’s arrival marks the first time Zuko can remember anything new happening here in a long time.

Servants come and go from time to time—if his father suspects anyone of treasonous behavior or poor service, they are dismissed—but he only realizes there’s been a change when he notices that the people in his peripheral vision have different faces than they did before.

“Hello, brother.” Azula steps in place beside him, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms in a mirror of his posture.

Zuko curses mentally. He’d been enjoying the quiet motion around him, but Azula always puts him on edge.

“Hello, Azula.”

“Nice little setup for Mother’s new pet, isn’t it? Too bad she can’t bend decently; it would be invigorating to have some competition around here.”

Zuko hears the slight and scowls at his sister before purposefully shifting his eyes back to the servants. The room is nearly ready now.

He tries to remember the details of when Azula was born. He was only two then, so he doesn’t really remember much. In his mind, she’s always been here.

“It’s better than that squalid prison cell, don’t you think?” he asks.

Azula rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s just a Water Tribe peasant, after all.”

“She’s the chief’s daughter,” Zuko says.

“Oh, really? And you think that means anything outside of her own backwards land?”

“It means something, doesn’t it? She’s got the same position that we do, in her home.”

“But her home doesn’t matter, Zuzu,” Azula snaps. “And that’s the point.” She pushes off from the wall and walks away. “You’re such a softie, big brother,” she tosses back over her shoulder, leaving Zuko frowning into the space she’s left behind.

Zuko stands and watches until Yao and the other servants have finished their task of preparing the room. He chews his lower lip.

He’s starting to worry about his mother.

Zuko has known for some time that his mother disagrees with the war, at least in part. Until recently, it had always been small things—she frowns whenever his father brags about Fire Nation victories and she has compassion on people like Katara.

But now she’s working out a plan to subvert his grandfather’s war efforts by bringing the waterbender into their home. He sees the logic on the surface—the way she’d explained it to him and Katara yesterday at tea, the way he’s sure she explained it to his father—but he still thinks it’s dangerous.

He’s heard stories of what happens to people who foment rebellion too freely, and more than that, he’s watched the executions of some of them. They always made his stomach turn uncomfortably, unlike Azula, who watched with fascination.

There are rumors that fly from time to time about his Uncle Iroh, too, and people sometimes whisper that the old man is more than just a peacefully retired tea enthusiast.

Well, there’s no question that Iroh is a tea enthusiast; the state of his retreat into civilian life is what goes up for debate occasionally, when he disappears for a few weeks or months to undisclosed locations or when he makes subtly unsettling comments at state functions.

His mother is friends with Iroh, and he hopes his uncle hasn’t been a bad influence.

Zuko sighs and picks at the hem of his sleeve before he, too, pushes away from the wall and walks in the same direction Azula had. His mother has been in this family for longer than he has, and he’s sure she’ll make the right choices.

Bringing Katara here is a dangerous move, and although he’s grateful for the change of pace—he’s eighteen, and his life is mostly war meetings and firebending training where he thinks that most other people his age work or spend time with their friends or start families of their own—he resolves to remain alert, just in case.

But he’s lonely, with only Azula for company, and dares to hope in the back of his mind that Katara might be a friend, so long as she doesn’t kill them all in their sleep.

.

.

.

When Katara arrives that afternoon, she’s in her prison garb—a set of drab, dirty, faded-red pants and a tunic. She holds her head high, despite people’s stares, and bows politely to his mother, thanking her for her generosity.

From where he stands with Azula, watching, Zuko can see that she flexes her fingers frequently, and how they tremble from time to time.

Zuko sees very little of Katara for the rest of the day, because his mother ushers her away to get her cleaned up and settled into her new home.

After wandering listlessly for a while, he settles down in the library to read. Maybe having Katara around won’t be as big of a change in his life as he’d thought.

There’s a volume on the history of taxation in the colonies that might be useful to reference as the Fire Nation’s campaign spreads further into the Earth Kingdom, and he picks it off the shelf and begins reading.

.

.

.

The next morning, Zuko wakes early and goes out to a far part of the garden to work through his katas alone. The heat isn’t oppressive yet, but it will be in a few hours—just in time for his formal firebending lessons. When Zuko was younger, he’d thought that his formal lessons would end once he reached majority, that there would be a point where he was good enough and Father wouldn’t insist on bringing in the most studied tutors in the world to teach him.

He knows craft can always be improved, but it feels insulting to still be in lessons, like a little kid.

It doesn’t help that Azula hasn’t been required to attend lessons for a few years now, although she still comes out every morning. She thrives on firebending almost as much as she thrives on tormenting him.

At lessons, she gets to do both. She’d first conjured blue fire at one of their lessons, and sometime later it was the first place she’d shot lightning.

Zuko enjoys firebending, but his lessons mean he’s with his tutor and Azula and sometimes his father, too. When Ozai comes to watch, Zuko always has to fight the unsettling twist in his chest that makes him think that this day’s practice could determine whether he or Azula is next in line for the throne.

He’s not sure it’s really that simple, but his sister’s prodigy status always makes him uneasy, especially when his father is around. The two of them get along too well, and Azula is always eager to remind Zuko of the fact that she’s not only the more talented firebender; she’s Father’s favorite.

Father never contradicts her.

Zuko always feels like he’s better at firebending when no one else is around.

The morning sun has only just crested the horizon when Zuko closes his eyes, breathes in, feels his chi flow through his body, and moves through his forms.

He’s sweaty but awake and focused by the time Yao comes to find him with an invitation from his mother to join her for breakfast.

When he walks through the door to his mother’s tearoom a short time later, Ursa is sitting beside the low table where they take their tea, sipping from a sweet-smelling blend and looking out over the plants that are now thickly coated in contrasting shadows and light, and smell fresh with the scent of just-gone dew.

The standing shades that block the light are removed in the morning, when the sun comes from the other direction and brings less heat to the room.

“Zuko,” she says, setting down her cup and smiling at him. “Good morning.”

He bows. “Good morning, Mom.”

Ursa motions for him to sit and pours him a cup of tea, then takes another sip of her own. She picks up a bell that sits on the table and rings it, and Yao appears in the doorway.

“The morning meal, please, Yao,” she says.

Yao bows and scurries away to bring them food.

Zuko and his mother drink tea in silence for a while. The morning is bright and beautiful and it is calming, sitting here in the shade but looking into the distant sun, with tea and silence for company.

Yao returns, leading two serving girls who lay out sweet cakes, sticky rice, and fruit for the morning meal.

Zuko notices that they bring three bowls. “Mom?” he says, “Who’s joining us?”

“I wanted to ask you, dear—I thought I’d have Katara eat with us, if it’s all right with you. She’s so alone in our country, and now that she’s out of prison…well, I’d like her to have some proper company.”

Part of Zuko is pleased by this suggestion, but another part of him is a little jealous of having to share his time with his mother.

But getting to know Katara will probably be interesting and could provide insight into the people they’re fighting in this war.

“That would be fine, Mom.” Zuko nods. “I guess I can share you.”

Ursa laughs. “You’ve had me for eighteen years, Zuko, and spent considerably more time with me than your sister has. I have plenty of mothering for everyone.”

“Like the turtleducks,” Zuko says.

Ursa pauses. “The turtleducks?”

One of their favorite pastimes when Zuko was little was to go and feed the turtleducks in the garden ponds together. They’d spend long hours there, tossing bits of bread and talking.

Zuko still does that by himself sometimes, when he needs to sort things out or be alone.

He knows his mother does it sometimes, too, because occasionally he goes to her favorite turtleduck pond only to find that she’s already there.

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly embarrassed. “You know how there are two turtleduck families in the biggest pond? One year, there was something wrong with one of the ducklings. I’m not sure what happened, but the parent ducks didn’t want it. They pecked at it and finally it swam away. But the next day when I was out by the pond, I saw that it had been taken in by the other turtleduck family and it was swimming with them by their nest on the other side of the pond.”

“I hadn’t noticed that,” Ursa says thoughtfully. She peers at Zuko for a moment, and seems to consider saying something more, but in the end, she lets the subject drop. Instead, she calls for Yao and asks him to bring Katara to join them.

She does, and when she walks in behind Yao, she bows deeply to Ursa and then to Zuko. Yao bows as well, and leaves Katara alone with them.

“Come and sit, Katara,” Ursa says, and Katara walks over to the place she’d sat two days ago.

When she sits, Zuko notices that the outfit she’s wearing today is one of Azula’s old ones, a red-and-gold short-sleeved dress with long pants underneath. His sister is taller than Katara, so it makes sense that her clothes from a year or so ago would be handed down.

But Katara looks considerably better in that dress than Azula ever did.

The next thing Zuko notices is how angry Katara looks. Her face is calm, but when she looks at him, he sees a storm in her eyes.

In response, he feels his own anger start to well. His mother is risking her own safety to protect Katara; the least she could do is be grateful for her efforts. Zuko bites his tongue and focuses his attention on moving each clump of rice from his bowl to his mouth.

Across from him, Katara does the same, but she eats slowly, moving with care.

Ursa notices this, too, and she asks, “Have you eaten yet today, Katara?”

Katara nods. “I ate with some of the other servants earlier,” she says.

“Well, you should eat some more here with us,” Ursa urges. “I can't imagine they fed you very well in prison.” Her hands are busy already, filling Katara’s bowl with more food—avoiding the more spicy food, Zuko notices, and wonders how his mother thinks of things like that. He wouldn't have. Maybe he should learn to.

“No, they didn’t,” Katara agrees. She hesitates for a moment, frowning, then asks, “Is any of this food very spicy?”

Ursa smiles. “No, Katara. Those are—” she points to a plate of spiced fruits “—but I didn’t give you any of those.”

“Thank you,” Katara says, offering a small smile in return. “They always service spicy meat in the prison, so I didn’t end up eating much more than rice while I was there.”

“Couldn’t you have asked them to cook you some meat without spices?” Zuko can’t imagine not liking spicy foods, but surely it wouldn’t be that difficult to alter recipes.

“I did.” Katara shrugs. “But it never happened. One prisoner with Water Tribe tastes isn’t worth accommodating.”

That knowledge sits uncomfortably with Zuko.

“I didn’t miss the food so much,” Katara says. “Sometimes the winters get very long in the South Pole and our winter stores run low. I missed water, mostly.”

“It’s a shame you’re a waterbender,” Ursa comments, and Katara looks poised to perform some violence until she continues, “because the other benders wouldn’t be deprived of sufficient water like that. You can drink all you want here, dear.”

Katara blinks and slows her breathing down to a regular rate before she says, “Thank you. I will.”

As the meal continues, Zuko notices that Katara watches him and Ursa before trying any new item, then copies their table manners. He wonders what sort of table manners they practice in the South Pole, and if they are very different from in the Fire Nation. Katara seems fairly as ease in her movements, although her brow furrows slightly when she’s using the chopsticks.

After she drops a clump of rice on the carpet, she makes a quiet exasperated noise and says, “I’m sorry. I’ve never used these before.”

“What did you eat your rice with in prison, then?” Zuko asks, and doesn’t realize that that’s probably not a very polite question to ask until his mother shoots him a warning glance. “I mean, uh,” he tries to correct himself, “didn’t you use chopsticks in prison?”

That’s not much better.

“No.” Katara looks annoyed. “I used my fingers, because they didn’t give me any utensils. Couldn’t have me stabbing the guard or myself, you know?”

“Oh,” Zuko says. He hadn’t thought of that.

Before Katara can reply, Ursa changes the subject. “Have you practiced with your dao swords recently, Zuko?”

“A few days ago,” he says. “It went well, but I haven’t had anybody to spar with since I got back from Master Piandao’s at the end of autumn.”

“Perhaps we can find someone for you,” Ursa says, but Zuko knows it won’t happen. Fighting with weapons is for peasants, and it would shame his family to draw too much attention to it.

Zuko hates that, because he’s a really, really good swordsman. He trains with Master Piandao, in a farther corner of the Fire Nation, every autumn, and has since he was eight, but for the rest of the year, he’s on his own.

His mother takes it upon herself to explain the situation to Katara, although she directs some of her memories toward Zuko. “It was your Uncle Iroh's suggestion to send you to train with Master Piandao,” she says. “He's always had a good eye, and he saw from when you were young that you'd have skill with swords.”

“I appreciate his recommendation,” Zuko says seriously. He sometimes thinks his uncle is a crazy old man, but Iroh used to be an excellent and esteemed general, and he hasn’t lost his aptitude, although he chooses to exercise it much differently these days.

Iroh wasn't around much when Zuko was younger because he was off fighting the war, but when Lu Ten died, he came back and abdicated his place in line to the throne. He was gone for a long time after that, too—traveling and mourning. But for the past four years or so, he's been back, lingering at the edges of Zuko’s life.

“Yes,” Ursa agrees. Her smile grows wistful. “He was always able to see the best in you.” Unlike your father—Zuko understands her unspoken sentiment. The sore place in his heart twists. “He's lost so much—losing Cixi when Lu Ten was young, and then losing Lu Ten in the war... I know it does him good to watch you grow into such a fine young man.”

Katara has been listening to all of this silently, but with interest in her eyes.

Zuko feels his cheeks heat.

After a moment, Katara says, “My brother fights with the sword, too. All of the men in our tribe use clubs and spears for hunting, but my brother is especially good with the sword. He can beat everyone in our village. He could probably beat you.” Her tone is full of stubborn pride, and Zuko doesn’t protest.

“Maybe,” he says instead. He doubts it.

.

.

.

Some of the generals have returned from a campaign in the areas surrounding Ba Sing Se, and that afternoon, Zuko and Azula are both invited to attend a war meeting. After Iroh’s failure at capturing that great Earth Kingdom city, the Fire Nation’s strategy has been to slowly destroy the population around it, cutting it off in preparation for a siege.

Zuko does his best to pay attention as they discuss plans. He and Azula need to learn about these things, if they want to be Fire Lord.

But only one of them can be. Fire Nation law doesn't require the Fire Lord to be the firstborn of the former Fire Lord, which is why Ozai is in line for the crown and why Zuko's place isn't secure.

He has to please his father and win his respect.

Zuko sometimes wonders why Azulon chose Ursa to be Ozai's wife. She's not a firebender, and no one knows exactly how bending is passed from parent to child, but they know that there is a much higher chance of offspring being a bender if both parents are. The law doesn’t require the eldest child to be the Fire Lord, but it does require that the Fire Lord bend fire.

The thought of his future responsibility overwhelms him sometimes.

As soon as he can, Zuko escapes to a far corner of the garden at home—not the bending area, because Azula might be there and he doesn't want to practice bending. He wants to practice with his swords, so he does. He goes through different moves and routines until he's sweating in the late afternoon heat as the sun begins its slant down into the west, providing some relief from the day.

He's learning to be aware of his surroundings; as the future Fire Lord, he has to be. Assassination attempts aren't rampant, but the possibility lurks constantly. People are opportunistic and not everyone is pleased with the direction his family is taking the country.

One aspect of his sword-training that he doesn’t tell his mother about is how he takes his swords with him when he sneaks out of their compound some nights to travel through the city in the guise of the Blue Spirit, to practice his stealth and listen to the people. Most of what he overhears is useless because it is mundane—he overhears everything from family conversations to drunken brawls, depending on what part of the city he’s exploring. But some of what he hears is useful, and he learns what some of the people’s complaints are.

When he can, he keeps those things in mind as he listens to the discussion and decision-making that happens in the various council meetings he attends.

Not that there are that many, and he rarely gets the chance to speak, but it interests him to see how politics play out in relation to what the people think.

Sometimes, it’s startling how little the noble council members know about the people on the streets.

Zuko has read some political theory in his ample spare time, and he's not sure that it's a good idea for the rulers to be so isolated from the people. It doesn't help a ruler care for the people, to be fair and just, if they don't know what the people want.

He'd mentioned this to his father once, but Ozai had only frowned and told him that it's the Fire Lord's job to tell the people what they want, not to listen to their peasant complaints.

Anyway, most of the meetings he attends are about foreign affairs, and he has never traveled to those lands or skulked at night on those soils.

The farthest he’s gone so far is Piandao’s, but they hadn’t managed to keep him locked away in the palanquin for every minute of the journey. The Blue Spirit often explores when Zuko travels.

Zuko is in the middle of a form when he hears footsteps on the pathway. He regains his footing when he finishes his movement and freezes, alert and tense.

Servants don't usually come here, unless they've been sent. And there isn't anything going on for the rest of the day, at least not that he knows of.

But he relaxes and lowers his swords when the person who comes into view is Katara. If she were on a mission of vengeance, she’d probably have made an attempt on his life by now.

Instead, she walks to the edge of the clearing where he's been practicing and looks at him for a moment. She crosses her arms. “Were you afraid of me?”

Zuko opens his mouth. Zuko closes his mouth. Then he opens it again and says, “I wasn't afraid of you.” Stupid girls and their stupid ways of throwing him off guard. “But, as the future Fire Lord, it's not safe to be cavalier about your circumstances. You always need to be on the lookout, just in case.”

Katara looks him over speculatively, the fingers of one hand tapping on her arm, and he straightens his posture and tightens his grip on his swords just a bit.

She swallows.

“That’s paranoid,” she says finally, “but it makes sense.”

Then she blinks and uncrosses her arms. “Anyway,” she says, “your mother sent me to tell you to come to dinner in the small dining room. She says to tell you that your Uncle Iroh is going to be there, and so’s Azula. But not your father.”

The happiness that had started to bud in Zuko’s heart at the mention of Uncle Iroh withers when he hears Azula’s name.

Suddenly rushing to dinner sounds like a less appealing option, so he asks Katara, “Do you want to wait here for a minute while I clean my swords and then we can walk back together?”

Katara eyes him suspiciously, but she only says, “Okay,” and stands primly on the edge of the walkway. She stands still, but he can feel her eyes on him as he wipes his swords down with oil, making sure they're polished and clean before he sheathes them.

He’ll sharpen them later.

“Okay, I'm ready now,” he says, standing up and slinging his swords over his shoulder.

“Okay.”

Zuko tries to make conversation on the way back to the house, but all of Katara’s answers are polite and short.

He’s not sure if it’s his inherent awkwardness or her remaining uneasiness that stilts the conversation, but he thinks they’re both grateful when it ends.

He doesn't really learn very much about her from it.

She says goodbye to him when they get back to the house, and he says, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

She raises an eyebrow.

Oh. Right. Of course she’d come to get him; his mother sent her, it’s her job.

It’s not like she was lonely, too, and wanted to see him, or anything like that. Well, she’s probably lonely, but he’s not exactly her first choice for company.

Which makes sense.

Katara clears her throat. “Of course, Prince Zuko,” she says.

He shifts his weight awkwardly back and forth between his feet. “So, uh, I guess I'll see you later?” he says. His voice almost cracks and he thanks the spirits that it doesn’t.

Katara looks like she might be holding back laughter. She's definitely judging him, he's sure of that. “Of course, Prince Zuko,” she says again.

She bows, ever so slightly, and walks away in the direction of his mother's rooms.

He looks after her for a moment, then sighs and heads to his own room to clean up and prepare for dinner.

.

.

.

Katara has been living at their house for two weeks now, and Ursa invites both of them to join her for a meal or for tea at every other day. This afternoon, they’re drinking tea with his mother when she’s called away to consult for the evening meal, leaving Zuko and Katara alone for a few minutes.

“How has your day been so far?” Zuko attempts conversation, at least.

“My day has gone well, Prince Zuko; thank you for asking.” Katara is wary, still, of people in the Fire Nation, and angry in a way that simmers in the corner of her eyes, but sometimes she forgets herself and smiles at him during a meal, or makes sarcastic remarks about Azula that feel like balm to his soul.

“You can just call me ‘Zuko’, you know. I’m just… I mean, I am the prince, but people don’t just…call me that. You know?”

Katara looks back at him from where she’d been inspecting the wall-shades, her blue eyes open in surprise. She blinks a few times, but then she smiles and nods. “Okay. Zuko.”

“Okay.” He smiles back.

They drink tea quietly until Ursa returns, but the silence is more companionable than it was before.

In the quiet, Zuko tries to remember the last time he spent alone with someone who wasn’t family.

It’s been a long time.

He and Azula had always tutored privately because of their status, so he didn’t have school friends, even in the days when he still had schoolwork. Azula used to have some friends come and play with them when they were younger—girls whose parents were trying to gain status in court. He remembers some of their names—Mai and Ty Lee were the two in particular came often.

But he hasn't seen them in years.

His family is alone; he is alone.

He thinks it must be worse for Katara. She's on foreign soil, surrounded by people who are complicit in her people’s oppression.

No wonder she’s angry.

He feels guilty about her presence here, even though it's not directly his fault. She shouldn't be here, with his family, in their house. She should be home with her family.

Then he realizes that he doesn't know if she has any family left, and feels guiltier than ever. He reminds himself that she talked about her father in the present tense, so she probably at least has him.

All of this passes in the span of a few minutes, and then Ursa comes back into the room. The silence is shattered, but the tentative start at companionship remains.

Katara’s gaze holds less animosity when she smiles at him and says goodbye before dinner.

.

.

.

The following morning, Zuko invites his mother to join him for tea and breakfast. They meet in his small antechamber, much more starkly decorated than his mother's, but it is still open and affords a nicer view of the sunrise.

His mother arrives just after the tea does, looking tired but with a smiling comment about firebenders and early rising.

Zuko grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Mom.”

Ursa shakes her head. “I’m used to it by now. Before I married your father, it was work that got me up early in the mornings—the herbs I would gather for my father were best picked before first light hit them. Now, it’s firebenders who think each day’s activity begins with the sunrise who wake me. You, in particular, were insufferable when you were a little boy. Always waking with the sun, cheery and toothless and active, no matter how poorly you’d slept the night before, when all your dear nurses wanted to do was rest.”

She pats his hand affectionately. “Folklore says all strong firebenders are affected that way.”

“Did Azula wake up early when she was little, too?” She’s the stronger bender, so if the lore is true, that would make sense.

“Yes,” Ursa says, “but she was never happy like you were. It seems like she was always throwing a fit over something.”

Zuko thinks to himself that not much has changed, but he tilts his head to the side and clears his thoughts. His morning katas had been cleansing that morning. The heat hadn't borne down too heavily yet, and his head feels unburdened.

Before the meal has gone on too long, Ursa looks at him and says, “Zuko, I have a favor to ask you.”

“What is it, Mom?”

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Katara spends most of her time alone or with me. I like her very much, but I think it would be good for her to get to know someone her own age. I’m part of the old guard that’s passing.”

Zuko is startled by this, because he doesn't think of his mother as old—and she's not, not like his grandfather or his uncle.

Ursa continues, “But you're the future of the Fire Nation, and I think it would be good for both of you to get a different perspective on life. And, besides that, I’d like you to teach Katara the basics of waterbending.”

.

.

.

Zuko nearly chokes on his tea. “Mother, that's treason,” he says, shocked, as he set his teacup down.

Ursa shakes her head. “Your grandfather hasn't yet passed a law forbidding the practice of the other bending arts,” she says gently. “He uses the earthbenders he's captured to build cities and ports and roads. He uses the waterbenders—the few that there are, and mostly from the North—to direct water into aqueducts and reservoirs.” She pauses for a moment. “There are no airbenders left, of course,” she says finally.

Zuko nods, suddenly feeling thick in his throat. He knows—everybody knows—that his family's intent is to wipe out the competing bending races, or at least subdue them so that they serve the Fire Nation's will. They want to create a world of slaves, indoctrinating them with their way of life while making them support it, and the ones who fight are killed or captured. He's seen that much personally.

It sounds terrible when he thinks about it that way, but the war has gone on for so long that he doesn’t know what other balance of world power would be a viable option.

There are rumors, of course, that there is one airbender who escaped the genocide—the next incarnation of the Avatar. But no one has seen or heard from him in nearly one hundred years. Zuko's grandfather, his uncle, and his father were all sent on missions to search out the Avatar when they were younger, as part of their training.

Zuko has not been sent on such a mission yet, although he expects that someday soon he’ll be sent from the Fire Nation’s shores to prove his mettle.

In all those years of searching, none of his relatives had been able to find the Avatar, and most people now assume that he died in the Air Nomad genocide—the last of the world's peacekeepers, fallen under the Fire Nation's attack.

The Fire Nation has the last Southern waterbender now, too—unless a new waterbender is born to the tribe. Benders are sometimes born to nonbending parents, so it's a possibility.

Waterbenders remain in the Northern Water Tribe and they fight fiercely. Their citadel was much less pillaged during the early part of the war than that of the Southern Water Tribe, so the Northerners had time to see what happened to their Southern counterparts and to reinforce themselves.

Zuko sometimes wonders why they never sent help to the South.   He supposes they might have, secretly, but he's never heard anything about it. That information is the sort of thing his father or grandfather would gloat about—“We got the last Southern Waterbender, even after the North sent help. They failed.”—so if it happened, the Fire Nation doesn't know about it.

And it didn't do much good, anyway.

His mother continues. “There's nothing, legally, to stop you from helping Katara, although it would probably be best to avoid getting caught. You don’t want to stir up trouble where there isn’t any.”

“But why would I do it? There's nothing to gain from it.”

Ursa pauses for a moment, then finally says, “It would mean a lot to Katara.”

“How do you know? Did she say something to you?” Zuko asks. He doesn't think Katara would ask for him to do anything for her. He's her enemy—her captor, of sorts, even if they have begun to tolerate each other more comfortably than at her arrival.

Ursa shakes her head. “She didn't say anything. But she didn't have to.” She purses her lips, sighs, and speaks again after a moment. Her tone has changed now. She sounds tired. “I'm a mother, Zuko, and a woman—and I can tell. She wants to bend. She's got all of this hope and energy and anger bound up in her—and she needs some way to focus it, or else she'll lash out against all of us and get herself killed.”

Zuko thinks about that, then raises his eyebrows at his mother. “So you want me to do this as a favor for her?”

Ursa nods. “Yes. You're going to be a ruler, Zuko. You'll have a country to lead, but you need to learn that a country is made up of people. People like Katara, who each have their own hopes in mind. You need to keep that in mind when you make your policy decisions.”

“Grandfather doesn't do that,” Zuko observes.

“No, he doesn't,” Ursa agrees. “Our family doesn't exactly have a history of wise choices in the public realm.”

“The Fire Nation is fairly content, although there have been grumblings about conscription recently,” Zuko agrees, then stumbles to add, “I overheard at a meeting one time,” lest his mother question him about information he obtained while out as the Blue Spirit. “And if Katara is any example, I can’t imagine what the other nations think of us.”

Ursa nods and when she speaks, she speaks quietly. “It’s time for the war to end, Zuko.”

Zuko’s heart stutters. “And that's treason,” he whispers, half to himself.

Ursa nods and they say nothing more for some time as they drink their tea. The drink is warm but practically tasteless to Zuko as he fights the worry that knots in the pit of his stomach; he’s really concerned about his mother now.

.

.

.

Zuko thinks about his mother's suggestion for the next few days and tries to work out whether there’s any connection between him teaching Katara how to waterbend and ending the war. He wonders just how serious his mother is about her leanings and if she’ll act on them.

Those thoughts only make him want to throw up or punch something, neither of which is a viable option. He’d tried punching his pillow once, but that hadn’t really helped.

So he thinks, instead, about how to broach the topic of waterbending training with Katara.

He decides to do it during tea. His mother is better at getting Katara to open up than he is, and through her gentle prompting, Katara is starting to feel more comfortable.

She clenches her fingers less tightly when she bows, and holds her chopsticks more easily.

During teatimes, Ursa sometimes asks Katara questions about the Water Tribe. Katara speaks about her family—her father, the chief; her mother; her brother, Sokka—and about life in the South Pole.

Based on what Katara says, Zuko thinks that the Southern Water Tribe doesn’t sound nearly as barbaric as he’d been taught in his lessons. And he remembers the day when he was much younger and his mother had pulled both him and Azula aside when they were fighting to remind them that Everyone has feelings, and, Azula, you shouldn’t burn that doll your Uncle Iroh brought you from the Earth Kingdom; it will hurt his feelings, and, Zuko, you shouldn’t try to get your sister in trouble by tattling on her.

Funny that he didn’t always think of that principle as extending beyond the people of his family, or of the Fire Nation.

Zuko enjoys hearing Katara’s stories, and he thinks that Katara enjoys telling them, too, even if they make her sad. She gets a softer look in her eyes when she talks about home, but it’s an empty look, too. A look of longing and regret. Her voice gets more distant; sometimes it gets clipped with sadness.

But afterwards, she always seems a little happier for having spoken.

Zuko tries to make things more equal, even a little bit, by telling her stories about the Fire Nation, too—ones that won't make her hate it (or him) even more.

He tells her funny stories from when he was little—trips to Ember Island on vacation before things in his family got tense, make-believe training with Lu Ten before he died, music lessons he hated but had to attend—and tries to leave out the sad ones. He tries to forget the sad ones, himself.

Zuko can tell that Katara is becoming more comfortable with her place in their home, even if she's not happy about it. Even so, she smiles more often than she did before.

He likes the way her smile makes his insides feel warm and twisty, just the littlest bit.

But on the day when he finally musters up the courage to ask her if she'd like him to train her in waterbending, her smile disappears and her suspicion returns in its place. She looks...almost disappointed.

“Don't make fun of me,” she says quietly, stonily, glaring at him with the old storm raging in her eyes. “I know I can't bend well—believe me, I know—but you're a firebender. How could you help me? And why would you help me? Wouldn't it just get you in trouble if we got caught?”

Zuko waits a moment for his mother to step in, to reassure Katara in all the motherly ways she has, ways of tact that even years of training in royal etiquette can't seem to ingrain in him. But she doesn't speak—in fact, when he sends a panicked glance in her direction, she seems to be waiting for him to speak—and so he does.

“It is,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Dangerous, I mean. It's not illegal, technically.” He drifts off for a second, then takes a deep breath and starts again. “But it wouldn't make anybody happy. I'd be consorting with the enemy, and all that.”

Katara frowns. Zuko talks.

“But it's dangerous, too, you not knowing how to bend. Firebenders need to be trained, at least in the most basic control, as soon as they start showing signs of bending. An untrained firebender could accidentally burn a house—or an entire village—down to ashes. I'd imagine...I mean, I heard that that's why you got taken...” Katara is frowning more, but Zuko continues. “...and I'd like to help you gain control of your bending. Even just the basics. It's unsafe to be unable to control your abilities. You could, like, cause a tidal wave by accident or something.”

Katara is looking at him skeptically now, but she seems less averse to what he's saying.

“And, I mean, it's not like I know how to waterbend. But I think the basic principles are probably the same. So I could teach you at least a little bit—I'm considered to be pretty good at firebending, you know,” he says defensively, his cheeks heating as he remembers her witness of his defeat at Azula’s hand, “and I don't know...” He searches for the right words and finally ends with, “...You seem like you would like it.” Spirits, this shouldn't be such an awkward offer.

Katara is staring at him now, eyes wide. She looks unsure but not angry any longer, and after a moment she glances over at Ursa, who only smiles a small smile and nods as if to say, it's up to you.

There is a long pause while Katara is still, her slim fingers folded on the edge of the table and her teeth worrying her lower lip.

Zuko has to make himself stop thinking about her lips and start thinking about her potential answer and how to counter if she refuses.

Finally, she says, “I'd like to train with you.” After the briefest pause, she says, “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Zuko says, feeling happy and relieved, although he's not entirely sure why—and he thinks he should be more nervous, starting this new venture that could get him in trouble. But he’s not. “Okay.”

Katara smiles at him. He smiles back.

They drink their tea.

.

.

.

Katara is nervous when she enters the garden the next day. She and Ursa and Zuko had discussed the training plan at breakfast, and it will be the three of them there this afternoon—no servants, no guards. She's not sure what will happen if any of them get caught.

She still can't quite understand why Zuko and Ursa are helping her learn waterbending. The argument Zuko presented to her, the one of needing to keep her under control for her own—and others'—safety makes sense to some degree. But it's not like she's a firebender. She doesn't set things on fire; she just moves water. And there's a good deal less water around here than there is at home in the South Pole, where they even make some of their buildings with it, and she doesn't see how it's as much of a threat here.

She wonders what their ulterior motive is; she wonders if she cares. Because she does want to learn, and there's such great irony in the fact that she's learning at the hands of the young man who should be one of her chief enemies.

He's turning out to be almost a friend.

The sunlight is bright as she approaches the training grounds—it's almost always bright, in the Fire Nation.

She misses the long, dark nights of winter in the South Pole; she misses the long, bright days of summer. But even the bright days of summer are dimmer there, more slanted from the sunlight. Here, all the days are of moderate length. Here, the sun always burns brightly when it's bright.

This is the place where she and Azula had had their very first duel.

It's so much quieter, calmer and relaxed, now that Ozai and Azula aren't there.

Zuko and Ursa look up when she approaches. Zuko had been pacing nervously back and forth while Ursa talked to him, but he stops when he sees her.

Both Zuko and Ursa smile at her. Ursa's smile is warm and welcoming, like it always is. Zuko's is genuine but a little tight—he's wound up and nervous, just like Katara is.

Katara smiles back as she swallows her fear and bows in greeting when she reaches them.

“Katara, thank you for joining us here this afternoon,” Ursa says. “I'll let Zuko take over from here.” She steps back and sits under one of the trees, in the shade and sheltered from the sun.

“So, uh, yeah,” Zuko says, scratching nervously at one of his arms. “So...firebending. Bending, I mean. In general. It starts with, um...you need to feel your element, you know? You need to tap into it and sense it, know where it is before you can direct it.”

Katara nods. “I can feel it when there's water around—bigger things like ponds or the ocean. And I can feel the moon.”

Zuko's expression, which had been trained on her, turns into one of surprise. “The moon?”

“When it's out, yes,” Katara says. “Waterbending is stronger when the moon is out, just like firebending is fueled by the sun.” She pauses. “It is, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. The sun helps to fuel firebending.” Zuko looks at her curiously. “Waterbending is fueled by the moon?”

“Yes,” Katara says. “The moon controls the tides, so it’s all related. They say that the moon was the first waterbender.” She shrugs, and feels that same heavy sadness tug at her heart. “At least, that's what my grandmother always told me when I was little. My grandmother came from the Northern Water Tribe, so even though she wasn't a waterbender herself, she was able to tell me a little bit about waterbending. And I know it's true about the moon thing,” she adds, “because when I was in prison...”

Zuko's face sours when she mentions prison, and her heart warms a little bit. He doesn't want to see her imprisoned; she doesn't think he wants to see anybody imprisoned. But he's also poised to take the role of the person who is oppressing all the other nations. He's going to be Fire Lord after his father, who will probably ascend to the throne sooner rather than later.

She doesn’t think now is the time to bring up that contradiction, so she continues. “When I was in prison, I could tell when the moon was out. That's how I kept track of the days, how long I was in there. I could sense the moon, even from inside the prison cell.”

Zuko looks even more surprised. “The prison you were in was underground. You could sense the moon all the way from there?”

Katara nods again.

Ursa speaks, then, from her place under the tree. “You must have very powerful latent bending abilities, Katara, to have a natural sense that strong.”

Then Zuko looks at his mother with surprise.

“I may not be a bender, Zuko, but I've spent many years among them. I know what traits strong benders have.” She tilts her head toward Katara. “Katara is a strong bender, son...just like you are.”

Zuko flushes and Katara is struck again by the way he seems taken aback by his mother’s praise.

He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, then turns from his mother to Katara. “So, uh, let's get started.”

Zuko starts with what he calls “the basics”. It's mostly breathing, and he teaches her how to sit calmly, to turn her focus both outward and inward at the same time, to sense the water around her and her chi flowing through her.

It takes a while, and it seems like a long time of just sitting there, but gradually Katara feels her perspective shift. She can feel the water from the pond—but she felt that before they started. She can feel the water in the clouds, in the plants around them, and, by the end of their time—she can even feel the water in the air.

That's all they do that day, but it's startling to Katara, the way her perspective shifts. She feels so much more aware while she's meditating. It's empowering. She'll have to practice this on her own.

But then, she thinks that's the point.

At the end of the session, Zuko offers her his hand, and she accepts his help as she stands.

He holds her hand for just a second longer than necessary, then drops it like she’s the one who bends fire.

“So that was good,” he says. “You think?”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Tomorrow, we’ll start going through some actual movements and see how they feel for you.”

“That sounds good,” she says.

The three of them walk back to the house together, and Katara helps Ursa get ready for dinner.

She thinks it’s funny that, even though she’s here to be Ursa’s attendant, the princess doesn’t actually ask her to do very much.

Except maybe risk her life by learning how to waterbend.

So there’s that.

.

.

.

That night, Katara practices her meditation before bed. She sits on her pallet, closes her eyes, and thinks. And she feels it—she feels the water around her in addition to the moon up in the sky.

She feels invigorated and she doesn't want to sleep.

But she knows there will be training again tomorrow, and hopefully a training that is more vigorous than the day before, so she forces herself to lie down.

She traces the moon's path across the sky, even though she can’t see it from her room, until she falls asleep.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

rue :: (verb) :: bitterly regret (something one has done or allowed to happen)

.

.

.

“Okay,” Zuko says, pointing at the nearby pond, “Pull some water from there and go into the first stance.”

Katara moves her arms and pulls water to her, then centers the mass of it between her hands, holding it steady as she sets her feet and prepares to move.

“Good,” Zuko says, watching her movements. “Now go through the forms we just did, but use the water this time.”

Katara moves, repeating the stances they’ve been practicing for the past several days. The water moves near her hands, following her direction, until she gets to the last turn, when she drops it and it splatters at her feet.

She bends it up out of the ground and back into the pond, where it lands with an angry splash.

“This isn’t working,” she says, glaring at the pond.

Zuko steps into place beside her and says, “That was better than yesterday.”

“Yeah, but it still wasn’t right.”

“Well, bending is a complicated art and it takes time—” Zuko stops when Katara turns her glare from the water to him.

He sighs. Katara is an eager student, but she’s easily frustrated. He would be, too, with a generation’s weight on his shoulders and no real master to learn from.

Zuko has always had the best teachers; impediments to his learning have always been internal, not external.

He’s not like Azula, he thinks bitterly; but then, Azula wouldn’t be spending time each day teaching a waterbender her art, either.

Over the past few weeks, Katara has picked up the basics quickly—the breathing, the meditation, the physical movements of the different exercises and forms they’ve been practicing.

The problems come when they try to add their elements to the moves.

After a few more tries, Katara directs the water back to the pond again. She settles her hands on her hips and repeats, “This isn’t working. You’ve told me before, you make fire from your breath; it comes from inside you. I’m working with water on the outside. I’m sure some of the moves can be adapted, but I would need to know waterbending basics first.” She shoves a small wave in the pond petulantly.

“Wait,” Zuko says, holding out his hands. “Wait, wait, I think I have an idea. Try this.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathes, and when he moves, he doesn’t firebend; he makes the same motion he would if he were holding his swords.

Swords that he holds outside of his body.

Katara watches him closely, then pulls water from the pond and tries the move. She holds the water more steadily this time; it doesn’t drop.

When she finishes, she holds the water-globe between her hands and looks at him curiously. “What changed?”

“That wasn’t firebending,” Zuko says. “That’s a move I learned from Master Piandao.”

Katara quirks an eyebrow, and he explains. “Swords are external; fire is internal. If you can learn to control the water using the same moves I use for swords, you’ll have a basic knowledge to work from and you can adapt firebending moves from there.”

Katara nods slowly. “That’s a good idea,” she says. Then she grins. “Let’s try more.”

.

.

.

When they’d started training, Katara had not been sure it would work—to learn waterbending from a firebender. But she’s wanted to learn to bend for so long, and she’s willing to take advantage of whatever opportunity she can to learn the skill.

She’s learning that water is nearly everywhere, even if it’s in very small amounts, and she practices whenever she can. In the gardens, she practices with the water in the ponds; in her room, she practices with the water in her washstand. She practices with her tea and with her soup, and one day, she discovers that she can transform water into ice.

That begins a spate of drinking chilled tea, which scandalizes Zuko and amuses Ursa. Even after she’s tired of the novelty, Katara continues to chill her tea, swallowing her giggles each time Zuko protests.

And he protests every time.

“It’s an offense against the tradition of tea,” he grumbles. “It’s not meant to be drunk cold.”

Across the table, Ursa smiles behind her teacup.

“Why would I honor any Fire Nation tradition?” Katara asks. He looks so grumpy that she can’t help but bait him.

Zuko frowns at her. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “The tradition of tea is greater than the Fire Nation. It’s in the Earth Kingdom, too. And I’m sure…I’m sure it must be in the other nations, too.”

“In the Water Tribe, we mostly use it for medicine,” Katara says. She picks up her teacup. “It’s not nearly as tasty as this.”

“That’s cold.” Zuko stares at her evenly. “It can’t taste good.”

Katara holds out her hand and chills the tea in his teacup, then smiles, a fake spread of her lips against her teeth, and blinks at him. “Try for yourself.”

Zuko’s mouth opens and he blinks at her, aghast. “No! You’ve ruined it!”

Katara rolls her eyes. “You’re a firebender. Just heat it up again.”

“You’re turning into your Uncle Iroh, dear,” Ursa comments.

“I am not!” Zuko protests. He looks miserable.

Katara just laughs.

Zuko picks up his teacup and holds it until it’s steaming again, glaring at Katara in the meantime.

.

.

.

After Katara has lost track of the number of days she’s practiced waterbending, but has seen the seasons begin to shift. Summer gives way to autumn, but the heat relents little.

She begins to carry a full flask of water on her hip, so she’s always ready to practice her new art.

If anyone in the Fire Nation notices that she’s now armed, no one says anything; she’s become fairly skilled at hiding it in her skirts.

In practice, Zuko begins to challenge her in direct combat. She’s improving, although the first time Zuko spars with her, he wins easily—and she can tell he’s holding back.

That knowledge only makes her more determined to beat him.

.

.

.

One day, Katara trains with Zuko in the late afternoon after he has attended another war meeting—he is called to more of those lately, and he doesn’t like to talk about them, although she often asks.

It never hurts to know what the enemy is planning, even if she has little power in this moment.

She thinks that the Fire Nation is planning another campaign of some sort, but Zuko won't say what it is.

“There are problems in the Earth Kingdom,” is all he'll say as he flops down onto the ground and covers his face with his arm.

“You don't have to protect me, you know,” she says, sitting down beside him “I know firsthand what the Fire Nation wants to do—what they do. You can talk to me about things.”

He moves his arm and gives her a long, tired look. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I can.”

But he doesn't. Instead, he stands up and fights her again.

His tiredness and distraction work to her advantage, and she’s almost at the point of knocking him off of his feet in her first victory against him, but just before she drags the water underneath him to accomplish her purpose, a voice interrupts them.

“So this is where you've been disappearing to after all of our meetings, Zuzu. Playing with the little water peasant, I see.”

Azula walks up to them with a smirk. “Funny, brother. I thought you were too old for playing games.”

Zuko stands up straight, sparring forgotten, and Katara stands off to the side, her water still suspended in midair.

They’d both been hoping their training would escape Azula’s notice, but she is around far more often than Ozai is, and it was a long shot. She could make life very difficult for them now, if she chooses to.

Katara watches as Zuko shifts so that he’s facing his sister fully. He meets her gaze and says, “I’m not playing games with Katara, Azula. I'm teaching her how to waterbend so that she doesn't hurt herself or anyone else with uncontrolled bending.”

One of his hands clenches and unclenches by his side in a slow rhythm, but other than that, he remains perfectly still.

Azula scoffs. “Waterbending isn't like firebending, Zuzu. It's not like she could burn a city down.” She walks toward the two of them, her feet padding silently on the grass. She stops again, in front of them, and speaks. “I'd say she might be more dangerous once she's trained. You should have thought that through, Zuzu. She's going to take whatever you teach her here and use it against you—against all of us. And when I have to clean up your mess, whenever she tries to escape, you'll be shamed and she'll be back in prison.”

She clucks her tongue in mock sympathy. “And you wouldn't want that to happen to your little playmate, now, would you, brother?” After a pause, she adds, “Or to you? Because it seems to me like your position is tenuous enough as it is. You really don't want to make Father angry, do you?”

“Don't listen to her, Zuko,” Katara says. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

Azula shoots her a dirty look. “Of course you don't think he has, but we'll see what Father has to say about this.”

“Do you really need to tell him, Azula?” Zuko asks. “If it's only a game like you say it is, what does it matter? You and Father and I are firebenders; all of our guards are firebenders; it's not like she's anywhere near powerful enough to escape.” It's true, but the truth still stings Katara's pride. “Are you that desperate to find a way to push me out of line for power that you'd resort to using a servant against me?”

Azula frowns and narrows her eyes. Then she sighs. “I suppose you're right, brother dear,” she says. “I won't tell Father—at least not for now.” She looks Katara up and down disapprovingly. “But don't let your peasant get out of hand.”

Then she walks away, but Katara guesses that she hears Zuko’s mutter of, “She’s mother’s peasant, not mine,” because she sends a small flame up in the air along with a gesture of dismissal as she moves.

Katara walks up to Zuko. “I’m not anybody’s peasant,” she informs him quietly. She tries to keep her tone gentle as she reminds him, because she knows he’s sticking his neck out for her, but he needs to remember that she’s not a peasant, and even if she were, it wouldn’t matter.

Zuko turns his head to her and he looks confused. After a dragging pause, he says, “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Then he blinks. “We should probably head back now.”

Katara nods. They walk back to the house with little conversation. The gardens’ insects are quieter now that the weather is starting to cool, but their chirping still provides a constant background to the greenery.

“I won't let her hurt you,” Zuko says when they're about to take their leave of each other.

Katara looks up at him. He looks earnest, and she's a little surprised. She knows that he cares about her, but she'd always assumed it was as a novelty, as his mother's little pet. He cares for his mother and so, by extension, he is distantly interested in her. He is training her as a favor to his mother.

But the look he gives her now is sincere, and he's making a promise she's sure he doesn't know he can keep.

Katara gives him a sad smile back. “Thank you,” she says. On an impulse, she bows shallowly. “I appreciate all of your effort.”

Zuko shifts his weight to his back foot, away from her, and mumbles, “Yeah, of course,” and makes his own quick bow before he turns and walks away.

Katara stands in the hallway and watches him for a moment before she returns to her room and washes.

.

.

.

Both Katara and Zuko are on edge for the next few days—they expect Azula to jump out at them from any corner. Their training lacks its usual energy.

They see each other little outside of their afternoons in the garden, as Ozai has been calling his family to formal dinners, sometimes with visiting nobility and sometimes alone.

Katara observes these from the background as she walks the halls on various errands from Ursa.

Nothing seems unusual so far as she can see—the veneer is calm, with either politics or firebending or mundane topics discussed—until one night at dinner, Ozai looks at Zuko and says, “Son, your sister tells me you've been consorting with your mother's waterbender.”

Zuko pales and glances at Azula for an instant, panic in his eyes. His sister only smiles pleasantly at him. He swallows audibly, then does his best to regain his confidence.

“I have been teaching Katara the basics of waterbending,” Zuko says.

Katara is standing still in the hallway, out of sight range of the door, holding white-knuckled onto the laundry she’s returning to Ursa’s room.

“Father, you know that an untrained bender is a dangerous bender. The whole reason she was captured was because she ruptured a wall in her own home when she was frightened that her mother might be taken from her. If she's left untrained, she could explode pipes or destroy ancient tea sets by accident. I'm teaching her the basics to protect us. But I'm not going to train her to rise up against grandfather or against our family.”

That, in its most basic form, is true. Zuko has never specifically instructed her to use her waterbending against his family, for her own sake or for anyone else's. But he is doing his best to teach her as much as she can.

Katara notices that he doesn't pull his mother into the discussion. He never says, “Mother asked me to,” or lays any blame. He takes responsibility for his actions with her, and that thought makes the huge knot of anxiety in her stomach relax, just the tiniest bit.

Ozai looks at his son thoughtfully. “You make a good point, Zuko,” he says. Across the table, Azula looks disappointed. “We need to protect ourselves against any hazard to our persons or throne.” He narrows his lips in a hard press. “Just make sure to keep a rein on her,” he says.

Zuko lowers his eyes. “Yes, Father,” he says.

Ozai changes the direction of his gaze. “You, too, Ursa.”

“Of course, dear.” The words come out of Ursa’s mouth like old habit, but Katara thinks she hears a duller tone in them than the times she’s heard them directed at Zuko.

But she’s nervous, so she could be imagining things.

“And since the waterbender is becoming so comfortable in her new role as your mother's servant,” Ozai continues, speaking to Zuko again, “I think it's time that we remind her of her place. Let's host a party to show off our waterbending slave. Next week should work, shouldn't it?”

Azula is smirking again.

Zuko looks horrified.

Ursa looks disappointed but not surprised.

Katara feels anger surge through her again. What she wouldn't give to wipe that arrogant smirk off of Ozai's face. She’s suddenly very aware of the flask of water at her hip, so instead she tightens her grip on her laundry basket.

“Of course, dear.” Ursa’s words come again. “Next week would be a wonderful time for a party. I'll tell the servants to arrange everything.”

Ozai nods, and Katara, nearly blind with fright and rage, walks quickly with the laundry back to Ursa's room. She puts it away, unthinkingly, and then goes to the small corridor between Ursa's room and her small room and sits with the basket in the dark, heaving deep, unsteady breaths.

She sits like that for a long while—Ursa doesn't often need her in the evenings, although sometimes she calls on her to share tea—and jumps when she hears soft footsteps in the corridor.

If she had expected anyone, she had expected Ursa. But to her surprise, it's Zuko.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I saw you outside the room at dinnertime,” he says. He sits down beside her. “You heard, right? About next week?”

She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the wall, too tired to nod. “I heard.”

Zuko shifts marginally closer to her. He doesn't reach out to touch her, doesn't do anything to disturb the sanctity of her own person and panic, but his presence calms her just a little bit, even though she can still feel her heart racing.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Then he utters a low, frustrated sigh. “Mother hoped that bringing you here would make you invisible. Maybe not more invisible than in the prison, but you'd be more comfortable. Our family is very private here, very protected. So I think Mother thought you'd be able to live out your time here unprovoked, at least for a while.”

He makes a low huh noise in the back of his throat, and that startles Katara more than his words. She peels open her eyes to look at him.

“But we should have known it was too much to ask. Father and Azula...they don't let things like that rest.”

Katara closes her eyes again. The wall feels cool behind her after the heat of the day, but despite the warm weather, Zuko's warmth is comforting at her side.

“What's the deal with Azula?” she asks finally.

Zuko doesn’t answer for a long moment, then asks, “What do you mean?”

“I guess I wonder why she’s so much like Ozai when you’re so much more like your mother.”

When Zuko answers, his voice sounds bitter. “She's always been better at everything,” he says. “She's two years younger than me, but she bent fire first. She masters her lessons better. She learns the advanced moves before I do. And she's cruel.” His shoulders shrug up, then down, in a quick, quiet burst of hollow laughter. “She's like my father, that way. Ambitious, and keen to be mean to people...so they get along very well.”

“You're ambitious, too,” Katara says. “And you're a very good firebender. But you're not cruel, like them.”

Zuko stares at his hands where he holds them extended in front of him, resting on his knees, and scrapes the pad of one thumb along the other. “I'm not sure that that's a good thing,” he says finally. “I'd be able to handle my family and my country a lot better if I were.”

Katara opens her eyes again, and the look on Zuko's face is distant and hurt. “That's not true,” Katara says. She forces a small laugh. “I never thought I'd say this, but the Fire Nation is lucky to have someone like you in line for the throne. You care about people, Zuko. And after a century of war, I think that's what the Fire Nation needs.”

Zuko turns to look at her incredulously, but she continues, “When you become Fire Lord, are you going to end the war?”

“That might be a long time from now,” Zuko says slowly. “My father isn't that old; he could live for a long time, yet.” He is silent, himself, for a long time, and Katara thinks that might be all he has to say on the subject, but then he starts speaking again. “When I was little,” he says carefully, “Azula and I had private tutors who came and taught us lessons—in everything, it seemed. It was never how I wanted to spend my days. We learned calligraphy, music, languages, reading, arithmetic, firebending, history...all those sorts of things. And they taught us that the other people groups in the world were evil. That they did horrible, horrible things and were backwards and barbaric. I've never seen any of the other nations for myself,” Zuko adds, “but the more I hear in war meetings and the more I see how my father and grandfather think and act...I'm not so sure we were taught the truth. I mean, look at you—you're nice!”

Zuko sighs and rests his forehead on one hand. “I just don't think—I don't think everything is true. That we were taught. And I'm not always sure that the war is right, all the time. I mean, if the people we're supposed to be saving don't need saving...then what's the point?”

“There isn’t one,” Katara says. She threads her fingers together and presses her hands against her thighs. “Each nation has good and bad people—even yours.” She licks her lips. “I hate the Fire Nation and everything it stands for,” she says quietly, “but in my time here, I’ve learned that not everything I knew about the Fire Nation is true, either. Your politics are terrible and your regime is oppressive, but some of the people aren’t so bad.”

The smile she offers him is small but genuine.

He picks his head up and smiles back, but then his smile disappears and he sighs. “So what do I do?”

“Well,” Katara says, “for now, you keep training me, if you can.” She flicks his knee gently. “I like training with you, and I do know that you've risked a lot to teach me how to waterbend. Thank you.”

He smiles back at her, weakly. She continues, “And you just keep going down the path you're on. I hope you'll make the right decision, in the end. Whatever that ends up being.”

Zuko still looks hesitant about all of it. He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, when he finally speaks. “Yeah, I guess that's what I'll do.”

They sit for a while longer in silence. Then Zuko clears his throat and says, “What I really came back here to say, before…that…was that you're going to have lessons, starting tomorrow, to prepare you for the party. Etiquette lessons, from Azula's mentors.”

Katara turns to him, wide-eyed. “Azula has mentors besides your father?”

“Their names are Li and Lo.” Zuko shudders. “They're twins, and they're ancient.” He frowns. “I'm sorry,” he says, “they're not going to go easy on you.”

She smiles wanly. “No one in the Fire Nation ever has. Why didn't your mother tell me this herself?”

Zuko shrugs. “I don't know. She seemed tired tonight. But she sent me.” He clears his throat again. “Anyway, uh, I guess that's it for tonight. Good night, Katara,” he says. “I don't think we'll get to train tomorrow—you'll be with Li and Lo all day.” He frowns. “Again, I'm really, really sorry.”

He stands, and Katara stands with him.

“Are they really that bad?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “They are.”

.

.

.

The next morning, Katara appreciates Zuko’s warning; Li and Lo are that bad.

The sisters are ancient, and they mirror each other's movements and finish each other's sentences with a precision that Katara finds eerie.

They spend the morning in a far room of the house, lecturing her about the levels of Fire Nation nobility, and who is accorded different styles of respect—and bows—as a part of it. The summary, which Katara thinks they could have presented to save time, is that Katara needs to bow to everyone. Deeply. And be respectful to everybody. And mostly be seen and not heard.

The room has a view of the gardens—most of the rooms do, with a central courtyard in the middle of the compound and walled gardens surrounding it—and Katara looks outside whenever her instructors take a breath, hoping for a glance of something to distract her from her studies. She sees a gardener prune some bushes, but she doesn’t see anyone familiar.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, listens to Li and Lo drone on, and dreads the prospect that she'll have to endure her mockery in silence.

The morning seems to last for a very long time, and when she's finally allowed a brief respite for some food, that time, too, becomes a lesson. She learns about Fire Nation table etiquette, and she’s pleased to find that this comes more easily than the nobles’ rankings. She has been watching Ursa and Zuko when they eat together, and she's picked up some of the rules.

The 'party' isn't going to be a formal dinner, thankfully, but there will be food there. She’s not sure how much of it she’ll get to eat or if she’ll merely be paraded around the room all night.

She grits her teeth. She's a trophy here, an object, and she hates it.

These preparations only strengthen her resolve to leave the Fire Nation as soon as possible.

The day stretches on, and she's finally returned to Ursa's care, back in the more familiar part of the house.

When she walks into the room, she sees that Zuko is there, too, sitting across from Ursa at the low tea table.

These meetings have become habit, and she feels almost comfortable in this familiarity.

“Hey. How’d it go today?” Zuko holds up a cup of tea for her to take.

Katara sits down and takes the tea gratefully. She tamps down the comfort she feels here; it’s not home and she’s planning to leave soon. She can’t get too attached.

She takes a sip of tea, then says, “About like you said it would—horribly. Li and Lo are so strict! And they care about things that can't possibly matter—like the tilt of your chopsticks and how you hold your head during a bow!”

Zuko sighs. “They do matter, unfortunately,” he says. “But it's dumb and tedious to learn.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

.

.

.

The days leading up to the party continue in much the same way—Katara suffers through lessons and reviews with Li and Lo, has tea with Ursa in the evenings, and sees much less of Zuko than she normally does.

She misses her time with him, but she tells herself it's because she misses her time bending. She's getting much better at it.

Before too long, she thinks she'll be good enough to have a fighting chance at escape.

For now, she’ll use her time here in the Fire Nation to her advantage—seeing their nation from the inside, she can think of ways to change it in the days she dreams of, when the war is over and she can work with her father and the other nations’ leaders to make things right again.

Katara has several different plans for what might happen after the war ends. She doesn't know how many are realistic; she doubts any of them are.

She can’t even promise herself that the war will end in her lifetime.

The Fire Nation’s power isn’t just a façade. And their political machinery is very good at convincing people of their viewpoints. And most officials aren’t at all ready to change.

She thinks of Zuko and wonders if he’ll make as good of a leader as he seems he might, or if the sway of warmongering nobility will wear him down, in the end.

She wonders if he’ll live long enough to be Fire Lord or if he’ll die on the battlefield like his cousin, Lu Ten.

She tells herself it’s not her place to wonder.

The other nations are fighting hard, but they've been fighting for years, and, in places like the Southern Water Tribe, there aren't a lot of fighting men left.

Some people still hold out hope that they'll find the Avatar's next reincarnation and that that will be the crucial step for attaining peace. Katara hopes for this, too. But most of these people suspect that this is a fool’s hope.

Katara sometimes suspects this, too.

Still, she thinks it would be nice to have some powerful help in their fight.

.

.

.

The day of the party comes far too quickly, and Katara spends the morning being dressed in clothes that are very fancy and very difficult to walk in—the many layers of her red-and-gold dress make it heavy, and her first steps in it are tentative.

The hairdresser who has come to do her hair after doing Ursa’s and Azula’s makes delighted comments about how well Katara’s hair holds the style, but when Katara sees herself in the mirror afterward, what she notices is that her hair loops are gone. She’s kept those as a symbol of her heritage, another small reminder of who she is.

She’ll put them back in as soon as this ordeal is over and she can do her own hair again.

The party begins in the afternoon, and the room is gorgeous—well-decorated and opulent with statues, wall hangings, and large decorative vases.

Katara is escorted to the party by Li and Lo, who are also dressed elaborately. She’s relieved when they leave her with Ursa, but by about five minutes into the party, Katara is ready to completely revise her opinion of the Fire Nation.

They are terrible here. Absolutely everyone is terrible here.

After they placed her near Ursa, Li and Lo went to the front of the large room and announced her presence, their tinny voices crying out her name, along with her status of prisoner of war, of slave, to the crowds.

And the crowd cheered with loud voices, celebrating her capture.

She hates it here. She hates every last one of them.

She is surrounded by the royal family—she is their captive, their slave—and Azula and Ozai look very pleased, but Ursa and Zuko have pasted solemn blankness on their faces.

She stares out at the crowd as she is announced: she will meet them bravely. But in the midst of the cheers, when she glances over at Zuko, she sees that he is looking at her. His face is a mask, but his eyes seem sad.

This is your fault, Zuko, her mind crows. Don't try to be kind to me. This is all your family's fault.

Still, when he plasters himself by her side as the party continues, she allows herself to feel gratitude for it. He's a familiar presence, and a balm to the nasty stares and comments she receives throughout the ordeal.

The party passes excruciatingly slowly, and Katara just wants it to be over. She tries her best to stay on the outskirts, on the edges, but since she's the center of attention, the bragging point of the evening, there is curiosity about her. She's a foreigner.

People are here to gawk, and so they do. She does her best to hold their gazes steadily, to show them her defiance.

She realizes, too, that many people are here just to impress Ozai. They care about the war in the distant way that people do when they’ve lived something all their lives; they assume it’s a matter of destiny, and they support their nation in its cause. Some, though, like the generals, look at her like she’s the scum on their shoe.

They care about the war.

Azulon is not here—he's been ill, according to rumors she's overheard in the servants' quarters—and Ozai is powerful, and next in line for the throne, so she sees him throughout the evening, constantly surrounded by people.

While Ozai is occupied with politics, he sends Azula to do his dirty work for him. Whenever there's too much of a lull and Katara feels like she might be starting to become invisible in the light of too much drink or too much food or too much political maneuvering, Azula calls attention to her again—brings over an 'illustrious nobleman' to stare at her, or simply comes over herself and makes barbs.

For the first part of the evening, Ursa is there with them, and even though she spends most of her time by Ozai's side, she comes over from time to time to speak to Katara and Zuko.

Zuko, for his part, seems to be trying to hide just as much as Katara is. He grimaces slightly—just a small swallow and downward tilt of his lips—when anyone except Ursa comes to talk to them.

A few other young noblemen who seem to be around Zuko’s age are in attendance, and they come to greet him throughout the evening. He is third in line for the throne and that befits their attention, but Katara notices that all of their greetings are impersonal, if polite.

She wonders why Zuko doesn’t seem to have any friends, and it makes her sad—despite the fact that he’s Fire Nation and she hates the Fire Nation without exception right now—because he’s been a good friend to her in her captivity.

She’s pondering this when another young nobleman approaches.

He bows to Zuko. “Fire Prince Zuko,” he says, speaking toward his posed fists, before he raises his posture again.

Zuko nods in acknowledgement. “Chan,” he says.

“You’re looking healthy,” Chan says companionably.

“So are you,” Zuko says. His gaze is nervous, flicking from Chan to his glass of wine to other partygoers.

“Do you still visit Ember Island often?”

“My family hasn’t been there in years.” Zuko’s voice is strained. “That summer was the last time we were there.”

“Pity.” Chan shrugs. “Great beaches, you know? Plenty of people’s houses to destroy, that sort of thing.”

Zuko looks pained, but then Chan winks and says, “It was an honor to have our house trashed by you and your sister. Got my dad some bargaining points in assignments for a while.”

Then he glances at Katara. “Nice choice,” he says to Zuko. Then he’s gone.

The awkward pause lies heavy between Zuko and Katara, but finally Katara asks, “What was Chan talking about?”

Zuko grimaces. “Azula and I… Well… We sort of trashed his family’s house at a party a few years ago.”

“I gathered that much.” Katara smiles and sips her wine. “What happened?”

“Chan was hitting on Azula and she decided she didn’t like it. So we left. Loudly.” Zuko rubs the back of his neck and looks out over the room. “It was pretty immature,” he mutters.

“Sounds like,” Katara says, glancing over at where Chan is involved in conversation with several girls who all seem enamored with him. “So I take it Azula didn’t react like they are?”

Zuko looks to see what she sees, then shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “Not at all.”

“She doesn’t really seem like the romantic type.”

Zuko shakes his head more vehemently. “Nope,” he repeats. “Not at all.”

“Hey, Zuko.”

“Yeah?”

The party is loud and Katara wants to go back to the house and sleep. The shadows are starting to stretch as the sun sets, coating the gold and red around them in darker gleams.

“What did Chan mean by ‘good choice’?”

“Oh.”

The way Zuko says the word makes Katara’s heart plummet into her stomach.

“He shouldn’t have said that.”

“And…?” Katara twitches her fingers and makes the liquid in her glass swirl in a small whirlpool. She’s been practicing in teacups, but her wine glass works just as well.

She quirks an eyebrow and stares at Zuko over the rim until he breaks eye contact.

“He meant, uh, he meant he thinks we’re together,” he mumbles. “In a sort of…um… He was implying that you’re my concubine.”

The last word is barely whispered. Zuko is staring with intense concentration at the ground.

At first, Katara hears the shattering glass distantly, as though it’s on the far side of the room, but when one of the servants comes over and ushers her out of the way, she realizes that she’s the one who dropped her glass.

In the noise of the party, not many people notice.

Instead, Katara notices the thudding of her own blood in her ears, the heat of the angry flush on her face, and the shaking in her voice when she speaks to Zuko, who lingers hesitantly near her.

“You want to show me where his house is? I’ll help you trash it again. How does he think he has the right to make assumptions like that? I’m not— You’re not— We’re not— That’s ridiculous!”

She didn’t think it was possible, but she notices through her anger that Zuko looks even more miserable than before.

“Right.” He swallows. “It’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s not that bad of a position, politically speaking—you’d have some measure of rank and your children would, too. But I don’t think… I don’t think you’d really be satisfied unless you had the full political power of a wife, huh?”

Katara only blinks at him, her mouth trying to form words of rage but unsure of a response to this new revelation of the Fire Nation elite.

“I should go,” he says quickly. “I’m not doing you any favors by staying here. People will talk; I should have thought of that.”

As he walks away, she finds her voice and calls, “Where’s your mother? I haven’t seen her recently.”

Zuko scans the crowd quickly, then shrugs. “I don’t know. She usually stays pretty close to Father at events like these, but they’re tiring for her.” He frowns. “She’s been more tired than usual lately. Maybe she’s not feeling well and went to rest. You’ll see her in the morning for tea, I’m sure.”

He walks off, and Katara stands alone along the edges of the room until Azula comes by again. Katara ignores her. She’s numb to the insults by now, her mind still stewing over Chan.

Eventually, after what seems like an eternity to Katara, the party ends. She has been shadowed the entire evening by her guards, and they now appear again to walk her from the party grounds back to the royal compound. When she steps out of the bright firelight with her guards around her, she feels a sense of relief.

The party was far too long and far too exhausting.

As Katara returns to her room, she sees a dim light shining under Ursa's doorway as she passes.

She assumes that Zuko was right, and that Ursa retired early for the evening. Katara, personally, would have loved to get out of that 'party' early, too, far from stupid boys who make stupid comments about things they know nothing about.

In her room, Katara climbs out of her party dress and into her nightclothes quickly, curling up on her pallet as the weight of the day’s events and anger wash over her.

When she falls asleep, she sleeps restlessly, and once, when she wakes up in the middle of the night, she sits up and undoes her Fire Nation hairstyle as best she can in the dark. Her fingers work clumsily, feeling for pins in her tiredness, but she’s happy that it’s gone.

She has the power to push the Fire Nation that much farther away from her.

.

.

.

The next thing she knows, Katara awakens to a rapping sound on her door.

Even though her room doesn’t have any windows in it, she can tell that it feels early. Her mind half-registers that she can still sense the moon, so the sun can't be up yet—at least not completely.

“Who is it?” she mumbles, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“It's Zuko.” Coming from behind the door, his voice sounds strange. He sounds...upset? “Can I talk to you?”

Her mind flies to their conversation the night before, and she doesn’t want to talk to him about anything. “What do you want?” she demands sharply.

“Please,” he says. “Could I just talk to you?”

Warily, and with her entire being protesting her getting up and doing anything at this hour, Katara gets out of bed, pulls a robe over her nightshift, and cracks the door open.

Her scowl drops, though, when she sees Zuko. He looks worse than she’s ever seen him. His hair is a mess and his skin is paler than usual.

Anger momentarily forgotten, she pulls the door open just a fraction wider and asks, “Are you okay?”

Zuko looks at her, and she sees now that his eyes are swollen and reddened from tears. “Mom's gone,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

Chapter Text

.

.

.

rue :: (verb) :: bitterly regret (something one has done or allowed to happen)

.

.

.

The words spill out of Zuko’s mouth, but even as he speaks, he sounds distant and detached, like he can’t really believe what he’s saying.

Maybe he can’t, because Katara’s not sure she can. The anger and exhaustion from the night before bleeds away, replaced by a heavy knot of anxiety that settles in her stomach.

“Come sit down,” she says, trying to stay calm. She reaches out and takes his arm, but Zuko hardly seems aware of the contact as he leads him the few paces over to her sleeping pallet. She pulls the rumpled blanket back up and she and Zuko sit down on it.

Zuko sits next to her, silent again, staring off into the space in front of her where his hands are twisted together.

Katara takes a deep breath and chooses her words delicately when she speaks.

“Your mother? She’s gone to be with the spirits?” Katara’’s words trail off as Zuko shakes his head no.

“She's not dead,” he says, his voice ragged. “At least, I don't think so. She's just gone. She disappeared. I came to her room for tea this morning. You know we usually eat breakfast together in the mornings.” He looks up at Katara then, searching her face as if desperate for confirmation of what he’s saying. He speaks slowly, like he’s trying to untangle the words as he speaks.

Katara nods and Zuko continues, “And she wasn't there. I asked her servants and no one knew where she was. They said she came to bed last night, got ready to sleep as usual, and then she wasn't there in the morning. No one saw her leave.”

He's staring out into the dimness, and his fingers clasp, unclasp, clasp again—he’s jittery, nervous and unsure. The skin over his knuckles is stretched and white. “I talked to Dad,” Zuko says, frowning. “He wouldn’t tell me anything.” Zuko's breath comes out in a shaky shudder, “But he has to know. Someone has to know where she is, right?”

His voice cracks, and he falls silent.

Katara’s thoughts race as she tries to work out what could have happened. For all that Ursa had been kind to her, she doesn’t know the woman very well. She didn’t open all her life’s secrets to a servant—and apparently, she kept some of her secrets from her children, as well.

“I'm sorry, Zuko.” Katara tries to find the right words to say. “I don't know where your mother's gone. I can't think of anything I heard or saw that sounds suspicious.” He turns to look at her again, and she sees the disappointment in his face. “I think you're probably right about your father. You know him much better than I do, but he seems...” She frowns. “He seems like the sort of person who wouldn’t feel bad about keeping the truth from you, if it helped him.”

Zuko nods and nods and nods until he buries his face in his knees and punches the floor, hard.

Katara gasps when she sees fire spark from his fist, a big blast that hits the far wall of her room before it fizzles. She’s thankful the wall is stone.

Zuko curses under his breath but doesn't move.

For a moment, they forget Ursa’s departure in favor of dealing with the immediate.

Katara shifts herself off of the pallet and over to Zuko's other side.

“Let me see your hand, Zuko,” she says quietly.

He looks up at her, and she can see the pain—now physical layered on top of emotional—in his eyes and in the stiff press of the line of his lips.

Katara knows the basics of healing from life in the South Pole. They had their share of injuries there, especially during hunting and fishing seasons.

She has also, through several cases of Sokka being on the wrong end of a fish-hook or a sword or, only once, a sewing needle, learned that it's unwise to question a man as to the nature of his injury when it's obviously his own stupid fault, so she keeps her opinions on his angry firebending to herself and draws some water from her washbasin. “Let me get some water on that burn, Zuko. It will help it feel better until we can get something to treat it.”

Zuko steels his expression and she wraps the water around his hand, which has a series of burns around the palm and knuckles.

Katara moves the water slowly, trying not to hurt him while she cools the wound. The water responds to her direction now, so much more easily than she ever thought it would, weeks ago.

Zuko and Katara both shout in surprise when the water starts to glow.

“What's that?” Zuko asks. But he doesn't move his hand, only stares at it, mouth agape.

“I've only ever heard about this.” Katara stares at the water, too, wide-eyed. She had almost dropped it when it first started glowing, but she keeps the glove wrapped around Zuko’s hand, and she mentally congratulates herself on her growing control. “Waterbending can be used to heal,” she says, looking up at Zuko. “In the Northern Water Tribe, the female waterbenders are only allowed to learn healing, while the males are taughter combative watrebending.”

She laughs half-heartedly, keening her eyes back to the water as she tries to feel its movement. “So you've been teaching me backwards.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Zuko answers distractedly. His eyes have been trained on his hand since the water started glowing.

Katara concentrates and manipulates the water around Zuko's hand, and she can feel it doing its work. She observes in awe that she can see his skin mending under the water's glowing, healing touch.

When the last of his skin stitches together, fresh and unblemished, Katara draws the water away and moves it back to her washbasin. She'll change it out for clean water later, but now she reaches out to touch Zuko’s hand, his skin stretching with only calluses and old, small scars remaining.

She glides her fingers over the back of his hand and asks, “Does that hurt?”

“No.” Zuko shakes his head. He pulls his hand back and holds up the palm for her to inspect. In the space of the next instant, his focus is no longer on his healed hand, but on her. “Thank you, Katara.”

The moment lingers, and Katara remembers the words from last night and forces herself to break it. “You’re welcome,” she says, and moves back to his other side, leaving more distance between them than before.

Zuko leans his head down to his forearm for a moment, then lifts it again almost immediately. “I'm sorry, Katara,” he says suddenly, stumbling over his words and moving stiffly to stand. “I shouldn't have come here. If there's any trouble of any sort, I shouldn't have compromised you. But I didn't know where else to go. And I guess I thought of you.”

Katara stands, too. She appreciates his concern. “I'm really sorry about your mother,” she says, and she means it. “I don’t know if I have a place here any longer, but if I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

Katara nods, then remembers one family member Zuko hasn’t mentioned in this conversation and asks, “Have you talked to Iroh?”

Zuko shakes his head and sighs dejectedly. “He's away. Business in Omashu,” he says. “He's supposed to be back next week.”

“From what I’ve heard, he's wise and has a lot of connections,” she offers. “I’m sure he'll be able to help you.”

Zuko nods slowly. “I hope so,” he says. “I sure hope so.”

Silence falls between them, and Katara is torn between offering for him temporary sanctuary and gently shooing him out, but before she can voice either prospect, a new knock sounds at her door.

This knocker doesn't wait for her to bid entrance like Zuko had; she simply opens the door and walks in.

“Fancy finding you here,” Azula says to Zuko without preamble. She doesn’t sound at all surprised. “Since when has a prince of the Fire Nation taken to hanging around the servants' quarters in the small hours of the morning?”

.

.

.

Katara and Zuko both take an unconscious step back from each other as Azula walks in. A sinking feeling accompanies her arrival, as though they've done something wrong, although they haven't.

Ever since Zuko was little, Azula has almost always meant accusation, or defeat, or bad news.

Azula isn’t at all what he’d ever want in a sister, if he had to choose. He wonders sometimes if all sisters are like this—he doesn't know very many people, not personally, and the only other sibling sets that come to mind are his father and Iroh, and Li and Lo. He wouldn’t hold up either set as paragons of sibling camaraderie.

It has occurred to him, in observing Katara and Azula together occasionally over the past weeks, that Katara is a sister, too, although he's never met her brother. She seems like she would be a very nice sister to have.

He’s glad, though, that she’s not his sister. She’s his friend, and he thinks that’s better.

Neither Zuko nor Katara has answered Azula, but it only takes a few seconds before she rolls her eyes and sighs. “You really need to make better choices, dum-dum,” she says, and Zuko can feel his face heat with embarrassment and a little annoyance. “But for now, come with me. Father wants to speak with you.”

She looks over at Katara. “And he wants to talk to you, too, although I can't fathom why. Get dressed and come with us. We'll wait outside your door.”

Zuko looks at Katara, too, and sees a nervous flicker in her eyes before she steels her expression and nods.

He walks with Azula outside of the door, which he pulls shut with a click. His sister is ominously silent and he has nothing to say to her, so he waits anxiously until Katara opens the door and walks out. She’s dressed in one of the Fire Nation dresses his mother gave her, but she’s braided her hair in the Water Tribe style again after the Fire Nation updo she wore the night before.

“Come on, you two,” Azula says, snapping her fingers impatiently and starting to walk down the hallway.

Zuko and Katara exchange an apprehensive glance behind Azula's back, then walk side by side as they go to face his father.

Zuko wants to promise Katara that she’ll be all right—that they all will—but he doesn’t know if he can keep any promises he might make. His own mother's disappeared, and that thought wells panic in his heart again.

He feels powerless and confused, and it's terrifying.

.

.

.

They follow Azula and Zuko feels like his feet are moving on their own. His mind feels heavy and his heart feels too fast. He's overwhelmed by the events of the day, and it's still early morning. His mother is gone, Katara is a healer, and their future seems more uncertain than ever.

Ozai meets them in his formal meeting room—not one of the informal ones, like Zuko expected. His father has only ever called him to this room when there is bad news.

Zuko's heart drops out of his chest when he sees that his father is wearing white, the color of mourning. His throat is too thick to say anything and suddenly his eyes are blurry with tears.

Ozai had been standing at the edge of the room, looking out a wide, open window into the garden. The sun shines brightly and Zuko distantly hears birds chirping and insects humming. It's a normal morning, except it's not. Not at all.

The world is going on, and he feels like his has stopped.

When he hears the trio enter, Ozai turns to face them. His face is solemn, but Zuko thinks he doesn't look nearly heartbroken enough for a man whose wife has died.

“Azula, Zuko,” he nods at his children, who bow in respect. He doesn't address Katara. To Zuko, he says, “I'm glad to see you've calmed down since earlier this morning. Such behavior isn't fitting for the man who's next in line to be Fire Lord.”

Zuko’s brow furrows and he frowns at his father, confused. Ozai is second in line, not him. And his father would certainly never abdicate like Iroh has. But then Ozai is addressing him and Azula together.

“I called you here to inform you, children,” Ozai says, “that your grandfather, Fire Lord Azulon, went to join the great spirits last night. I am now Fire Lord, and we will be moving to the royal palace. The funeral will be held in three days, and so will my coronation. I expect you both to be there for both events.”

“Yes, Father,” Zuko and Azula answer together.

Zuko's heart is strangely lighter now. He was never close to his grandfather—the man was as mean as Ozai himself can be sometimes—and he knows now that the white his father wears is for his own father. Still, he can’t help but be suspicious.

“Father, I apologize for the way I acted this morning,” Zuko says, stepping forward with another bow. “I lost control of my temper in a way that is unbefitting of a loyal son.”

Ozai tilts his head silently, accepting Zuko's apology and appraising him.

Zuko breathes in and out for courage, then continues, “But I must ask again, Father, if you wear white for only one family member. Grandfather has passed on to the Spirit World, but where is Mother?”

Ozai tenses his hands ever so slightly—Zuko can see that, with his gaze still downcast in respect—before he answers. “I told you earlier, Zuko, that your mother is gone. You don’t need to know anything else.”

Zuko's heart plummets again, and it's hard to find his voice. “Yes, Father,” he says.

“Zuko, look at me,” Ozai says, and as Zuko looks up, he suddenly feels like he's six again, about to be scolded for a mishandled basic firebending form. Ozai is frowning. “It is unbecoming for a Fire Lord to be so sentimental, son. Politics are more important than people. Remember that.”

Zuko's throat is tight and his eyes burn. He bows again. “Yes, Father.” He steps back in line with his sister.

“I do have a gift for you, though, Zuko,” Ozai says, and Zuko doesn't really care, because right now he doesn't want anything to do with his father. “You show promise. You could stand to learn a great deal from your sister, but occasionally you do show promise.” Zuko can’t tell if that’s meant to praise or upbraid him. “And since you are now crown prince, it is only fitting that you receive a gift to mark the occasion.” Ozai's face is solemn, but his eyes hold a smirk that Zuko doesn't notice until it's too late. “The good news of my ascension has me feeling generous today,” he says, “and so, instead of sending your mother's pet back to prison, I'm giving her to you. Prince Zuko, you may have the Water Tribe girl as your companion. She will have quarters adjoining yours when we move into the royal palace.”

For a moment, Zuko thinks he might throw up. He doesn’t dare look in Katara’s direction. She’s going to kill him. Or his father. Or both of them.

Such ‘gifts’ aren’t unheard of among the upper classes, but Zuko knows his father is doing this to humiliate him. The roiling in his stomach and the cold sweat on his forehead tells him it’s working.

Zuko is fairly sure his father doesn’t know exactly how much time he’s been spending with Katara, or that most of that time has been spent teaching her how to waterbend, but his father does know that Zuko hasn’t exactly brought many girls home to meet the family.

This move takes care of embarrassing both Zuko and Katara in one smooth manipulation, and Ozai will probably laugh about it later.

And if Zuko wants to save face at all, he can’t refuse. His delay in response looks too much like ungratefulness already.

It occurs to him, seconds later, that if Katara avoids prison and is nearby, he can still try to protect her, even if she’ll be in the dragon’s lair. He can watch out for her, even if she hates him.

The room is silent, roped with tension. Ozai waits for his response.

Zuko manages to choke out the words. “Thank you, Father. You are very generous.”

Ozai smiles. For once, his son has pleased him. In other circumstances, Zuko might be proud of this, but for now, he's just hurt. Hurt by his mother's disappearance, worried over the ramifications of his grandfather's death, and a little bit afraid that Katara will take advantage of their soon-to-be proximity to murder him in his sleep.

Then Ozai turns to Azula and presents her with her own gift—an ancient firebending scroll. She, too, bows in gratitude. “Thank you, Father.”

“You're dismissed,” Ozai says, and the three teenagers turn to go.

They walk together back to the living wing of the house, and Zuko is vaguely aware as they walk that this won't be his home any longer. He feels a numb, distant sense of loss—so much is changing, and so quickly.

He's also aware that, by his side but keeping her distance much more noticeably than before, Katara is very, very angry.

When they get closer to their rooms, Azula stops, stretches, and fakes a yawn. “Well, I'm going to go practice firebending,” she says amicably. Her grin is overbright. “Toodles.” She waves and walks briskly away.

The pause that lies heavy between Zuko and Katara carries countless layers of pain and embarrassment.

Finally, Katara breaks the silence. She turns to face him, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. “Did you know about this?” Her words come quietly, but the anger and hurt that lie under them can’t be mistaken.

Zuko does look up at her then. He had anticipated her anger, but he hadn’t anticipated her lack of trust. “What do you mean? No, of course I didn’t!”

“Last night,” Katara says steadily, pointing at him, “last night after Chan said what he did, you said it wouldn’t be so bad to be a concubine. That it came with some political position and protection. Did you know your father was going to do this?”

“No! I had no idea.” Zuko takes a step back from her and holds his hands out, feeling his voice starting to rise in anger that tumbles up to match hers. Out of all the things they talked about last night, she remembers that? “I wouldn’t—I don’t approve—I’d never ask something like that of you. But I couldn’t turn down my father’s gift. He disapproves of me enough as it is! I couldn’t appear to be ungrateful.”

“You couldn’t appear to be ungrateful? While I’m supposed to just—just—sit back and accept the fact that I’m being given away like property for your use?” She spits her words at him and he can see the revulsion in her expression.

“No!” Zuko flings his arms out in exasperation. “But do you really want to go back to prison? That’s where you’ll go, if you don’t come to the palace.”

“I don’t want to go back to prison; I want to go home!” Katara shouts.

“You can’t!”

“Why not?”

“They’d catch you, and they’d hurt you.”

In the pause that follows, both of them take a step backward and eye each other warily. The hallway is quiet, blessedly, and its isolation from the outside means that they don’t even have the background of insects and breeze to cushion the achy rhythm of their angry breathing as it billows between them.

Zuko's throat feels thick with hurt and embarrassment and worry, but he tries to sound placating when he speaks. “You can’t go home yet. You’re a lot better at bending than you used to be, but you’d still lose a fight with any of the palace guards. If you stay at the palace, you’d be more comfortable than in prison, and you could keep training with me, if you wanted.” He remembers why they’re fighting in the first place and adds hurriedly, “Or you could stay far away from me. You never have to see me if you don’t want to. But I promise—”

Katara looks up at him, appraising him with a scowl, and Zuko swallows hard before he continues.

“—I promise I’d never touch you.”

Katara’s scowl only lessens slightly, and she takes a few steps backward until she slumps against the wall. She sinks down and sits with her face in her hands. When she speaks, her voice is blurred. “I don’t know. I just…can you give me a little while to think about it?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, eyeing her seated form nervously. She’s miserable, and he understands why. “You can take as much time as you need, up until we move to the palace. You’ll need to decide before then whether you’re coming with us—” with me “—or going back to prison.” He kicks the wall near her gently. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I’m sorry, Katara.”

He’s miserable, too, and he wants to make her feel better. Maybe helping her would help him feel better, too.

“I’m sorry, too,” she says through her hands. “Everything this morning, with your mom and then this—this has to be hard for you. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me.”

Zuko frowns at the top of her head. He does worry about her; frequently. And even though she’s being used as a weapon against him and he’s the target of Ozai’s latest action, she’s in his father’s eye, and he wants to get her out of there, back into the background, where she’s safer.

His mother is the one who was closest to his father, and now she’s gone.

Anger and hurt that embarrassment had temporarily repressed well up in him again. He feels lost and more alone than ever.

“Look, I’m going to go out to the garden and train for a while,” he says finally. Anything to get his mind off of this morning. “You can come if you want.”

Katara doesn’t look up. “Thanks,” she says, “but I think I’m going to go back to my room for a while. Maybe I’ll come find you later.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Okay.”

.

.

.

Zuko walks Katara back to her room, and he’s angry that things have changed so much—since the party last night, and since he came to her this morning.

His mother is gone, and his father has driven a wedge between him and his only friend, and it’s not fair.

Zuko could hate his father for many things, and sometimes he does, but still, he tries to win his father’s respect. He wants to please his father because that is what good sons do, and he is—and always has been—a good Fire Nation son.

He’ll do the politically appropriate thing and accept Katara as a concubine, if she doesn’t run away or get herself sent back to prison first. As Zuko walks away from Katara’s door, back down the dark hallway and toward the sunshine, he thinks that there are worse fates than being sentenced to live next to him in an opulent palace.

He hopes she trusts him and believes that he’ll keep his word, at least to the extent that she doesn’t risk her life trying to avoid that fate.

If she comes to the palace, he’ll do his best to make sure she’s comfortable and protected—and able to protect herself—and sheltered from as much gossip as he can help her avoid.

And he’ll avoid her, too, if that’s what she wants.

It makes his heart ache more than it already does to think of that.

He may have lost his mother and Katara all in one day.

He’s lost his grandfather, too, he supposes, although that loss seems more distant than the other two.

Zuko walks past his room and grabs his swords, walking past the training grounds to the area of the garden that he’s claimed as his own.

The sun beats down now, cresting its way toward noon, and the area isn’t highly shaded, but he doesn’t care. He spends enough time in the sun that it doesn’t bother him.

And, really, there’s very little that could bother him today except the turmoil that’s unfolding around him.

Zuko works through form after form with his swords, and the repetitive motions give him too much time to think, because he finds that he’s fighting back tears—his mother always encouraged him in this, saw the good in his skills and praised him for it, and now she’s gone.

He moves until he’s spent and feels like he can’t lift his arms another time.

So he doesn’t. He cleans his swords mechanically, then sheathes them. They are a dead weight on his back as he walks, almost unthinkingly, to his mother’s favorite turtleduck pond.

And finds that Katara got there first.

He stiffens when he sees her, and is torn between asking her to leave and leaving himself.

He’s leaning toward the latter, because he thinks he wants solitude right now.

Then she hears his footsteps and looks up at him, and she looks so lost and human that he considers changing his mind.

“Hey,” she says, standing up and brushing off her dress.

“Hey,” he says dully.

“Good training?” she asks tentatively. She looks at him, her wide blue eyes full of concern as well as simmering anger, and he feels his defenses melt a little.

“Exhausting,” he replies. “What I needed.”

“I was just looking for some time alone,” Katara says, motioning toward the pond, “and I was going to come find you in a little bit.” She looks him over critically. “But if you’d like to be alone, I can go and let you have the pond here.”

“It was my mother’s favorite pond,” Zuko says, as if that explains everything. It doesn’t, and Katara takes the words as her dismissal and begins to walk away.

Despite his earlier instincts for solitude, Zuko finds he doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone at all. He wants his mother back, but in the light of that impossibility, he wants some company. Some friendly company.

Although, given their interaction earlier, he’s not so sure that Katara will be friendly company. But her face seems to have softened and lost its tense storm-clouds from earlier. She seems like she’ll make herself be gentler now.

“Wait,” he says, “that’s not what I meant.”

She pauses, looks at him askance.

“Will you stay for a while?” he asks, and she pads over to stand next to him with a nod.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll stay.”

They walk together to the edge of the pond and sit together in silence for some time. Zuko’s sword-sheath is behind him, in the grass, and the turtleducks splash and swim in the pond.

He wishes he’d thought to bring them some bread.

While they sit, the shadows begin to stretch over the landscape as the sunlight takes on the golden tinge of slow-approaching sunset, and Zuko hasn’t been able to break out of his confused, tired shell.

He’s exhausted from his workout and exhausted from life. Everything hurts, inside and out.

So he sits, quiet and numb, and tries to pretend none of it has happened.

But Katara, ever realistic—he hates what his family has done to her; he hates what his family has done to him—speaks.

“Zuko?”

He keeps his eyes trained on the turtleducks swimming in the pond and makes a gruff sound of acknowledgement.

“I’m sorry I got so mad at you earlier.” Katara’s voice sounds strained.

When he turns his face to look at her, she’s staring out over the pond just like he was, her hair blowing in the slight breeze and her eyes glistening with tears that seem as though they might begin to fall at any moment.

Zuko wants to make it so she won’t be sad ever again, but he doesn’t think he has that power.

Instead, the morning’s embarrassment wells up in his throat again, and his stomach twists uncomfortably. He wants to be sick. When he speaks, even he can hear that he sounds so, so tired—“It’s okay, Katara. I understand why you’re mad.”

“But it’s not right to be mad at you,” she insists. “It’s not your fault. You’ve only ever treated me honorably, and I was wrong to get so upset and think that this…gifting—” and they both cringe at the word “—would change any of that. I judged you poorly. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says. For some reason, that’s what relieves the tension he’s been holding in all day—knowing that there’s a chance she might come to the palace with him, that their only contact won’t be him sneaking to visit her in prison, because he would—and he finally allows the day’s stress to get to him.

His mind still doesn’t know how to process everything that’s happening, but his emotions finally start to react, and he lets the first tears fall.

They fall slowly at first, slipping out past his blinking eyes as he tries to hold them back. But then he realizes that it’s going to be a losing battle, and he lets them come.

Zuko leans his elbows down on his crossed legs, covers his face with his hands, and weeps.

He jumps when he feels a hand on his arm. Katara approaches him cautiously, as though he’s an animal who might startle at any moment, and then she slowly moves from resting her hand on his arm to wrapping her arms around him.

She situates herself next to him and wraps him in a hug.

It’s the first time she’s been this close to him, but that is only a passing thought in his mind, ceding in the face of the reality that he has someone close to him, someone supporting him.

For now, in this instant, when he needs it so much, he’s not alone.

Another thought that passes in his mind, but only after he’s cried until he feels empty and is left in Katara’s hug with no more tears to shed, that of all the people who could be here with him, she’s the one with the most to lose. She should hate him. Sometimes, he thinks she does. But she also does things like chill his tea to antagonize him and hold him when he cries.

It’s numb and peaceful here in the slanted sunshine’s warmth, in her embrace.

Zuko doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Once he does either of those things, he has to accept reality, and he doesn’t want to do that, either.

He wonders, his mind working sluggishly, how long he can sit here before things get too awkward. He figures things are already awkward, as he lets the shame of having cried—of having lost control, of having to rely on Katara’s strength instead of on his own—settle over him.

When he pulls away from her hug, his limbs feeling stiff, Zuko can’t make himself meet her gaze. He looks away, eyes turned down on the close edge of the pond, embarrassed.

He wipes at his eyes as quickly as he can manage. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome.” Katara’s voice holds no reprimand.

He looks up at the sun’s position instead of at her. “So I guess we have to leave the pond eventually,” he says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Katara nods. “Eventually,” she agrees, “but only when you want to.”

“I think now might be good.” Staying here any longer might bring up good memories of his mother that are only painful now. “I’m going to head in,” he says, the decision made. “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?”

“Sure,” she says, standing as he does. “Thanks.”

They walk back through the gardens quietly, and it’s only when they pass by Ursa’s bedroom door on the way to Katara’s room that Zuko stops.

Something registers fuzzily in his brain, and he finally knows something he can do, rather than this directionless mourning. Beside him, Katara stops, too. “I’m going to search Mom’s room,” he says abruptly. “Maybe she left a clue behind, or something.”

“I’ll help you,” Katara offers, “if you’d like that.”

“I would.” Zuko takes a deep breath to calm his shaking arms and jittery nerves.

He doesn’t know what he expects to find inside—he’s torn between thinking Ozai will have had it completely emptied in the day’s time and thinking that it will be untouched. He wishes he’d thought of this before. If it’s empty, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. In the seconds before he opens the door, he clings to hope—maybe there’s a note, or a clue, or something to tell him where and why his mother has gone.

He sets his face determinedly and pushes Ursa’s door open.

Tension drains out of him when he sees that his mother’s room remains untouched—at least, as far as he can tell. He hasn’t spent much time in her bedroom since he was little and would come in and sleep in her bed when he had nightmares. The bed is neatly made, and her effects are laid out on a table near a mirror. Her bookshelves are neatly arranged, and the sun-shades are closed for evening.

It’s as though she could walk in the room at any moment, and another overwhelming wave of pain engulfs Zuko’s heart.

He has to move, or he’ll break down again.

“Come on,” he says, walking in and waiting until Katara walks in behind him before he pulls the door closed. “Let’s see if we can find anything unusual.”

Evening is approaching, so Zuko moves his hand toward the sconces that line the walls and lights the candles in the room.

Katara gives him a sidelong glance. “That’s a neat trick,” she says with a small smile.

“Yeah,” he says, scratching his arm absentmindedly. “Sometimes firebending is pretty useful.” He cracks a crooked, if weak, smile in return.

They begin their search.

Katara, who had spent a fair bit of time in the room recently, helping Ursa perform various small tasks of straightening or rearranging, helps him look. In the end, everything seems to be in place—all of Ursa’s effects, all of her clothing hanging neatly in the wardrobe, no signs of struggle or foul play—until Katara stops by Ursa’s dressing table and picks something up.

Zuko, from where he is on the far corner of the room, looking through one of his mother’s wooden chests of mementos, looks up.

Katara turns the item over in her hand and says, “I’ve never seen this before.”

Zuko stands up from the trunk and walks over to her. “That’s my dagger,” he says in surprise. “It was packed away in one of the trunks in my room.” He frowns, running his fingers over the dagger before unsheathing it.

The blade glistens in the candlelight.

“Does it have any significance?” Katara asks, peering at it in his hands, a warm presence at his side.

Zuko turns the dagger over slowly, thinking. “Uncle Iroh gave it to me years ago, when he was still a general. He used to bring presents back for me and Azula from his tours of duty. The day he gave me this dagger, he gave Azula a doll. She burned it.”

Beside him, Katara scoffs, her breath a floating huff in the evening air. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Zuko shakes his head. “It’s from the Earth Kingdom. Uncle was leading the campaign against Ba Sing Se at the time. We’re still trying to capture Ba Sing Se,” he comments.

Katara frowns at him and he changes the subject.

“But the dagger, it was just a gift. I know Uncle meant it to be nice, and I enjoyed playing with it and I still use it, but…” He turns it over again in his hands.

“Is that writing on the blade?” Katara asks, inspecting the dagger more closely.

“Yeah.” Zuko recites the inscription from memory. “It says, ‘Never give up without a fight’.”

Both he and Katara are silent for a moment as the possibilities he’s thought about all day run through his head again.

“Does it mean she fought?” he asks. “Does it mean she was forced into this against her will? Does it mean she was killed?”

Katara takes a deep breath and reaches toward him. “I don’t think we can know right now, Zuko.”

The spot her hand touches feels unnaturally warm.

It’s not right; this girl, who has been subjected to so much on his family’s part, on his part—given the events of this morning, especially—she shouldn’t be here with him, touching his arm and offering him comfort.

“Maybe it’s a message from her to you,” Katara suggests, “not an indication of what she went through herself. Maybe she’s telling you that you shouldn’t give up, that you should fight for what you think is right. Maybe she was doing that, and that’s why she’s gone.”

All of the treasonous words Zuko has heard his mother utter come back to him, all of the sad glances she’d given his father over the years. It makes sense. Even though he doesn’t know the details, the thought makes sense. He blinks, and then he’s choking back tears again. “That…that could be it,” he says shakily.

He breathes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, and tries to steady himself. He lowers the hand that’s not holding the dagger, and suddenly a small piece of parchment falls out of it.

“Is that always in there?” Katara asks, bending down to retrieve it for him. Her braid falls over her shoulder, and she pushes it back behind her when she stands up again.

“No,” Zuko says, his heart pounding faster again. “What does it say?”

She peers at the paper, squinting at the small writing. “It says, ‘Never forget who you are.’” She frowns and holds the paper out to him. “Is this your mom’s writing?”

Zuko takes the scrap. “Yeah,” he says slowly. Even breathing is difficult now. He doesn’t know what to think or what to feel, but his mother obviously had some knowledge of her departure, because she’s left these signs for him. “Yeah, it is.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur as Katara is the one to walk him back to his room. “Make sure he gets some rest,” she tells his servant. “And some food, and some tea.”

Zuko hears this all distantly, and ignores the plate of food when his servant sets it beside his bed.

He holds the dagger and the note in his hand for some time, until the stars are high in the sky. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning, he’s still in his clothes and his feet are hanging off the bed. The dagger and the note are there beside him, as is the tray of untouched food from the night before.

So it wasn’t a dream, after all. Yesterday wasn’t a horrible dream he can forget. It was real.

His mother is gone.

His servant comes in and looks surprised that he’s there; he’s usually out firebending by now. The man bows and tells him that he’s very sorry to disturb him so early, but the servants need access to his room—they’ll be packing up his personal effects.

His family is moving to the royal palace today.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

voyage :: (noun) :: a long journey, typically by sea.

.

.

.

Zuko is still half-asleep, his mind dragging, when he grants the servants access to his room. He washes up and changes into a new set of clothes, and then he’s out the door with his swords strapped to his back and the dagger with the note from his mother in its case strapped to his waist, under his shirt, giving the servants space to pack up the rest of his belongings.

He heads toward the other side of the family wing to look for Katara.

One of his first thoughts when he was startled awake that morning was the realization that Katara had never given him an answer yesterday; she never told him if she’d be coming with him—with them—today or not.

If she’s not moving to the palace, then she has very deliberately put herself in harm’s way, and the thought makes anxiety pool in Zuko’s stomach. He clenches his fists at his sides and strides through the hallways with purpose, as if the bite of his fingernails into his palms will make his worry fade.

He remembers the conversation with Chan two nights ago, and then with his father the day before, and he groans internally. He wouldn’t be surprised if Katara had decided to run away, to escape her imprisonment—she’s grown more comfortable here, he can tell that, but this isn’t her home.

With the transition from the royal compound to the palace, she might have seized at the disruption as a chance to attempt escape.

Zuko picks up the pace of his steps, even as he tells himself that, if she’s gone, she would have left hours ago. Still, he hurries through the halls.

Katara’s bending has gotten so much better than it was when they started training. She has good control now, and can hold her own against him when they spar—but still, most of their matches end with him winning. She might be able to defend herself against a lesser guard, but any of the more highly trained firebenders would defeat her, unquestionably.

If she gets caught, she’ll be taken back into custody, and Zuko doesn’t want to think about what might happen to her there.

As he approaches Katara’s door, Zuko remembers coming here the previous morning, and even though his heart is still heavy and his head is still thick, he feels a little more resigned, a little more numb than raw, than he did then.

At Katara’s door, Zuko pauses and knocks.

He waits.

He hears no response.

He swallows hard and lifts his arm again. He knocks louder this time, in case she’s asleep or just didn’t hear him the first time.

Still no response.

“Katara?” he calls, feeling his heart drop. He’d known it was a possibility that she wouldn’t stay, that she would escape somehow or otherwise get herself sent back to prison—perhaps by asking, perhaps by refusing to be taken on as a concubine, even in name—but he had hoped she wouldn’t opt for that route. She has to know she’ll be caught. She can’t really think prison is her best option.

No answer comes from the room, so tentatively, slowly, Zuko tries the door. It’s not locked, and it pushes open at his movements.

The room is empty. Not only is Katara not there, but all of her belongings are gone. The only things that remain are the furniture that was originally in the room, that had been cleaned and rearranged upon her arrival. All of the things that had become her own, that had been given to her for her use—they’re all gone.

Zuko finds himself trying to swallow the lump that’s formed in his throat as he blinks back the tears that are forming again in his eyes.

It was bad enough to lose his mother, and he’s still fragile from that, and now to lose Katara, too—she was his one companion, the one person he thought he could cling to to make it through this.

And now she’s gone, too.

How selfish of her, a voice inside him says. He tries to tell himself it’s not—she deserves her freedom, just like everyone does—but his hurt speaks louder. And right now, he’s angry.

With one last look around, Zuko leaves Katara’s room, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t have to leave, himself, for a while yet, so he walks to his mother’s room and goes in there, just to be sure that nothing has been disturbed since he and Katara checked it for clues the night before.

He looks in and sees that it’s undisturbed. This house is still his family’s, and the things they don’t need will stay here, waiting for the time when one of them isn’t Fire Lord and needs somewhere to live.

Zuko frowns at the empty expanse of the room. It feels lifeless and deserted, even though it’s only been two days since his mother was here.

The thought makes his throat tighten again, and he feels for the dagger under his shirt. Through the fabric, his fingers tap the hilt.

Then he walks, his footsteps quiet even in the pervasive silence of the suite, to his mother’s sitting room, the one where they used to have tea, and he doesn’t quite remember walking over to the low table and sitting down beside it, but once the fresh round of tears has slowed, he realizes that’s where he is.

Better to cry here than in his own room, because the servants there would be an unwelcome audience. Here, he can take advantage of the solitude. There are no servants here, because his mother is gone. She doesn’t need her things to be moved, so they’ll stay here, waiting.

For what? For her return? For someone else to use them?

Zuko blinks back salt, swallows thickly, and traces the table’s grain absentmindedly with his fingertips.

He’ll find her one day, he promises himself. He’ll avenge any injustice. This won’t last forever. And for now, he’ll be the son that he needs to be. He’ll make his mother proud.

Zuko gets up, pushes one of the shades aside to let more light in, and then sits again, watching the shadows in the garden shrink toward noon as the remainder of the morning passes.

He hears the footsteps approach before the person speaks, and he turns, sighing out of the tension that had built at the sound, when Yao speaks.

“Prince Zuko,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Yao was the first person Zuko had talked to yesterday morning, after he’d realized that his mother was gone—and Yao had claimed to know nothing.

He had seemed very sincere.

“I came to tell you that all of your belongings have been transferred from your room and are ready to be sent to your new room in the palace,” Yao says, moving his hands expansively as he speaks. “Your father and your sister are going to be leaving soon. Come to the front. There’s a palanquin waiting for you there.”

.

.

.

The ride to the palace in the palanquin is torturously slow and awkward. They have to travel across town, and that means that the curtains of the palanquin must be closed—except on special, showy occasions, it’s not appropriate for traveling nobility or royalty to be seen by the general public—and so Zuko is stuck in a closed bubble with his father and his sister.

He half-expects them to talk, to rub it in his face that Mom is gone (or that Katara is back in prison, if that has indeed occurred, because of course they would know about that before he does), but neither of them seems to care. That bothers him almost more than their mocking might have.

The silence stretches on and Zuko fumes as he tries to concoct probable causes of his mother’s disappearance. He comes up with nothing new.

The ride lasts for too long in the hot, stuffy, tense palanquin, but finally they arrive at the palace. Through the curtains, Zuko can hear the palace gates open, and when the palanquin finally stops, a servant opens their curtains.

Zuko looks around him. He visits the royal palace on a regular basis, but he’s never called it “home” before.

.

.

.

Zuko’s set of rooms in the palace is larger than the one in his old home, decorated in an older style that reminds him of his grandfather and Uncle Iroh—these rooms haven’t been renovated recently. He is in the rooms for the crown prince, although there are several children’s rooms set aside. In older times, especially, the Fire Lord was expected to have many heirs. And possibly many wives, as well. Which, to Zuko, sounds like absolute chaos.

He has four rooms in his suite—a bedroom, a bathing room, an office, and a sitting room—and upon exploring, he sees that the servants have gotten here before him and laid out his belongings. The clothes and the shoes—those, he doesn’t really care about, and the servants have placed them in trunks and wardrobes and he’ll let those rest. But some other things—his books, his swords, his swords—he’ll probably move those, once he gets used to his rooms and decides where they fit best.

The furniture in his new suite is solid and large, and its bulk makes him uncomfortable, and he decides that the first thing he’ll do to make the rooms more livable is to have the servants take down all the floral tapestries. And he’ll have them hang the swords near his bed.

That decided, he’s walking in circles around his sitting room—the one that opens out into the hall—trying to figure out what he should do with himself when he hears a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

The person who walks in is not who he expected. The person who walks in is Katara.

She’s dressed in one of her Fire Nation everyday dresses again, her water pouch at her hip. It’s obvious that she’s the one who did her hair this time, because her Water Tribe hair loops are firmly back in place, although she’s pinned up the rest of her hair in a bun more reminiscent of the Fire Nation than the Water Tribe.

He assumes it’s to keep the heat off. She’s been doing it that way for most of the time he’s known her. Today is warm for an autumn day, and he knows that long hair gets hot—that’s one of the reason he keeps his tied up in a ponytail or, more frequently these days as he attends meetings and dinners, in a topknot.

Zuko’s brain stutters. Katara’s not supposed to be here; he’d thought she was gone, and the comfort and relief and confusion and anger he feels at her presence almost overwhelms him. His hands feel a little numb as his mind races.

“Why are you here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” she says, somewhat grumpily. “I thought I’d better come check on you; you were really out of it last night.”

Zuko scowls at her. “You never told me you were going to come to the palace. I thought you’d run away again.”

“Oh.” The fight fades from Katara’s voice. “I didn’t, did I?”

“No, and I spent all day worrying about you.” Zuko crosses his arms.

“You were worried?”

“Yes.” He thinks the answer should be obvious.

“I tried to find you this morning to tell you,” Katara explains, “but when I came to your room, your servant told me you were still asleep. But of course I’m here. I’m not a good enough fighter yet to risk escape.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I may not be pleased with the circumstances under which I’m here, but I don’t want to go back to prison. The food in the royal household is better.” Her smile is small and bitter.

“I see.”

“Well,” Katara says, rubbing her arm with her other hand. “I’m…they put me in the room right next to yours. It’s one of the other rooms for the royal children, but since there’s only you and Azula, there’s no one in it right now. And since I’m supposed to be, er, seeing you, they put me close by.”

“Oh,” Zuko says again. His emotions and feelings on this subject are all like a tangled knot, and he’s not quite sure how to sort them.

“So,” Katara says, her hands now folded in front of her, prim. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”

“I am.” Zuko sighs. “As much as I can be, I guess. Thanks for checking on me.”

Katara cocks an eyebrow. “It’s sort of my job,” she attempts to joke. “Since I’m not going to be actually fulfilling the, well, duties of my post, I can at least make sure you’re taken care of.”

Her joke falls flat and Zuko can feel his face heating; hers flushes, too. She sighs. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Do you want to train later?”

Katara brightens a little at the prospect. “Sure,” she says. “I’d love to.”

.

.

.

After Katara leaves, Zuko fishes around in his trunk to find his training clothes and pulls them on. He grabs his swords, too. They’ll have to scout out the palace gardens to see which places are good for bending training, which places are good for sword training, and which places are good for both.

Little time has passed before he knocks on Katara’s door. He hopes he’s got the right one—he hadn’t remembered to ask her which side of his room she was on.

But she opens the door, and he’s relieved to see that he’s got the right one.

She steps out, dressed now in the tunic and pants she wears as training clothes, too, and closes the door behind her, but he manages to catch a glimpse and see that her room looks very similar to his—decorated elaborately but in a style that is dated. He wonders how long it’s been since children lived in these rooms. If his father or Iroh lived here when they were young, it’s been decades.

But there were only two of them, and more suites than that available, so it’s possible that it’s been even longer still.

After Katara pulls the door shut, they walk together through the halls of the palace. Zuko knows more or less where he’s going, although it will take some time before he has his new home memorized.

It will take some exploring, and that will be a good way to pass the time.

After a few missteps that lead them into an empty meeting room and a servants’ hall, Zuko finally remembers the way out to the gardens. The lands here are much larger—that seems to be the new scale of his life—than those of his family’s old home, although they are decorated in much the same way. He’s pretty sure the same landscape architect designed them all, as well as several gardens in the upper district. Uncle Iroh must have commented on that at some point; his uncle pays attention to things like that.

Zuko blinks in the sudden sunshine as they walk outside. Its heat is warm, familiar, and comforting against the raw grief that gnaws at his heart.

“So where are we headed?” Katara asks, and Zuko realizes that they’re standing still in the sunlight.

“This way, I think,” Zuko says, starting down one of the paths. “We weren’t here as a family that often—usually only here for formal parties or when Grandfather wanted to talk to Father and Father wanted to show us off at the same time.”

They walk through the gardens, Katara commenting on the flowers and both of them discussing the worth of each clearing and open space. Eventually, they find some paved bending areas. Fortunately, some of those areas are also near ponds.

They choose one that seems fairly isolated, hidden among some stands of trees, and decide to train there for the day.

Zuko realizes, as they move into the clearing, that he didn’t meditate this morning. It’s one of the first mornings he can remember, aside from times he’s been sick, that he hasn’t started the day that way. Now that he’s realized he missed that time of connecting with his firebending, he feels odd without it. He briefly considers asking Katara if she wants to spend this time meditating, but he feels restless, and he thinks she probably does, too.

The past few days have been so taxing.

“Let’s start with the sword movements,” he says instead, pulling out his dao swords and setting the sheath aside.

Katara nods and moves into the first stance, pulling water from her hip pouch. They don’t need ponds for their training anymore, but it’s still convenient to train near water—the extra water is useful for for the times when he wants to try to teach her bigger moves, or when she wants to try to expand her control.

Zuko positions his swords, and they move through the practice forms together.

.

.

.

Fire Lord Azulon’s funeral is held three days later, after the appropriate propitiations have been made to the spirits, after the body has been prepared, after the proper public announcements have been made.

Zuko had thought that the funeral would be delayed even further, because Iroh is traveling, and wouldn’t it be right for the eldest son to come and honor his father?

But when he had asked Ozai this over dinner in their opulent new dining room one night, Ozai had looked at him with pity and scorn. “We can’t wait for your uncle to return, Zuko. The funeral will be calmer without having my brother there. That way, there can be no question as to the validity of my claim to the throne. There will be no rumors that he is there to reclaim his place or give up his abdication when I am crowned Fire Lord on the same day.”

Now that, Zuko knows that’s not the way to do things. It’s proper to let the dead rest for another three days before an official coronation ceremony. But his father wants to rush things, and to do things his own way—which is really no surprise. Ozai always wants to have his way.

Zuko resolves that, years from now, if he is Fire Lord, he will do things differently. He will honor his father properly in his death; he will not rush his claim to the throne.

He doesn’t trust Azula to do the same, and hopes she won’t alter his plans.

.

.

.

The funeral is largely emotionless for Zuko—a large wave of white. Everyone is dressed in white; the wealthy wear full white garments, and the poorer people, on the fringes, have white ribbons tied onto their clothes, in recognition. The day’s sun shines down brightly on the mourners, and people fill the streets, properly and publicly mourning the passing of the Fire Lord.

The funeral is large, but for a crowd that big, it is surprisingly silent. The Fire Sages perform the ceremony with all the proper solemnity, and after his grandfather is burned and his spirit is freed from his body, the urn is placed in a box to be taken to the family crypt.

Zuko has not been there since Lu Ten died, but he, his father, and his sister, along with the Fire Sages and some prominent noblemen, will make a trip there later today. Zuko really just wants this all to be over.

The funerary attendance is large, but no one—not even his grandfather’s own family, his own family—sheds a tear. Zuko thinks there’s something wrong with that, even as he feels dry-eyed himself.

His grandfather was cruel; his father is cruel; he wonders distantly what part of himself is cruel, too, and what will change before he is Fire Lord.

After the urn is taken away, guarded, to the palanquin that will transport it to the crypt for interment, the ceremony turns from a funeral to a coronation. Literally, all his father does is to walk to the other side of the platform, while the Fire Sages keep their solemn line in the middle.

For as much as Zuko didn’t like his grandfather, he feels that this is a great disrespect for the dead. He wishes his Uncle Iroh were here.

He wishes his mother were here.

He wishes Katara were here. But he remembers that she’s waiting for him back at the palace, probably practicing her bending right now, with nothing else to do, and that thought loosens the tangled bundle of nerves in his chest, just a little bit.

Zuko listens to his father’s coronation ceremony distantly—he remembers learning the words and techniques for this, some years ago, in one of his lessons. Someday it will be you performing these rites, his tutor had told him.

Someday, it may be.

But today, it is his father. And just as the funeral was not sad, the coronation is not celebratory. It is solemn, and official, and joyless.

And hasty.

After it is over and Ozai has been appropriately cheered in by the crowd as the new Fire Lord, the crowd disperses. The family travels to the crypt and Azulon is interred with further ceremony by the Fire Sages, and then, finally then, the family returns to the palace.

.

.

.

Life in the palace is nothing like Zuko thought it would be. It hasn’t changed much, really, from life in his home.

But his home isn’t his home anymore. He’d lived there for his entire life, and traveled little, so it holds most of his memories.

Zuko is almost thankful that they’re here, in this new place, without his mother here, because he’s not walking by the places that her memory haunts every day.

After the funeral and Ozai’s ascension as Fire Lord, Zuko finds that his days become somewhat busier. As the Fire Lord, Ozai has more people to meet with and more council meetings than he had as Crown Prince, and Zuko takes over the meetings that are relegated to the Crown Prince. But in most cases, that simply means that he accompanies his father more than he did before.

The Fire Nation has begun the newest phase of its campaign in the Earth Kingdom, and generals come back with reports from the front lines. Most are positive, but some are not. The people of the Earth Kingdom are strong and fight hard to retain their ancestral lands.

In a few scattered towns around Ba Sing Se, the Fire Nation has taken hold, but they still fight for others.

There are also the regular meetings to attend, about the running of the city, councilmen petitioning about taxes or funds or other regulations. Most of the petitions are about money, Zuko discovers. And everybody wants more of it.

He watches as his father delegates funds to causes he likes, like firebending dojos for the noblemen’s children, and denies others—ones that Zuko thinks might be good, like updated schools or orphanages. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in his stomach.

For the small amount of his own responsibility, Zuko spends time in his office, reading through the humbler petitions. He feels like there’s not a lot for him to do; the Fire Nation royal court is set up with officials who handle most of the day-to-day business aspects of things, and his father handles the war in-depth.

Of the few petitions that do come through for him, most of them are requests for his time—official presence at the openings of new buildings or promotion ceremonies.

He attends the opening of a new hospital paid for by the family of a newly-retired general, and while he’s there, he overhears mostly polite talk from the nobility, but the retired general himself, and some of his cronies, have particularly strong feelings about what’s happening in the war—and they want it to be over.

“That’s why I had my family pay for this hospital,” the general explains. “No man or woman should have to recover in places like…” He shakes his head, bows respectfully, and apologizes. “I’m sorry, Prince Zuko, to have spoken in any way against your father’s policies. I have had an intemperate amount of drink.”

Zuko plans to correct him, to tell him he wasn’t at fault, but before he can speak, the man is gone, surrounded again by his family and friends.

He finds that it’s like that often—people change their tune when royalty’s around, in an official capacity.

Most days, Zuko spends time in his office, but often he’s reading rather than doing official paperwork.

He’s there again today, in a quiet late morning, after firebending training with his master and before his afternoon training with Katara.

But he slept poorly last night—he blames his still-occasional-but-more-frequent-than-before bad dreams on all of the chaos and change he’s had in his life lately. Still, he’s tired today, and even though the papers in front of him are from a local school, only asking for royal permission to have a ceremony in honor of the appointment of a new schoolteacher, even though it coincides with the Day of the Dragon Lantern, which is historically a day reserved for royal celebration, but that is the day that the young man is supposed to arrive in Caldera from his hometown.

Reading the petition makes the blood pound behind Zuko’s eyebrows and he finds he’s squinting too tightly at the text in front of him to even read it one more time. He sets it aside and flops his head onto his desk, heaving a breath out in exasperation.

He needs sleep; on a grander scale, he needs direction, to know how to best use his current position to secure his future.

Before he can dwell further on the subject—or fall asleep at his desk—Katara knocks at the open door.

“Hey,” she says, then stops when he lifts his head and she gets a good look at him.

“Hey.” He rubs his hand over his eyes and manages a smile.

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a walk before lunch, but it looks more like you need a nap before lunch. Put the scroll back in the pile it came from and go to bed. Now.”

Zuko frowns. “I have work to do, Katara.”

“Does it have to be done today?” Katara asks.

“Well, not exactly. There’s some time before it becomes urgent.”

“So it can wait.” Katara walks over to him and takes the scroll, then pushes on his shoulder. “Up, now. Go sleep.”

“Fine,” Zuko agrees grudgingly. “Okay.”

“Good,” Katara says, and she walks him back to his room. “Come find me after you wake up. We can explore the kitchens, maybe sneak some snacks.”

“We’ve already explored the kitchens,” Zuko protests. They’ve filled a lot of their ample free time learning their way around the palace, and there are several wings they haven’t visited yet; the kitchens were one of the first they’d wandered through, much to the consternation of the head chef, who had simultaneously fawned over them—well, over him—and tried to shoo them out of his workspace.

However, food does sound good.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll find you later.”

.

.

.

Several days pass before Zuko realizes that his Uncle Iroh should be returning from Omashu soon. Iroh is one of the few men in the Fire Nation who can travel with relative impunity in wartime. The rumors fly whether he travels or not, and his years of traveling after Lu Ten’s death, working through his grief, give precedent.

Zuko looks forward to his uncle’s arrival with anticipation. He has so many questions—about his mother, about his new responsibilities—and his uncle has a lot of experience.

Iroh is less involved in politics than before, although he is often still invited to war meetings to offer advice. He has outwardly mellowed, but he is still a renowned general, after all, and has useful insight.

And the Fire Nation wants the best it has to offer in order to win the war.

When Iroh returns to Caldera, he stays in another one of the royal houses in the noble district, near Zuko’s family’s old house. It’s where he used to live with Cixi and Lu Ten, before they died. When he’s at home, he only lives in a small portion of the rooms and leaves the others unused.

Zuko is in the middle of composing a letter giving the school permission to welcome their teacher as requested when a messenger arrives with an invitation to join Iroh for tea that afternoon.

He puts his paperwork aside gratefully to spend some time with his uncle.

.

.

.

Iroh smiles when Zuko is admitted into his tea-room.

“Prince Zuko,” he says, holding out his arms in welcome, “it is so good to see you again.”

Zuko bows. “It’s good to see you again, too, Uncle.”

“Sit down, Nephew, and we can talk over some tea.” Iroh motions for Zuko to take a seat across the low table from him and pours a cup while Zuko approaches. He settles the teapot back in its place as Zuko sits down.

Zuko picks up his teacup as Iroh picks up his, and they sip together. Zuko closes his eyes for a moment to savor the scent and taste. He likes tea now much more than he used to, but not nearly as much as his uncle. And he thinks that his proclivity for it now might have something to do with Uncle Iroh’s influence, or at least the familiar feeling he gets drinking tea and being with him.

Iroh always supports him—or at least gives him honest discussion on choices he doesn’t agree with. He treats him like an adult, like an equal—and has ever since Zuko was thirteen or so. There was a time, around his travels after Lu Ten’s death, and Zuko felt like Iroh just looked right through him and didn’t see him at all, but after he returned and worked out his grief in his own way, he started seeing Zuko again. And started teaching him about how to handle himself as a future politician.

Sometimes, Zuko thinks his uncle’s lessons are sticking and that he’s learning from the process.

Other times, like when he humiliates himself in front of his family, he thinks not.

But now, it’s just him and Iroh in the quiet of Iroh’s house. The gardens stretch large, like at nearly every home in the district, and the same insects buzz in the distance.

“Uncle,” he says, “How was your trip to Omashu?”

Iroh smiles, although his is laced with concern. “The voyage went well, Nephew. I was able to play many good games of Pai Sho with old friends.”

Zuko smiles, too. His uncle almost always reports his trips the same way—games of Pai Sho with old friends.

He doesn’t know if his uncle has completely given up his strategizing—when he’s in war meetings, he always has keen input, even though he is somewhat disgraced by his failure at Ba Sing Se and his years spent traveling. All the same, outside of those meetings, he seems to be only interested in board games and tea these days.

Iroh and Zuko talk for some time, about Iroh’s trip and about Zuko’s life lately—Katara’s presence in the Fire Nation and transfer from prison to Ozai’s household (Zuko purposefully leaves out some of the latest developments; he doesn’t feel like wallowing in the uncomfortable balance here, too), Ursa’s disappearance, the move to the palace. When they discuss Ursa’s disappearance, Iroh looks sad, but offers no insight.

As they talk, the afternoon shadows start to stretch, and when Zuko realizes it, he puts his teacup down abruptly. “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I need to get home. Katara will be wondering where I am; we usually train together before now.”

Iroh raises an eyebrow. “You and Miss Katara train together? Has she taken up the swords, as well?”

And that’s when Zuko realizes his mistake—he feels so comfortable around Iroh that the words spilled out without him thinking about them. He’s been told that before—by Iroh, no less—that he doesn’t think things through. And maybe it’s true. Just because he feels comfortable around someone doesn’t mean he can spill his secrets. Only his immediate family knows he’s training Katara, and they don’t know to what extent.

But now he’s spoken, and if he can trust anyone, he can trust Iroh. Even though he can feel the heat climbing his neck, he explains.

“Not the swords, Uncle. Waterbending.”

Iroh’s eyebrows rise even higher.

“I’m teaching Katara how to waterbend.”

Iroh’s gaze remains inscrutable and he asks, “How are you teaching her to waterbend, Nephew?”

“Well, we tried firebending techniques at first,” Zuko says, “meditating—the basics that you’ve always told me are so important—but she was having trouble gaining control of the water, so we switched over to some of my sword techniques for a while. They adapt pretty well to water. And then, once she gained more control, we started incorporating more firebending moves. She’s pretty good at the basics now, and she’s starting to learn combative training.” He frowns in thought. “She needs to know how to protect herself.”

Across from him, Iroh says nothing, so Zuko continues. “She needed to be able to control her element—that’s why she got captured in the first place, because she couldn’t—but she really likes bending. And I mean no disrespect by it, but…I don’t know…it gives us both something to do.”

Zuko’s gaze goes down to the tea-table in front of them. It’s well-lacquered and shows little wear from all of its years of use. The light glances off of it, and he inspects the dust-motes as he waits for a reprimand similar to the one he’d received from his father.

When the silence stretches too long, he looks back up at his uncle, who returns his gaze calculatingly. Then, instead of the scolding Zuko expected—although he expected it to be milder, coming from his uncle rather than from his father—he’s surprised when Iroh breaks out into a broad smile.

“Nephew, that’s wonderful. I’m very proud of you.”

Zuko stares, taken off guard, but Iroh only continues to smile, and the silence stretches again.

“Wait.” Zuko has trouble finding the words. “You’re proud of me? For teaching Katara how to waterbend?”

Iroh nods sagely and takes another sip of tea.

“Why?”

If a glimpsing hint of sorrow passes over Iroh’s face, Zuko doesn’t notice it. Instead, he listens as his uncle explains.

“You must be able to truly understand something before you can teach it to others. The fact that you’re successfully teaching Katara how to waterbend is a sign of your own advancement in firebending.”

Zuko hadn’t thought of it that way before, but it makes sense. Pride swells in his chest; his uncle is right, and maybe he’s getting better at firebending than everyone else seems to think.

“And, of course, the fact that you’re willing to take a risk, to make a decision that you think is right, even when it could be misconstrued—that is a good trait for a ruler to have. You must weigh the benefits and consequences of an action and then act on your decision.”

“Oh,” Zuko says. It sounds much better when Uncle explains it that way. He allows the warm flush of pride to wash over him, for once.

“Well,” Iroh says, “I should let you get back to the palace. It is always wonderful to see you after a long trip, Nephew. You are a sight for sore eyes. Please tell me you won’t neglect your old uncle now that you’re living in the palace.”

“I won’t, Uncle,” Zuko says, smiling. “I’ll see you again soon?”

“Yes, Prince Zuko.” Iroh nods. “You are always welcome here. And I’ll be in the palace for meetings—many of the same ones you attend.” He smiles, and it’s rueful now, and a little stern. “It seems that your father wants not only to take advantage of my abdication, but of my military experience.”

And that brings up a question that Zuko has had for some time. “Uncle,” he says, “why did you abdicate?” He lowers his voice before he continues. “You’d be a much better Fire Lord than Father, and…” He stops, because he doesn’t want to say Lu Ten’s death can’t have hurt you or altered you that much. He can’t say that, because it’s unkind and accusatory and he doesn’t know that kind of loss. But he knows his own losses, and he knows that he can’t let them take him from his duties.

Iroh nods, as if he’s been expecting this question for some time. He sighs, and rubs his forehead.

The teapot still simmers with steam in front of them, wafting a thin trail up into the warm daylight.

“I’ve been expecting you to ask this for some time, Zuko,” he says finally. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, growing up in your household. Your father’s ambition has never served anyone but himself well. And you, dear boy, have had to bear a lot of his ire simply because you are not your sister, and have not lived up to his visions for what his children would be.” Iroh fixes Zuko with a stern gaze. “Azula is the sort of child your father wants,” he says, “and it is good that you are not her.”

Zuko can feel himself flushing slightly as his stomach twists uncomfortably. Iroh has always supported him, but this feels…too open. Too honest. Too…just too much.

“I don’t know that it would be easier for you if I were the Fire Lord,” Iroh says, “but I have often thought about what it would mean for the country, as well as for me.” He smiles sadly. “You think I am an old man who has given up in the face of his son’s death.”

Zuko opens his mouth to protest, but Iroh shakes his head. “I know you do. I know many people do. I am not deaf to the rumors that surround me. But, as with so many things, there is more to the story than what appears on the surface. You’ll have to trust me when I say that, while my abdication was, in part, a result of heartbreak, it also had other motivations. I did not act solely selfishly.”

“Uncle, what—”

But Iroh shakes his head and cuts off Zuko’s question, albeit gently. “Perhaps I will tell you someday, Nephew. But not today.” When he smiles again, it is less sad. “Now, don’t you have a young lady waiting for you back at the palace?”

Zuko can feel the involuntary flush creeping over his neck and cheeks again and he huffs. “Uncle, it’s not like that! She’d kill me if I tried anything with her. And after what Father did, she’ll never… No. Just no.”

While Zuko talks, Iroh’s face takes on a grim set. Zuko is confused until his uncle speaks—he’s babbling again, but he does that when he’s nervous. He’s been trained in oratory, but unless the speech is prepared, it feels like he can never find the right words.

“What did your father do, Zuko?”

And in Iroh’s tone, Zuko hears all of the suspicions of years on the warfront, and for a fleeting second, his heart chills with fear, as well. But it settles down into mere embarrassment when he corrects his uncle’s suspicions. “Father didn’t do anything directly,” he explains. “But he…well, he gave Katara to me. As a companion.”

“I see.” Iroh nods, his expression still grave. “I take it Katara does not appreciate her new status?”

“No.” Zuko shakes his head. “She hates the Fire Nation, and I understand why. We’re friends, I think, but it’s nothing more than that. I guess she decided I was better than outright prison, though.”

“I see,” Iroh says again, a smile warming his words this time. “Well, Prince Zuko, no matter what the context, you have someone waiting for you back at the palace, as you told me before our conversation digressed. You should head home now; I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“Thank you, Uncle. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Zuko leaves with a bow.

.

.

.

Back at the palace, Zuko finds Katara waiting for him in her room. When he knocks on the door, she’s there right away to answer it, already in her training clothes.

“You’re late,” she says by way of greeting, raising an eyebrow imperiously and crossing her arms, and he nods.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was visiting Uncle Iroh and we got to talking. It got long.”

Katara smiles when she hears that. “That’s okay,” she says, uncrossing her arms and stepping out, reaching to close the door behind her. “Your uncle’s been gone for a long time and I know you like him. Was it a good talk?”

Her words are light, but they’re laced with an undertone of concern: did you talk about your mother’s disappearance?

Zuko smiles, though. “It was a good talk,” he says. “Nothing…no news about Mom. But it’s always good to talk to Uncle.”

“He seems like a good man,” Katara says, “from what I’ve heard of him.” Then she elbows Zuko’s arm from where she walks beside him. “You’ll have to introduce us sometime.”

Zuko considers this. He thinks Katara and Iroh would love to make each other’s acquaintance, but he can also see Uncle sharing embarrassing stories and himself being the brunt of their jokes.

“I can do that,” he says. “He’d like to meet you.”

Katara smiles, a small smile that seems to have a secret hidden in the curves of her lips, and Zuko wonders for a moment what it means. “Good,” she says.

They go over forms that day, the firebending basics, and Katara pushes and pulls her water through them with ease.

.

.

.

It quickly becomes habit for Katara and Zuko to wander the palace together in addition to their bending training. It’s a comfortable and useful habit they’ve picked up, to pass the time. Unlike Zuko, who has petitions and meetings and formal firebending training to pass the time, Katara has nothing except their informal training each afternoon.

She enjoys it immensely, honing her skill—she nearly beat Zuko the last time they sparred—but it leaves a lot of empty hours in her days.

Katara explores the palace on her own some days, keeping out of the way of servants and politicians alike. She’s memorized her way many places and doesn’t get lost very often—and when she does, she asks a servant for help. Most of them know who she is, despite the fact that she’s never been formally introduced anywhere—a fact she appreciates, because she hates reminders of her current official position.

Once, she nearly ran into Azula in a hallway, and had ducked into an alcove just in time to avoid being seen. She’d waited there, quietly, staring at the wall until Azula was out of the way.

She sees Azula often enough in the hallway outside their rooms, and she has no desire for additional interaction.

Sometimes, Katara spends the day in the library, reading books. She likes the stories well enough, but she’s only ventured into the history or political books a few times. Those ones, she’s discovered, are so full of propaganda and inaccuracies that they only serve to make her mad. So most days, when she wants to avoid a fight or being prompted to gut everyone in the surrounding area with ice, she sticks to the novels.

Fire Nation stories are a bit nonsensical, in her opinion, based on theories of honor and vengeance and love rather than practicality, but are similar enough to Water Tribe legends that they stir a sense of nostalgia in her and give her some comfort.

Recently, she and Zuko have been working their way through one of the older libraries—one in an old wing of the palace, where meetings are only held when many nobles are in town, and need space. It’s largely a dumping ground for historical mateirals, and the scrolls and books here haven’t been read in ages.

Today, she and Zuko wander through the shelves, looking over the titles and pulling out anything that looks interesting, looking at it together. Although there’s a large quantity of material in this library, there really isn’t that much interesting to look at—it’s mostly old political tomes, some of which are even written in the Old Fire Tongue, which Zuko can read from his lessons but Katara can’t. She’s interested the first time she sees it, and Zuko reads aloud as he translates it, but the ancient poetry loses some of its effect in translation.

They continue down the shelves, picking up books and reading random selections aloud, until suddenly Zuko freezes with an open book in his hands. Katara looks over at him; he seems distinctly uncomfortable. She walks a few paces to join him and peer over his shoulder.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“It’s an ancient record of the Water Tribes,” he says carefully.

“What?!”

There is nothing hushed or quiet about Katara’s voice as she reaches for the book, and he releases it into her hands without protest.

Her heart plummets when she sees that this, too, is written in the Old Fire Tongue.

Zuko sees her expression and offers, “I could read it to you if you really want,” he says, “but I can tell you that it’s not going to be anything good. It was written by Fire Nation historians in the early part of the war, and if it’s anything like the histories we were taught in school, it’s not going to make you happy.”

She nods with a heavy frown but doesn’t hand the text back over to him. “I’d like it if you read at least some of it to me,” she says. “It might be nice to know what I’m up against.”

“We can finish looking through here another time,” he says. He pulls out a few more books and pages through them briefly, scanning the contents. “There seems to be some information on the other nations here; older reports…maybe from the beginning of the war,” he says, frowning slightly, but there’s a hesitation and a guess in his voice.

“That sounds like a good plan; we’ll come back,” Katara says. “It’s not like we’ve got much of anything these days except time.”

“Yeah,” Zuko agrees. “Come on,” he says, “let’s head back to my room and I can read this to you while we eat dinner.”

“Okay,” Katara says, smiling at him. “That sounds good.”

They walk back through the maze of passageways. It’s become habit now, most days, for them to share meals, usually in Zuko’s antechamber, an alteration of their former pattern.

It’s a poor re-creation of the meals they used to share with Ursa, but both of them are glad for someone welcome and friendly to spend time with. They’ve created a warm sort of semi-home between them, and the comfort she derives from her time with Zuko only makes the sore place in her heart ache more for her real home and her real family.

At this point, both of them cling to whatever sort of happiness and familiarity they can find.

When they reach his room, Zuko finds one of his servants and requests that dinner be brought for them—and that’s not unusual, not at all.

But then they sit down in their usual spots—across from each other, over the low table—and Zuko opens the book.

He looks at Katara, and there’s something wary in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asks.

“This is a Fire Nation history book,” he says. “Just because it’s about the Water Tribe doesn’t mean that it’s going to be easy for you to hear it.”

He’s right, and Katara knows it, but she also doesn’t resist the morbid curiosity that prompts her to want to hear about her home and her heritage, even if it was crafted at the hands of her enemies.

“That’s okay,” she says, meeting his eyes solemnly. “It’s still about my people, and I want to hear it.”

“Okay,” he says, and flips a few pages as his eyes scan the text, looking for a starting spot. “Okay.”

He clears his throat, straightens his posture as he lifts the book higher again, and begins to read.

He reads a few paragraphs, looking increasingly uncomfortable, before Katara stops him. “That’s enough.” She breathes in and out with purpose. “Remind me that it’s not possible to go back in time and gravely injure your ancestors, will you?” Katara says, burying her face in her hands. The anger that she can sometimes squelch has risen again and roils in her stomach. The servant is coming with dinner, but she’s not hungry anymore.

“You can’t… You can’t travel through time, Katara,” Zuko says, and she peers at him through her fingers after that, and the expression on his face is so funny, because he’s trying to be serious for her sake, and the book bothered him, too, but she can tell that he thinks her request is absolutely ridiculous—and she lets out a rough scoff.

It shudders out of her because she can’t be angry right now; there’s nothing she can do, no way to act on her feeling. She spends her days with the prince of her enemy country, and he’s not at all what she expected.

Ozai and Azula, she’d anticipated. She hadn’t expected Zuko or Ursa, who have kindness under their Fire Nation skin and who provided her with knowledge of waterbending that her own people couldn’t give her.

Her imprisonment has been enlightening, if nothing else.

“Why are you laughing?” Zuko looks affronted. “I did what you told me to. And aren’t you—aren’t you mad?” he asks, scowling. “About being reminded what my people did to your people, and everything?”

Katara lowers her hands and looks at Zuko seriously. “But Zuko, don’t you see?” she says. “I haven’t ever forgotten. I’m trapped here for now, I know, whether I like it or not, but…but I won’t be forever. And I haven’t forgotten my people, ever. I’m going to go back and help them. I’ll learn to fight, I’ll learn to heal… I’ll do whatever I can to help stop this war.” She can feel the sadness in her heart, and it expands to fill her bones until she feels heavy with weariness, the numb emptiness from moments earlier stripped away, flung into the air like so much smoke. “My cage has expanded, but it’s still a cage.”

She can tell that Zuko does his best to keep a stoic demeanor, but he fails miserably. He looks crestfallen. And she knows, then, what she’d suspected before. He hates what his father has done to them nearly as much as she does, but he selfishly likes the closeness. And he was hoping that, regardless of outside influences, she’d stay.

He obviously hasn’t thought things through, the implications of her staying here. He’s the crown prince of the Fire Nation, she’s a waterbending Water Tribe peasant, and at the very best, she could be his concubine.

At the very best.

Taking on that role would mean acquiescing to the war and to her past months of suffering and her Tribe’s decades of suffering, and she could never, ever do it.

She thinks Zuko must know that, deep down. He’d just hoped it wouldn’t be true. And she hurts, too, because she knows they’ve become close, and when she does learn how to bend well enough, when circumstances play into her favor, at that moment, she will be just another person leaving him.

That knowledge hurts her, too, but she’s realistic enough to know that any other scenario is impossible, far removed from the realities of a world at war.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess it’s still a cage.”

The silence that hangs between them is long and heavy, and only interrupted when the servant arrives with dinner.

They eat quietly for a while, then Zuko says, “Make sure you can consistently beat me when we spar, before you leave. You won’t have any chance at holding your own before then.”

“I know.” Katara looks at her food, not at him. “Thank you.”

Zuko nods, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stabs at some spiced meat angrily with a chopstick, and Katara sighs.

“You could come with me, you know,” she says.

“I couldn’t,” he says, and the sad sound of his voice makes her realize that he’s thought about this, too. “I have to fulfill my destiny, too. I have to be Fire Lord someday.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But if you ever—if anything happens, you know, you’d always…you’d always be welcome to come to the Southern Water Tribe. I’d make sure they didn’t hurt you.” She’s not sure she can keep that promise. She’s only a girl in the Tribe’s eyes. A ripening one, now old enough for marriage (although who is there left for her to be married to?), but a woman with no real voice, nonetheless.

“They’d hate me in your Tribe,” Zuko says with feeling. “I’m a firebender—the prince of the firebenders—and that’s all they’d see. I’m their enemy. They’d never let me stay. They’d probably toss me out onto the ice to be eaten by…by…by something fierce.”

Katara giggles despite herself. “They might,” she acknowledges. “But I don’t hate you,” she says, more solemnly. “You’ve shown me that not all firebenders are bad. I still hate your country and what it’s done to mine,” she says fiercely, “I like you. You’re my friend and I owe you a lot.”

Zuko frowns intently at his plate. “Thanks,” he says roughly.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, only speaking again when it’s time to say goodnight.

.

.

.

Things settle back into a peace between them, after that. Katara doesn’t talk of escape and Zuko doesn’t talk of her staying. It’s easier that way, to live in the temporary everyday habits they’ve formed.

Katara walks with Zuko when he returns the book to the library, and he glances over the other texts to make sure they’re not missing anything useful or important. But all of the older texts contain the same thing—histories of the other nations, written in Old Fire Tongue, telling the same basic history he was taught in his school lessons.

Zuko takes her to meet Iroh for tea one day, and Katara likes Zuko’s uncle immensely. He’s sincere and makes much better tea than Zuko does.

Katara listens, for the most part, and in the end, the conversation turns to politics. Iroh is much more forthcoming than Zuko is with her about the Fire Nation’s plans—perhaps because Zuko is present, and also party to much of the information—and soon Zuko joins the talk more easily.

“Are you going to the generals’ meeting tomorrow morning, Uncle?” Zuko asks as they’re getting ready to leave.

“Yes, I will be in the war chamber with the others.” Iroh stands with them, folds his hands across his expansive stomach, and nods.

Zuko’s face drops, although it’s almost imperceptible; Katara would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him at the time. “I wasn’t invited,” he says. “This is the last meeting before most of the generals leave and I’ve been to some of them, but I’d like to attend this one.”

“You’re not missing anything, trust me.” Iroh shakes his head. “You know from your own experience, these meetings are terribly boring.”

“They’re more interesting than answering petitions for schools and orphanages,” Zuko says. “I only know politics in theory.”

“You have a keen mind, Prince Zuko,” Iroh says. “And don’t forget that you are in the same situation as your father as far as military experience is concerned,” he adds. “However, I think that I could put in a word for you, if you’d like. You may attend the meeting with me tomorrow.”

Zuko nods and bows to his Uncle. “Thank you, Uncle. I appreciate your assistance. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Until tomorrow morning, Nephew. And Miss Katara, it was lovely to meet you. You must join us for tea again.”

“I’d like that, General Iroh,” Katara says, matching his smile with her own before she bows.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

integrity :: (noun) :: a whole and undivided condition; honesty.

.

.

.

“You remember the rules of engagement, is that correct, Nephew?”

Zuko, Katara, and Iroh have been in the gardens outside of Iroh’s house for the better part of the afternoon, training with a new intensity.  Katara’s questions about what happened in the war meeting were quickly silenced by Iroh’s stern glance as they rode in a palanquin from the palace and his low, tense words—“My nephew spoke out of turn in the meeting.  He competes in an Agni Kai tomorrow to duel for his honor.”

Katara watches from the shade of a nearby tree as Zuko scowls at his uncle, radiating shame and anger, and mutters, “Yes, Uncle, I remember the rules of engagement.”

The review of etiquette for what appears to be an ancient honor duel is enlightening.  Besides trying to blast each other with fire, the participants must also bow, mark paces, and enter engagement in precise and certain methods.

Katara isn’t the only one who grates under the Fire Nation’s strict rules that veneer a rumbling violence.

It’s only after the sun begins to wane and training is finished, when they’re in the palanquin to return to the palace and Zuko is staring, stony-faced, at the early evening light that slices through the palanquin’s curtains, that Iroh quietly explains the situation from his seat next to Katara.

Her fingers curl tightly around the edge of the palanquin’s cushioned seat and she understands why Zuko looks like he’s been punched in the gut.

.

.

.

Katara knocks on Zuko’s door early the next morning, while he still meditates on the floor with the window-shades pushed back, facing the grey light of dawn as it fades against the coming orange glow of sunrise.

“He’s wrong, you know,” Katara says quietly from the doorway.  “The general you opposed.  You did the right thing and there’s no reason to be ashamed of what you said.”

Zuko, who had allowed her entry with a tense, “Come in,” doesn’t turn to look at her.  “Yeah,” he says, face still toward the sun.  “I guess.”

Even a casual observer could tell he doesn’t believe it.

.

.

.

The air of the arena is tense with excitement, and Katara can’t make herself lose the clenching anxiety that pools in the pit of her stomach.  The atmosphere feels jovial, as though the people are anticipating a circus full of acrobats and curiosities, not as though they’re going to watch two men risk their lives for an argument.

Katara clasps her hands more tightly in her lap as she sits next to Iroh in the observers’ area.  His generosity is what gained her admittance, because he is her chaperone and her ticket into this fight.  She wants to be there for Zuko, however little support she can offer him from the stands.

Next to her, Iroh’s face is one full of regret, no longer couched in jolly serenity like the few other times she’s seen him.

The people around her talk incessantly.  Katara is a little mollified when the atmosphere calms down and stills to a hush of respect when the participants step into the arena.

.

.

.

The Agni Kai passes more quickly than Katara can comprehend it.

From where she sits, she sees the moment when Zuko realizes he’s not facing the general.  She sees it just after she’s realized it herself, when panic floods through her veins and she feels like she needs to run, needs to warn him, needs to call out and make these people stop whatever it is they’re doing and whatever it is they’re supporting.

Zuko’s entire stance stiffens when he sees his father.  He’d already been nervous—so, so nervous—and Katara knows that he won’t fight this fight.  It would dishonor his family if he were to fight his own father. 

Her heart breaks when she sees Zuko drop to the ground in a low bow.  She can’t hear his words, but she sees with horrifying clarity what he can’t—the way Ozai pulls his arm back and summons fire to his fist.

When the fire hurtles toward Zuko, Katara realizes that the grip on her arm keeping her from running down to the arena is Iroh.  The general’s strong hands are keeping her gently but firmly in place.

She’s vaguely aware that she’s crying.  She has to get down to Zuko; she has to help him.

But Iroh’s grip holds firm.  And when he speaks, she doesn’t hear a quiver in his voice; he’s spent far too many years schooling his emotions to reveal himself like that.

“You can’t go down there right now, Miss Katara.  There are royal physicians who will tend to him.  It’s not safe for you and it will only make things worse for him.”

“But I’m a healer!  I can help him!”

“You are an untrained waterbender who has discovered she can heal.”  Iroh’s voice is rough, but firm.  “The royal family is attended only by the royal physicians.”

“But he’s my friend,” she says finally, when she can find her voice around the lump in her throat.  “I have to see him.  I have to see if I can help him.”

“I will keep an eye on him, as well as I can,” Iroh says.  “He’ll be kept in the infirmary suite in the palace until he’s well enough to return to his rooms.  You might be able to visit him when he’s able to receive visitors, but I doubt they’ll let you in before that.”  His mouth is a grim line when he pauses and looks down to the arena again—servants have come and are loading Zuko’s still body onto a stretcher.

Katara wants to throw up.

“Come,” Iroh says, “We are better served to be elsewhere, now.”

He leads her from the stands, which are now milling with activity, and Katara follows blindly until he leaves her at the entrance to the family suite.  “I trust you can find your rooms from here.”  His face is kind still, but his demeanor is distracted and worried.

“I can,” Katara says.

Iroh walks hurriedly away, and it takes all of Katara’s willpower not to follow him.

.

.

.

Katara waits until evening falls before she sneaks out of her room to search for the infirmary suite of the palace.

The halls are quiet in the still of night, with only the occasional guard crossing her path, leaving her undisturbed, although Katara’s senses are on alert for some noise, some activity somewhere.

But wherever she walks, the palace sleeps, and life carries on as usual.  A Fire Lord, it seems, can burn his son without consequence.  Katara doesn’t know which possibility she finds more sickening—that Ozai might continue his life as usual, as if Zuko’s injury is of no consequence to him, or (the thought occurs to her some quiet hallways later) that Zuko’s injury might be something that is celebrated.

It’s still too early to know what the extent and end result of Zuko’s injury will be, but Katara reminds herself that as long as infection doesn’t set in, he should survive.

She ponders a world where she would be able to try to heal him, to use her water-wielding to soothe the damage of fire on his flesh.  It is probably far too optimistic, given Iroh’s admonition earlier, but she has two water-flasks hidden under her skirts.

She is prepared for disappointment, to be told that she can’t use her skills to heal Zuko.  The Fire Nation only knows her as a prisoner, as someone who is potentially dangerous but lacks the skill to be truly so.  It doesn’t make sense that they would let her work on the prince without some sort of proof of her ability.  She thinks, absentmindedly, of ways that she could prove herself.

When Katara walks up to the healing-room doors, she finds that no proof is necessary:  they won’t even grant her admittance.

There are no guards, no officials there to block her way, but when she pushes the heavy doors open through silent movement on their hinges, she is met with the harsh, quiet wrath of the Fire Nation nurses, who take one look at her and seem to know and judge her.

There are two women in the room, which is low-lit by a distant fire and several sconces.  It’s warm, and all she can see of Zuko in her first glance is that he’s swathed by blankets and bandages.

The Fire Nation nurses know who she is, Katara finds out, when they look up at the sound of her entrance and one of them addresses her by name.

“Miss Katara,” she says, nodding her head in Katara’s direction, the hat of her uniform moving slightly with the movement. “It is good of you to come and check on the prince.”

“How is he?” Katara asks, stepping nearer.  The room lies heavy with the scent of a potion that bubbles over the fire, and it smells sickly-sweet, strong with herbs that Katara thinks are meant to heal, to seep into the consciousness of the wounded and reach them.

“He hasn’t woken up yet,” the same nurse says, while the other steps forward, as well, mostly blocking Katara’s view of the sickbed.

“I want to help Prince Zuko,” she explains, taking another step toward the nurses, only to find her path completely blocked.

“He doesn’t need any of your kind of help right now,” the other nurse says, and Katara’s anger flares with the insinuation.

“I’m his friend,” she retorts, keeping her voice low only so she doesn’t disturb Zuko’s rest—if it can be called that, at this point. “And I’m here to help. I have experience with healing in my homeland; I can help him.”

“And we have experience with healing here.” The nurse’s words are clipped, and her face holds a sternness to match Katara’s own. “We have our orders, straight from General Iroh, to tend to the prince, and we will do our duty as we see fit.”

“And that does not involve allowing prisoners to take over the prince’s care,” the other adds.

Katara pinches her fingernails into her palms.  She grits her teeth and forces herself to keep her words even.  “I don’t mean to insult your practice, but I am a healer, too, and I’m his friend. I just want to see how he’s doing.”

The Fire Nation nurse’s calm flattery from earlier is gone now, and she glares at Katara with open hostility. “You are not—no one is—permitted to see the prince. You must understand, Miss Katara. He’s unconscious, and nothing you can do will help him right now.”

Katara knows that the nurse is wrong, but she doesn’t know how to further argue her point without revealing the extent of her bending and getting herself locked up, taken away from Zuko, her only friend in this nation, and put into prison again.

She takes a deep breath.  “Of course,” she says.  “I understand.”

She stalks out of the room, fighting angry tears, and it’s only when she’s halfway back to her own quarters that she realizes the nurses said their orders came from General Iroh, and that means that Zuko’s uncle, not his father, is guaranteeing his care.

It makes her sick, almost literally, and she sits on the edge of her bed with a cold-feeling lump welling her stomach for most of the night, staring out the window as the stars pass by, turning from dark night to hazy dawn.

In the morning, Katara picks at her breakfast of porridge and fruit and eats little of it—even the warm, fresh tea seems dull without anyone to share it with.

It feels the most like her prison meals that any meal has since she was released into Ursa’s care.

.

.

.

Soon after she eats, Katara returns to the healing chambers. The nurses have changed their shifts, but their answer is the same—she may not enter, not even to sit by Zuko’s side. It irks her that they deny him even that comfort, even though he wouldn’t be aware of her presence yet. So far as she knows, he has no other friends:  no one from childhood to come sit by him, and with his mother gone, he has no family nearby who cares.

No family except Iroh.  Iroh will care for Zuko, even if she can’t.

With that in mind, Katara plants herself outside the healing-room door and sits. And waits.

As she’d predicted, no one comes to see Zuko, who is alone in the healers’ charge.  The doors don’t open again until Iroh steps out some hours later, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He is deep in thought and doesn’t see her until she steps out of the shadows where she waits.  “General Iroh,” Katara says, approaching him with rapid steps.  “How is Zuko?”

Iroh glances up at her, and although his eyes light with recognition, his frown doesn’t lessen.  “He’s badly burned,” Iroh says bitterly.  “It will be some time before he heals.”

“I tried to go in and help him,” Katara says, “but the nurses wouldn’t let me in.”

Iroh frowns and turns his focus further toward her.  “They didn’t,” he says slowly.  “I ordered that only medical personnel and myself be allowed to see him.  In my haste yesterday, I didn’t think about you.”  He looks at her for a long moment, then lowers his voice.  “I think your healing could help my nephew recover,” he says sadly, “but that may be impossible without drawing too much attention to your increase in skill.  Palace walls talk,” he says, holding up a hand when she starts to protest, “but your simple presence may be of great benefit, and would do no harm to anyone.  I will see what I can do to have them allow you admittance.  Even if you can’t heal him, it will bolster his spirit to have you with him, after he’s awake again, and to know that you were there even when he wasn’t.”

“And you, too, General Iroh,” Katara adds before she remembers herself and tacks on a bow at the end.

Iroh pats her shoulder absentmindedly and turns back to the healing rooms.

.

.

.

Iroh works quickly and effectively, and before long the doors open again and Katara is allowed admittance into the healing rooms.  The nurses still ignore her aside from casting obvious disdainful glances her way, but they allow her to sit on a stool by Zuko’s side.

He’s asleep, and for several days, he doesn’t move.  Katara knows he’s starting to recover when she stops by one evening to find him tossing in fitful dreams she doesn’t want to imagine.

The nurses change his bandages regularly, and she’s always shooed to the other side of the room at those times, but she watches, as she can, from a distance.

The damage is severe.  Zuko will bear a large scar from his father’s wound, and Katara will be surprised if his vision and hearing on the left side go undamaged.  It makes her angry, so angry, that Ozai can do this with impunity.  It’s wrong, how he’s treated Zuko all along, but this is the worst thing of all.  The war room incident wasn’t Zuko’s fault—he’s the most loyal, respectful, honorable person Katara has met in the Fire Nation—and he was just trying to stand up for his nation, for his people.  That Ozai would make him suffer so much for his loyalty makes her insides twist with anger.

In the long, quiet hours she spends at Zuko’s bedside while he tosses in unconsciousness, Katara stares as the blankets rise and fall with his breathing and thinks of what she can do that might make any difference.

She needs to leave; she’s known that all along and she knows that now.  She remembers the conversation she and Zuko had so recently about her returning to her Tribe.  Her bending is getting better, and when the time is right, she will escape and return to her people, to help them fight in the war against the Fire Nation.

She just wishes leaving didn’t mean leaving Zuko behind.  There are some situations in which her staying might be conscionable—a marriage, for instance, or a treaty, or in times of peace.  But now is not any of those times.  Their countries are at war, she is a gilded prisoner, and it is not safe for either of them to stay in the other’s country.

It may not even be safe for Zuko to stay in his own country, soon.  She’s heard the rumors in the times when she’s not in the sickroom—he’ll likely be banished and be removed from the line of succession.

That will crush him, and that knowledge makes her heart ache.  He cares so much—too much, she thinks sadly—for those around him, for his family and his honor and his throne and his home, and now he is about to get his foundation shaken again.  It was shaken when his mother disappeared, and he was only beginning to find his feet, and his purpose, here in the palace.

Now he’s going to lose everything again.

Katara crosses her arms and blinks at the blankets as Zuko moves.  Another nightmare, another round of sighs and moans she can’t decipher or soothe.

She frowns and waits.

.

.

.

The pot of herbs over the fireplace bubbles and has nearly lulled Katara into an absentminded trance when Zuko wakes up.

At first, Katara is happy:  the restless movements of his body in unconsciousness suddenly begin to take on purpose, and his head shakes back and forth.  He groans, and slowly opens his eye—the one she can see, at least.

He’s confused at first, but he’s happy to see her—and then Katara is pushed away from her waiting spot by the nurses who flood to attend him.

So she’s at the perfect vantage point to watch, from a distance, as the memory returns with his wakefulness, the pain sets in as he wakes further, and anger and hurt overtake him.  He’s too weak to walk, or she thinks he might have run to solitude, but he shouts at everyone to leave him alone and his hands shake, his fingers curled in on themselves clawishly, birdlike.

Whether their trembling is caused by anger or illness or fear, Katara doesn’t know—perhaps it’s a combination of all three.

But then he turns to her, through where the nurses have parted to give him some distance before they approach him again for further treatment and care now that he’s awake—and he’s pale, and weak, and the part of his expression she can see looks terrified and angry.  The happiness she saw earlier is gone.

He turns his head toward the nurses, instead of to her.  “I don’t want anyone in the sickroom besides medical personnel,” he says.  His voice cracks from lack of use.  “Get her out of here.”

The nurses, of course, are more than happy to oblige the prince.

Katara walks back to her room, kicks the door to his empty suite on her way there, and curls up on her bed and cries.

She cries until her throat is raw and her muscles are sore, until night has crept further toward day, and the emptiness in her chest throbs until she’s too tired to stay awake any longer and she falls asleep, fully clothed, on top of her blankets.

When she wakes in the morning, a servant from Iroh waits to take her to the retired general’s estate.

Katara follows the servant with apprehension; she likes Iroh, and he has always been kind to her, but her place has changed now—Zuko has changed, or his situation has, at least.  The layers of protection that have been built up over her stay here in the Fire Nation, the ones that keep her out of prison, are slowly being pulled away.

However, if she were to be sent back to prison, she thinks Ozai would be the one to do the job, not Iroh.  He would glory in her discomfort and anger, she is sure of it.

But when she nears Iroh, she doesn’t meet a stern general with orders for her return to prison; instead, she sees Iroh in silhouette, standing with his hands clasped over his stomach, overlooking his gardens.  It’s the same place where she and Zuko joined him before the Agni Kai.  A steaming tea service waits on the table in the center of the room, over a lush carpet.

At Katara’s entrance, Iroh turns to geet her.  Although his smile causes his beard to bush with the movement, it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Miss Katara.”

“General Iroh.”  She bows in response, positioning her hands in the Fire Nation stance rather than the Water Tribe’s.

Iroh extends an arm.  “Please, sit.”

Iroh joins her and pours the tea while Katara waits in silence, watching as the tendrils of steam rise into the air.  It’s peaceful, distracting, and for a moment she can focus on that and forget everything else.

“My nephew awoke yesterday evening,” Iroh says, steadily, over a cup of steaming tea.  “I hear you were there at the time.”

“I was,” Katara says.  It lingers in the lightly steamed, bittersweet air between them that Iroh was not.  In all of the hours he had spent at his nephew’s side since Zuko’s injury, he was not present when the first results of his protection came to fruition.

“Even though my nephew is awake now,” Iroh continues, “he will still need a great deal of time to heal.  The wound my brother gave him is severe.  After he recovers enough to leave bed rest, I am afraid that further unpleasantness awaits him.”  Iroh’s brows furrow in his kind, stern face.  “For his supposed insolence, Fire Lord Ozai has banished Zuko from the capital and is sending him on a mission to find the Avatar and bring him to the Fire Nation as a prisoner.”

“But the Avatar has been missing for years!” Katara exclaims.  “Nearly a century—after the destruction of the Air Nomads, no one has seen or heard from him.”

Iroh nods.  “No new Avatar has appeared, of course, which leads people to think that he is still alive—and it would not be so unusual.  Because of their deep connection to the universe and its elements, many Avatars are unusually long-lived.  Given the many years of his absence, he is obviously skilled at hiding and could be anywhere in the world.  Zuko will need to travel the world over if he wants to complete his mission.  However…there is also the possibility that will need to be taken into account that the last Avatar, the last known airbender, died at any point in the past hundred years—either in the Air Nomad genocide, or at any time after that for any number of reasons.  In that case, the next Avatar will come from the Water Tribe—from your people.”

Katara nods, because she knows this, too, but her heart beats faster and the tips of her fingers tingle as she waits.

“For the past century, since the beginning of the war, the Fire Nation has been conducting raids against all other nations.  They succeeded in destroying the Air Nomads and have consistently raided the Earth Kingdom and both the Northern and Southern Water Tribes.”  His expression is sad and tender, even if his voice is hard, while he speaks to her.  “The Northern Water Tribe was better equipped to fend them off, which is why your people have taken the brunt of so much of the Fire Nation’s violence.  I am afraid that that will not end any time soon.  However, with the North walled up and the South nearly destroyed, the Fire Nation is, at the moment, focusing much of its resources on waging war against the Earth Kingdom, which is much larger and has more territories to defeat and lords to win over, even if the king and the walled fortress of Ba Sing Se still evade them.”

“You fought at Ba Sing Se, didn’t you, General Iroh?”

Iroh pauses for a moment, then nods slowly.  “I led an attack against the walled city several years ago,” is all he says when he answers.

He shakes his head and continues.  “However, what this means is that, likely, the search for the Avatar will early lead my nephew toward your homeland.”  His gaze is keen as he inspects Katara.  “I have never directly heard as much, but I would imagine that a young lady of your mettle harbors hopes of escape.  In your current position as my nephew’s…companion…you will likely be allowed to travel with him, if you wish it.”

“I’d rather that than prison, of course,” Katara replies carefully.

“Of course,” Iroh agrees.  “And while the loss of the last Southern waterbender as a prisoner will be a blow to the Fire Nation’s pride, I am confident that my brother believes he can capture you again if need be.  So you will not harm Zuko much if you escape.  Indeed, his father will find any reason he can to berate and belittle his son, so adding one more item to the list of my nephew’s supposed incompetencies makes no great difference.”

Katara bites down a frown and nods respectfully, instead.  “I will keep your counsel here a secret, General Iroh,” she says.  “I thank you for your generosity.”

Iroh’s face crinkles with half a smile.  “I know you will,” he says.

Katara smiles in return.  Iroh is stern, but he cares for those close to him.  Katara only hopes he’s able to use that in Zuko’s favor, this time around.  He’d tried to use his influence in getting Zuko into the war-meeting in the first place, and look where that had gotten them…although that hadn’t been Iroh’s fault.  Still, she trusts Iroh more than almost anyone else in the Fire Nation, although she knows him little.  Zuko trusts him, and that means that she does, too.

Iroh’s servant escorts her back to the palace and doesn’t seem surprised when she asks to walk through the marketplace—he’s been trained against Iroh’s eccentricities, she supposes.

And Katara enjoys the walk back.  The market is simple, it’s life—and it makes her miss her home terribly.  She wants what these people have—a home, a family.  And she wants them all to have peace.

She is resolved to do what she can to help the world find it.  For now, that means staying by Zuko’s side, if she can, and trying to convince him to undermine his father.  She’s not sure that’s something she can do, but she’ll try.  And later, her role in the war, whatever part she can play, may take a different shape.  Her view of the future keeps changing, and none of it that’s grounded in any sort of reality seems terribly reassuring.

.

.

.

Now that Zuko is awake, things take place quickly.  She barely has time where she could see him, even if he hadn’t sent her away.  The solitude of her days rankles anew.

As she watches a servant pack up the few belongings she’s accumulated here—mainly gifts from Ursa, old clothes of either hers or Azula’s that she deemed fitting to give to her new foreign servant—Katara appreciates the older woman’s kindness and wonders where she is now, if she yet lives.

The plan is to leave in two days’ time, setting off in a navy vessel.  Zuko has been tasked with finding the Avatar.  Iroh volunteered to accompany as an advisor, ostensibly to help Zuko complete his task but also to help him adapt to the role of commanding a ship—something Zuko has studied in his lessons but has never actually done. 

As Iroh had suggested, Katara will come along, too, as Zuko’s concubine.  She still hates the term, she still hates the undercurrent of awkwardness that runs between them because of it, but she is glad that Ozai is sending her away with Zuko.  She had wondered if the Fire Lord would want to keep his prisoner, his prize of the last Southern waterbender, under guard, but he doesn’t perceive her as a threat.  She’s a nuisance to him when he notices her at all, living in his house with his children, and this way he rids himself of two nuisances at once.

As the time of their departure approaches, Katara is a little surprised that she doesn’t see Azula.  She’d expected that the Fire Princess would come by to gloat at least once.  But her hours remain empty.  She sees only servants and, once, Iroh, who comes by to supervise the gathering of Zuko’s belongings.

Zuko will go straight from the healing ward to the ship.

She doesn’t see Azula until she arrives at the docks to board the ship.  Where Ozai is noticeably absent, Azula steps forward from where she stands next to Zuko and Iroh and walks over to Katara.  She leans in, her expression and words bright.  “Have fun on your trip, little waterbender,” she says, all shark-teeth.  “It would be a shame if someone of your particular skill set were lost at sea.”

Katara feels the rush of ice down her spine.  She clenches her jaw and nods slowly.  “Of course, Princess Azula.  I appreciate your well wishes.”

Azula only rolls her eyes and walks away.  “Goodbye, Uncle.  Goodbye, Brother,” she says in that same bright, condescending tone.  “I won’t miss you.”

.

.

.

When they board the ship, Iroh plants himself firmly between Katara and Zuko.  He sends Katara with one of the crew members to guide her to her room while he takes Zuko to inspect the ship.

Katara follows the crewman, who walks ahead of her in orderly silence.  As they walk, Katara takes in her surroundings.  She hasn’t been on a Fire Nation ship since her imprisonment, and she is struck again by how different the make is from a Water Tribe vessel.  Where she should smell wood and pitch, she smells metallic tang.  The salt-scent, though, is the same.

This ship seems massive to Katara, all heavy metal and menace, but when Iroh takes her on a tour of the ship late that afternoon, she learns from him that it is, in fact, quite small for its kind.  It’s an old fighting vessel, pulled out of retirement and refurbished for Zuko’s use.  The modern vessels are larger and have more amenities than this one.

“The crew seems as worn-out as you say the ship is, General Iroh,” Katara observes quietly after they have walked for some time.

Iroh sighs.  “All of the crew members are here on probation, Miss Katara,” he explains, just as quietly.  “They have all been court-martialed for one reason or another, and this method of working out their punishment seemed preferable to prison.”

“But that’s terrible!” Katara exclaims.  Iroh tips his head and she lowers her voice.  “Well, it is. It isn’t fair to treat Zuko that way.”

“Is any of what has happened to my nephew recently fair, Miss Katara?” Iroh asks.

Katara holds her silence then and they keep walking.

.

.

.

Days pass, and Zuko only leaves his room to perform the inspections required of him by his post.  Iroh is his only visitor, and Katara sometimes hears Zuko’s shouts filter indistinctly through the walls or open windows.  She assumes that the silences that follow are filled with his uncle’s quieter replies.

One day, she catches Iroh before he retreats to his own cabin.  “Could I talk to him, do you think?”

“You will remember that he has ordered his complete solitude,” Iroh deflects with a smile.

Katara smiles, too.  “I remember,” she says.

Iroh gestures toward the prince’s firmly-closed door.  “Take your chances as you will, Miss Katara.”

.

.

.

The next morning, Iroh eats his morning meal with Zuko, and Katara knocks on Zuko’s door as soon as Iroh leaves.

“Come in,” Zuko calls, and Katara pushes his door open.  He’s sitting on a mat on the floor, the remnants of breakfast still on the table, staring at the long line of candles set up below the Fire Nation banner that covers one wall.  “Did you forget something, Uncle?” he asks, not bothering to look up at her.

“I’m not your uncle,” she says.

His head jerks up to look at her then, the ponytail that the medics left on his otherwise shaven head swinging with the movement.  “I thought I told you to stay away from me,” he snaps.

“You did,” Katara acknowledges stiffly.

“Then why didn’t you listen?”

“Because, despite what your father says, I’m not your servant or your prisoner and I won’t listen to you when you’re being stupid.”

Zuko, who had turned away from her to stare angrily at the wall after he realized who she was, turns to glare again, shifting his whole body this time.  “I’m not being stupid!”

“You are!” Katara retorts, her voice getting louder as she speaks.  “You can’t just push people away!  You need the people who care about you around you, Zuko.  I just want to help you.”

The candle-flames flare behind him.  “I don’t need your pity!  You can help me by staying away; can’t you see that?”

For a long instant, silence hovers and wax slips toward the table under shuddering flames.

“How?” Katara asks, biting off her words sharply as they fall against the hum of the iron ship.  “How does my staying away help you?  You’re my friend, my only friend here, and I miss you.”

Zuko’s expression turns incredulous for a moment before hardening again.  Staring her down, he looks more like his father with that bitter expression on what she can see of his face than Katara knows he would ever want to.  “We’re going to miss each other.  Forever.  When you’re gone and fighting with the rebels.  Might as well get used to it now.”

“You knew I was planning to leave.  You’ve known, and you never before—  Why does it matter now, of all times?  I’m your friend, I want to help you.  Can’t you…  Can’t we just enjoy what time we have, together?”  She pauses, and he keeps up his stony stare.  She tries to soften her own expression, to tamp her own anger down.  “I haven’t beaten you in a fight yet, anyway.  Not with the ease I’ll need to bring down the Fire Nation when I fight against it.  You owe me more practice.”

He flinches a little.  She’s not sure if he knows he does it.  “I’m worthless to you now.  I’m a cripple.  Fight Uncle if you want a challenge.”  His bitterness is palpable.

She returns his glare with one she hopes would rival the one Gran-Gran gave Sokka when he spilled an entire barrel’s worth of pickled fish.  “I’ll fight you, when you’re ready.”  She hesitates a moment, then adds firmly, “Or maybe before.”

Then she pulls leftover tea from the teapot, douses the candles, and flounces out of the room.

.

.

.

Every day, Zuko performs his duties of inspecting the crew stonily and perfunctorily, doing his best to maintain aloofness and to hide the fact that he spends long hours with his uncle reviewing and learning, in a practical manner, the rules of his role.  He had learned them before, in theoretical lessons from his tutors, but it takes on a new light when he’s really in charge.

He focuses on his role commanding the ship, ignoring all of its inherent slights, because it gives him something to focus on.  He can follow rules, he can follow regulations, and he can do his best to make sure his men and women follow them, too.

So he learns, and he tours the boat each day making inspections.  He spouts sharp orders at people and simmers at the way they try not to stare at his bandages.

He knows they stare openly when his back is turned.

He hears what they say behind his back, when they think he’s far enough away, and it only echoes what he knows in his own head and heart—he’s been banished, he’s a failure, he’s not good enough, this is a fool’s errand.

Zuko knows all of this, but he pores over maps and plots courses with his uncle and relays them to the coxswain, anyway.

He doesn’t think he’ll find the Avatar, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest.

For all that he tries to adjust to his new life, Zuko discovers that everything hurts in ways he didn’t expect it to.  Before his banishment, he never thought he’d seriously have to search for the Avatar—if anything, he thought that any search for the Avatar would be a perfunctory part of his rite of passage, something he was sent on, as his father and uncle had been, as part of his path to claim the throne, with a direct path there upon his return.  Instead, the search stands as a barrier, because this time around, there’s no underlying joke of it being the wild goose chase everyone knows it is.

It’s not the search that’s the joke, this time; it’s him.

His face hurts, more because he knows it should than because it truly does—phantom pain haunts him around his eye, the sensation of burning right at the center as fire flings toward him in his dreams and half-thoughts that send him into cold sweats and too-fast heartbeats—but around the edges of his wound, he truly does feel pain.  Tightness increases as the wound begins to heal and raw skin knits itself over, and he feels as though he’s being stretched into a monster.  He’ll never look the same again, and that knowledge hurts as much as the physical pain.

The ship’s physician attends the wound daily, changing the dressing and applying salves, and the doctor tries to appear hopeful, but Zuko’s no fool—he knows he’s maimed, forever marked for his insolence.

Zuko hasn’t looked in the mirror yet; there aren’t any in his room, and he doesn’t have the desire to ask for one while the bandages are being changed.

He still needs to wear the bandages all the time, but in the moments when they’re being changed, he can tell that he can’t see—and possibly can’t hear—from his left side as well as he used to.  The world is blurred, now, altered, and his demands to know whether or not that is permanent are met with a physician’s annoyingly placating answer that “only time will tell”.

Zuko has all the time in the world, apparently, to heal in exile.

.

.

.

One yellow-sunned morning, Zuko looks at the calendar and realizes they have been at sea for over a month.  His days have fallen into a pattern and he tries not to think of the years that might still linger before his position changes.

Every day, he checks on the crew at certain times, pores over maps in his room and discusses the course with the coxswain, and tries to think where a possibly-(probably)-dead hundred-year-old monk might be hiding.  He spends most of his time in his cabin, hiding from the world.

He’s hiding from Katara, too, although after her initial rebellion against his orders, she persistently stops by and talks to him at least once a day.  He doesn’t talk to her, or barely does, but she stands stubbornly by his door and talks at him, sometimes telling him about the crew or some event—what on earth is Music Night, anyway?—that’s taken place, or some conversation she had, or her family and homeland, or something about the sea or the seasons.

He hates it when she’s in his presence, because nothing between them is as it should be—well, it never was that in the first place.  But neither is it as it could have been, the camaraderie they had established before the Agni Kai.  He is shamed and she is still a prisoner, but even in that position, he still thinks she’s the more worthy of the two.  She doesn’t deserve his friendship; she’s above it—but at least, by coming with him, she’s escaped a literal prison cell.  Here, at his side, she’s only in a figurative one.

He wonders if she’s still training with Iroh in secret and how good she’s gotten.  He thinks of their pact, that she would have to beat him regularly before she could safely escape.  He was never nearly as good as his father or his sister or any of the true masters of firebending, but he was good enough that he posed a challenge at least as great as most that she would meet on her path to freedom.

Zuko never wanted Katara to escape, as much as he never wanted her to stay in prison—which used to make him feel guilty, sometimes, when he pushed his own bending farther to keep beating her as she improved.  But now, none of that matters.  He’s shamed and disgraced and out of practice, and now he has an injury to cope with, besides.  Katara would be able to beat him without even trying.  Even though he knows she’s smart enough to know the difference between how things were when they made the agreement and how things are now, he still feels in his heart that she’s as good as gone already.

He needs to distance himself from her, since she’ll be leaving anyway.  Leaving to use the skills he taught her to fight against his country—against him—in this war.

Maybe he’s just as much of a traitor as his father made him feel when he faced him on the challenge grounds.  He’s supplied the enemy with what’s sure to be a valuable weapon.

Zuko is sitting in his cabin, looking at a closer map of the area they’re approaching and comparing it to the world map he has posted on his wall when Iroh enters.  He knocks first, of course—Iroh still maintains the semblance of civility and propriety on this mission, even though everyone knows nothing is civil or proper about it.

When he sees his uncle, Zuko is a little disappointed that it’s not Katara—he hasn’t seen her yet today—and squashes that thought immediately.  He shouldn’t want to see her; she only brings him pain.

“What is it, Uncle?” Zuko asks.  It comes out gruffer than he’d intended; his uncle is one of the people he’s least mad at, at the moment, but that doesn’t stop the old man from being on the receiving end of a lot of Zuko’s general frustration.

“You need to stop moping, Nephew,” Iroh says.  His voice is quiet, but firm.  Here, for the first time in a long time when dealing with his nephew, Iroh drops his kindly demeanor, and Zuko tenses the muscles in his back, his neck, his arms.  This scolding has been coming for a long time; he’s been waiting to hear about Iroh’s disappointment, too.  At least his uncle is going to berate him in the privacy of his own cabin, not in front of the men Zuko is supposed to command, even though everyone knows they follow Iroh if they follow anyone.  They certainly don’t follow him, the disgraced upstart who has no experience and is supposed to be in charge of this ship.

“You have spent long enough hours poring over maps and barking orders.  Your men are starting to grumble.  You need to take up firebending again.”

That’s not the scolding Zuko was expecting.  He was expecting to be berated for past offenses, for not upholding the standards of his nation.  Instead, his uncle is upset because he thinks he’s been lazy and needs to start firebending again?

Zuko half-turns his head toward Iroh, who stands to his right.  He focuses on his uncle’s sleeve-hems, which are about at eye level from his position.  “What?”

“The men need a leader, not someone who simply appears to shout at them from time to time.  A good leader makes decisions for the men he leads, yes, and he directs them, too, but you need to show them that you’re worthy to direct them.”

Zuko makes a face, but Iroh cuts him off before he can voice his protest.  “You are worthy, Nephew.  You can do this.”

“They’re trapped here, just like I am, Uncle.  What can I do for them?  And I can’t firebend anymore, anyway.”

“I believe you can do more than you think,” Iroh says, “for the men on this ship.  They are here because they are being punished—I believe your initial reading of the ship’s roster told you that much—and some of them are truly nasty people, but many of them are being punished in the same way that you are, for standing up against your father’s cronies.  Give them something to believe in, and show them that the future of the Fire Nation may not lie solely in your father’s clutches.”

Zuko feels a burning lump forming in the back of his throat.  Uncle’s sleeves remain in his focus, little flecks of thread against the cloth.  This mission is hopeless, yet his uncle dares to speak as though it’s not.  “But it does, Uncle,” he says softly, trying not to let his emotions show.

“Only if you let it stay there,” Iroh replies, somewhat more gently.

Zuko can’t believe that.  There can’t be anything he can do here, on this wild goose chase, to help the people around him, or his country.  They’re at war, and even though he’s not sure how he feels about the war—he’s seen what it’s done to his mother, to Katara, and even to him, and he can’t imagine what it’s done to the general populace of the countries they’re fighting—he still can’t see himself doing anything but following, in a less deserving way, in his father’s footsteps.  He is the Fire Nation’s loyal son, and he always has been.  He can’t see any way out of the mess his family has brought them into.

“Now come with me,” Iroh says, in answer to Zuko’s silence.  “You need to start firebending again.”

“But Uncle, I can’t!”  Zuko’s fingers are white where he grips the edges of the low table in front of him.  “I can’t see, my head is still wrapped in bandages, what do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to stop pitying yourself,” Iroh says sternly, “and start looking for what you can do.  And the best way to learn,” he says, with a hint of amusement in his voice that Zuko barely notices, “is by going back to the basics.”

The basics are what Zuko feels like he’s spent his life learning, what his firebending masters always returned him to when it took him too long to learn more difficult moves (although he did learn most of them, eventually, after practice), and it makes him irate to hear that he’s being relegated to them again.  He thought he’d moved beyond that, finally.  But now, after everything, he’s back to them again.

He raises his gaze to glare at his uncle, but Iroh only keeps a level stare and repeats, “Come with me.”

So Zuko does, very begrudgingly.

.

.

.

Zuko expects public humiliation right away—he’s seen the training grounds on the upper decks where the men spar, and he’s surprised when his uncle doesn’t lead them there, but instead takes him downward, down into the metal belly of the ship.

When they walk into the downstairs training room, Zuko is temporarily surprised.  He hadn’t remembered this place existed, although now that he’s here, he remembers seeing it on his initial tour of the ship.  He hadn’t been paying too much attention, though, because he hadn’t been paying much attention to anything at that point, stinging with his own humiliation.

Here, there are no other crewmen and no firebending master save his uncle.  There are only Zuko, Iroh…and Katara.  Zuko hasn’t seen her since their fight, but now she’s here, standing in the middle of the room, working through waterless katas.  She’s wearing the tapered leggings and split tunic of her training clothes; it’s the first time Zuko has seen her wear anything other than her hand-me-down dresses since they boarded ship.  She stops her motions when she notices them and waits where she stands.

“Miss Katara asked if she might train with you,” Iroh says quietly in Zuko’s ear.  “She needs the privacy from the crewmen if she is to practice her art, and she is vastly improved from the beginning of her training, but she could use more.  However, if you do not wish her here, I will ask her to leave, and she will.”

Zuko considers sending her away, as he’s tried to push away all memories of the way things used to be, but…it would be nice to have a sparring partner who isn’t Iroh.

“She can stay,” he says, equally quietly.

He doesn’t think she can hear him, but at that point Katara beams at him from across the room.

.

.

.

Once they begin training, Zuko quickly discovers that sparring isn’t something that’s on the schedule for the first day.  Or the second.  Or even the first month.

Instead, Iroh directs, usually from the corner of the dim, hot metal cavern where he’s set up a pai sho game or a tea-table.  (“In case anyone questions why Miss Katara is down here with us,” Iroh had explained with an expansive wave of his hands when Zuko had questioned the wisdom of having tea set up in a training-room, “I can say that she helps with the tea.”)  At his instructions, Zuko and Katara move through basic forms.  Over and over and over again.  Together, they practice basic firebending stances and the few basic waterbending stances that Iroh was able to teach Katara from his studies and his travels before and during the war.

Zuko works through those ones, too, just like Katara works through the firebending ones with him, and the moves have a different feel to them than the sharp firebending motions he knows.  The waterbending ones have more flow than sharp edges, although he sees where they could have the force of an ocean behind them at the hands of a master.

For a long time, they work without their elements—no fire, no water, just movement.  It feels awkward, not having fire in his hands, in a way that Zuko hadn’t expected.  Before his uncle’s interference, he’d tried firebending on his own, in the privacy of his cabin, so he knows he can still make fire, but somehow he feels like he shouldn’t be able to, not after his failings that got him exiled.  Yet its absence in his exercises leaves him lacking.

He pushes the feeling down and wipes the sweat from his forehead, shifting his foot forward into the next pose Uncle calls out.

Zuko hasn’t touched his swords since his injury, and he misses those, too, but he ignores that urge when it comes.  Better judgment aside, they were always the mark of a lesser man—firebending is the true art form, and those who can do it are better than those who wield other weapons—and he doesn’t want any further reminders of his failures.

Moving in training feels good, as much as Zuko doesn’t want to admit that he likes it better than his self-imposed solitude in his room, and he feels a tinge of relief and anticipation on the day Iroh says, “Next time, we’ll bring down some water for Miss Katara and start putting the elements to use.”

.

.

.

When he’s not training, Zuko still spends most of his time in his cabin, avoiding people when he can.  He misses the outdoors, but unlike at home, being outside means being around his crew.  He sees the rest of his ship when he meets with the coxswain to discuss their course, which at the moment is taking them around the old airbender settlements, the Air Temples.

The Eastern temple was strange and warm, and utterly deserted save an old man who had offered them onion and banana juice, but no clues as to the Avatar’s location.

After that unsuccessful search, they’re traveling toward the Southern Air Temple.

They are in the middle of the seas of the southern Earth Kingdom on the day when Katara comes to Zuko’s cabin shortly after the day’s training and asks him to take a walk with her.  “We used to walk in the gardens all the time,” she says, raising her eyebrow as if in challenge.  “Take a walk on your ship with me now.”

Zuko doesn’t back down from challenges, so he joins her.

They talk little as they walk around the upper decks of the ship.  Zuko finds that it’s largely deserted there, with most of the crewmen working on the lower levels.  There is a man up in the crow’s nest with a spyglass, keeping an eye on the horizon, but other than that, they don’t see many people.

“That’s Sora,” Katara points to the man aloft.  “Not many men volunteer for crow’s nest duty, but he does.  Says he likes the height.”  She waves at Sora, and when he sees her, he waves back.

“He plays the flute at Music Night,” she says, as though that explains her knowledge.

“Oh,” is all Zuko says in reply.  So far, he’s been able to avoid the weekly event that his uncle has dreamed up and called Music Night, but apparently Katara attends.  And enjoys it to some degree.  He doesn’t see the appeal.  At all.  Katara frowns slightly at him but falls silent.

They have been using their elements in their training for a while now, but Iroh still keeps them separate, not letting them spar to test their abilities.  Now that he’s no longer sedentary in his bed or in his room, Zuko is itching for a fight.  He keeps asking his uncle when they’ll fight, but Iroh replies that both of them need to keep working on the basics.

Zuko knows this is probably true, but he doesn’t know why they can’t mix the two together.  His bandages have been removed, for good, and while Iroh and Katara had both done a very good job of not reacting when they’d seen him, he can feel the stares of the crewmen when he ventures abovedeck, and he itches for a fight.  Sparring, at least, would take out that urge with minimal collateral damage.

He gets a fight, unexpectedly, some days later. 

His walks with Katara have become daily habit, and it is early afternoon, bright under a high sun, when they pass a crew member who snickers as they walk past.  Zuko lashes out with fire on instinct and discovers that the man is also a firebender when new fire answers his own.

The fight is over before it really starts, because it quickly devolves into fists and punches rather than firebending, and Katara is shouting at them both to stop and people have noticed before Zuko realizes it.

Everyone is staring, and again for the wrong reasons, just like they stare at his scar.  Zuko recovers his composure, pulling his face into a solemn mask even though he’s still panting from the exertion, and leans in to help the man stand up when he realizes that he’d won.  The sense of satisfaction isn’t nearly as strong as he’d expected.

The man only sneers at him and pulls away from his offered hand.

“Prince Zuko,” Iroh’s voice rings out on the deck.  Zuko freezes.  “Ensign Katashi.”  The other man freezes, too.  “Ensign Katashi, you show your commanding officer the respect he deserves.  Allow him to help you rise.”

Katashi does so, reluctantly, but the tension and bitterness in his face is easy to read.

Iroh looks stern and doesn’t speak any more, but when he turns on his heel and heads back toward their cabins, Zuko follows him, his own posture ramrod-straight and tense and his face flushed with embarrassment.

The men at least make an effort of keeping their comments hushed, but that doesn’t stop him from hearing the amount of respect they think he deserves as their leader in this moment:  none.

.

.

.

Zuko flops down on his bed in frustration and embarrassment and buries his face in his pillow.  He’s going to stay here forever.  Eventually he’ll fall asleep and maybe he’ll never wake up, or wake up from this terrible dream, if he does.

But Iroh is in here with him, staring him down—he knows this without even looking up.  His uncle had made a beeline for Zuko’s cabin, not his own, and looks at him with reproach now.

“What?” Zuko croaks out crankily from where his mouth is mostly buried in pillow.

“Nephew, that is no way to treat a crew member.  Sparring is one thing, but brawling is quite another.  I expect you to run your ship better than that.”

“I don’t want to run a ship,” Zuko mutters.  “I don’t know how.  I can’t.”

There is a pause, and then Iroh says, more gently, “Then let me teach you.  I have never run a ship, it is true, but I know military protocol and I have commanded men before.  The first thing I can tell you is to repeat what I told you before:  you cannot hide in your room forever.  They already think you are a spoiled prince, and refusing to interact with them only convinces them further of that fact.”

“Nothing will stop them from hating me,” Zuko says.  “I saw the ship’s roster as well as you did, Uncle.  I’m their punishment just like they’re mine.”

“Then make the punishment more enjoyable,” Iroh replies.  “Be a leader they can respect, and even if they are only here as a ticket out of prison, even if they don’t really like you—although I suspect most of them could, in the long run—they will follow you, which will make accomplishing any plans of your own much easier, in the end.”

“Today didn’t ruin everything?” Zuko asks miserably.

“No,” Iroh says kindly.  “Today didn’t ruin everything, unless you let it.”

There is a long pause, and Zuko doesn’t move, still hoping he can somehow avoid all of this.  But eventually Iroh says, “Miss Katara and I often walk the decks of the ship in the afternoons.  Perhaps a good start would be for you to join us.  Let the crew see you.  Learn their names.”

Zuko props himself up enough to look at his uncle, and sighs.  “Okay,” he says grumpily.  “I’ll come with you.”

Iroh folds his hands in front of his generous stomach.  “Excellent,” he says.  “We leave in an hour’s time.”

.

.

.

The walk on the decks goes well, all things considered.  The crew still stares at Zuko with the varying levels of malevolence and suspicion that they always have, but they don’t interact with him, and despite his uncle’s warnings, he still doesn’t mind the distance.

Zuko is just beginning to relax, listening without paying much attention as Uncle and Katara chat about upcoming meals and rations, when they come upon Katashi, the man he fought only a few hours earlier.  Katara reaches to squeeze his hand quickly—a shock in itself—and whispers, “Go apologize to him.”

“Huh?”  Zuko nearly stumbles midstep.

“You heard me,” she whispers, pitching her voice even quieter as their walk leads them toward where Katashi is swabbing the deck.  “Go do it.”

Zuko looks to Iroh, who appears to have heard, and when his uncle nods, Zuko flexes his hand where he can still feel the phantom warmth from Katara’s fingers, takes a deep breath, and walks over to the man.

“Ensign Katashi,” he begins.  The man looks up and scowls.  Zuko steels his face into expressionlessness, resisting the urge to scowl back.  “I would like to formally apologize for my behavior this afternoon,” Zuko says.  “It was unbefitting to engage in informal combat with a crew member that way.”

The man stares at him for a moment, then stares over at Iroh, then back at Zuko.  His expression has calmed a little, although he still looks quite mad.  “Yes, Prince Zuko,” is all he says, and holds onto his mop while he executes a swift, stiff bow.

There is a pause between them, and then Zuko nods.  “You may continue your duty,” he says, and walks quickly back over to Iroh and Katara.

“Well done, Nephew,” Iroh says, pitching his voice quiet enough so that no one else on the deck will be able to hear.

Katara smiles at him with a small, encouraging smile and gives his hand another quick squeeze.  Zuko resists the urge to catch her fingers and keep them in his own.

.

.

.

“Guess what?” Katara says as she walks into Zuko’s cabin one evening.

Zuko raises an eyebrow—it’s still an odd feeling, only having one, and figuring out what his face can do with what’s left of its features—and looks at her from his table where he was, as he feels like he always is, looking at maps and trying to figure out where they might find the Avatar.  “What?”

Katara seems excited, and Zuko is starting to learn that that’s rarely a good thing for his nerves.  Katara’s excitement is like Uncle’s excitement—it usually leads to embarrassment or trouble, one way or another.

“It’s Music Night!” she says enthusiastically, clasping her hands in front of her and looking at him expectantly.

“Music Night,” Zuko says slowly.  So far, he’s always managed to avoid what he assumes must be an ear-splitting spectacle by locking himself in his cabin and blatantly ignoring the proceedings.  But with his uncle’s prodding, he has been spending more time among the crew.  It should have occurred to him that Music Night would be a part of the equation.  But, self-delusional or not, it hadn’t.

“Yes,” Katara says, nodding, her hair loops swinging with the motion.  “Come on.”

.

.

.

Music Night is every bit as bad as it sounded like it might be.  It consists of a large part of the crew gathering together on the main deck and singing songs and playing instruments Zuko knows for a fact were not a part of the ship’s original cargo.

He suspects Iroh’s influence and wonders how much Iroh spent of his pension to purchase them.  He’ll have to supervise his uncle on future shopping trips…although that means actually going, and not hiding in his cabin in fear of someone recognizing him as the banished prince or mocking him for his scar.

The songs are rowdy, even the ones that aren’t meant to be, and the selection consists of a mix of traditional Fire Nation songs with a few newer ones peppered in.

Katara sings along, and Zuko wonders just how many of these he’d missed.  Has Uncle been doing them every week since they got on board ship?

Katara is perched next to Iroh, and keeps her distance from the crew, but she seems friendly with some of them.  When one of them hands her a small hand-drum, she takes it willingly and taps out a beat for the next few songs.

In a rare quiet moment, Iroh leans in.  “Would you like to play the tsungi horn along with any of our songs, Prince Zuko?” he asks quietly.  “I am sure Ensign Suma would gladly give up his instrument for your use.” 

“Uncle.  No.”  Zuko packs as much vehemence as he can into his answering whisper.  “I am not going to play the tsungi horn in front of all these people.”  He hasn’t played the tsungi horn in what feels like years, and he never really liked it in the first place.

Iroh smiles at him but doesn’t press the matter, and Zuko settles back in to watch the men finish their evening.  He doesn’t sing along, even when he knows the songs.

.

.

.

When they head back to their cabins afterwards, a few of the men are singing loudly, although Zuko noticed that there was no alcohol present, which is one of the rules of the ship that he’s glad they appear to be following.  Alcohol’s distraction might help morale, but it’s a safety hazard out at sea.

Katara says goodnight to him outside of his cabin, and he stumbles over the words to tell her she’d done a good job playing the drum.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at him.  “I’ve learned some of the songs now.  They’re different than what we sing in the Water Tribe, but it’s nice to be a part of something that brings people together.  Days get long when you’re out at sea.”

“Yeah,” Zuko agrees.  “The days get long.”

Katara sighs.  “And so do nights.  Good night, Zuko,” she says, and before he can ask her what that means, she adds, “I’ll see you for training in the morning.”

.

.

.

Morning training comes, and Katara is pleasantly surprised when, after several sets of katas, Iroh tells her and Zuko that they are going to spar.  They haven’t fought since the palace gardens, and on board ship, Iroh has been working with Zuko on methods to counteract the lasting results of his injury—his inability to see or hear clearly from his left side.  Now, Iroh wants to put those methods to the test.

Katara remembers the last time they fought, and she’d been so close to beating Zuko then, when he was the one teaching her everything she knew.  Now, they both have an instructor beyond their abilities, and she is a quick learner while Zuko is working with new impairments.  But she doesn’t go easy on him; he’d hate her if she did.  When he brings fire, she brings water with equal force and finesse.  Iroh’s insistence on taking things slowly seems to have worked, and the meditation and basic review has helped Katara find her balance.  She feels like she has a better control of her water now and, having trained with some firebending moves, too, knows better how to counter Zuko.

She wins the match, and doesn’t know how proud she should feel.  Zuko has suffered greatly since their last spar and his temper is much more volatile than it was before his injury.

He’s cranky, but he congratulates her along with Iroh and only seems more determined to work on his skills.  They spar a few more times that day, and after both of them have won and lost several rounds, Iroh tells them to call it a day.

“You two have practiced enough for this morning,” he says, coming over to them.  “You are both improving greatly in your control and in your skill.  I am proud of you.”

.

.

.

The next morning, for the first time, Iroh joins them in their exercises and soundly trounces both of them.

It gives them new techniques to think about and counter-attacks to learn.

.

.

.

A few more weeks, and they feel like they’re on somewhat more even footing with him.  His criticism is peppered with praise, and is useful.  From the little Katara had seen of Zuko’s training, she feels like most of the criticism he’d received prior to this was anything but constructive.

At Iroh’s encouragement, Zuko has taken up his swords again, too.

Iroh is still a master with many more years of experience than either of them, and Zuko has still several more years of experience than her, but even without a waterbending master, Katara knows that she’s improving quickly.

She just needs to find a master so that she can learn the right techniques.  She thinks about that, during the long, dark nights when she senses the waves lap against the ship with greater clarity than during the day’s bustle.  She thinks about going home, about joining the war effort, about finding a master and fighting to save her people.

She doesn’t want to leave Zuko, but she doesn’t want to be a prisoner any longer.  She wishes he’d see that his father is wrong and the war is wrong and come with her when she escapes.  The few wishes she sends out to Tui and La the dark usually revolve around those lines.

.

.

.

Tea is one of the things in the Fire Nation that took Katara by surprise.  The tea ceremonies she shares with Iroh and Zuko are a comfortable time between them, and she likes the familiarity.  And the tea itself isn’t bitter or medicinal like the ones brewed in her homeland from the few plants they have available to them; instead, it tastes good.

It tasted good when Yao served it in Ursa’s rooms back in the Fire Nation, and it tastes good when Iroh brews it here on the ship.

She’ll miss this, she thinks a little sadly, when she’s gone.

Katara breathes in the steam and looks toward Iroh, who is talking about the history of the Avatar.  Again.  Because Zuko keeps thinking that he’s missing something in his search, that there’s some way that he could hone his instincts (which have so far yielded no positive results or even any leads) when he chooses where to direct the ship next.

“Do you really think he’s still alive, Uncle?” Zuko asks quietly, after a pause.  “This monk I’m supposed to be looking for?”

Iroh takes his turn at breathing in the steam and contemplates Zuko for a moment.  “The Avatars are known for being notoriously long-lived,” he says slowly, “and it is possible that he is in hiding somewhere, still alive.  He would be just over a century old now, which is not unheard-of for an Avatar.”  His mouth crinkles with a temporary frown.  “Of course,” he adds, as though thinking, “it is also possible that the last known Air Nomad has died, and that the Avatar has come in its next reincarnation.”

“In the Water Tribes,” Zuko says, frowning.

They’ve had this discussion before:  where should they travel?  Discussions of the wider world eventually lead to the Water Tribes, and whenever they talk about the Water Tribes, it always ends with them looking at Katara.

She makes a face.  “I don’t know,” she answers their unspoken question.  “If the Avatar has come to our tribes, I don’t know it.  We don’t have much contact with the Northern Water Tribe—at least, we didn’t for a long time,” she says, and congratulates herself that it’s only a little bitterly, since the Northern Tribe abandoned hers to the war in order to fortify their own defenses, “but I’ve never heard any news of a new Avatar being born there.  And in my Tribe…well, I was the only waterbender.  Isn’t the Avatar supposed to show bending signs even earlier than a normal bender?  The youngest child in the Tribe was three years old when I…left.”  She shakes her head.  “The men have been gone fighting for so long.  The warriors were home when I was there last, but if there are any new waterbenders, they’re still in the womb.”

Another pause.  Iroh looks sad, Zuko looks puzzled.  His anger has diminished some now, at least toward her, but he’s still restless, even more so than he was at the palace.  She thinks making the right choice and joining the resistance would help soothe his distress, but he doesn’t think so, yet—somehow she still hopes Iroh will get to him.

“It’s a funny thing about Avatars and lineage,” Iroh says, slower still, as though mulling and choosing his words carefully.  He places his teacup on the table, and the sound is muted by the constant noise of the ship, rumbling onward.  “For instance, Prince Zuko, did you know that the last Fire Nation Avatar, Avatar Roku, was good friends with Fire Lord Sozin?”

Iroh lifts his cup again, moves his tea mechanically to and from his lips, but his dark gold eyes are trained on Zuko.

Zuko, for his part, looks confused.  "Great-Grandfather Sozin was friends with Avatar Roku?  That doesn't seem possible.  They were on different sides of the war.  Sozin started the war, and I can't see that an Avatar would support it."

Iroh shakes his head with a sad laugh.  "There are many things that don't seem possible in the world, although they are true.  Do you remember how your great-grandfather died, Prince Zuko?"

Zuko had shown Katara the hall of portraits of his ancestors once when they were exploring the palace.  There was a weight in that room that Katara had felt like she couldn’t shake.  All of those years of ruling have come down to Zuko, and he looks up at Iroh now as he answers.  “He lived a long life and he died of old age, peacefully, in his sleep."

Iroh nods, his head bobbing in agreement.  "Yes, Prince Zuko, that is how one of your great-grandfathers died.  Sozin was my grandfather and I remember it well.  But you have more than one great-grandfather, Prince Zuko.  Sozin was your father's grandfather.  Your mother's grandfather was Avatar Roku."

It's a good thing that Zuko wasn't holding his teacup at the time, because he would have dropped it.  He stares at Iroh, wide-eyed.  "What?!"

Katara nearly drops her own teacup, and hastens to try to put it down gently.  Neither man seems to notice her trembling fingers.  She hopes—oh, she hopes—that this is what Zuko will need to leave his mission for the Fire Nation.  He needs to find the Avatar, but he needs to do it in order to be on the Avatar's team, not to capture him and bring him as a prisoner.

"Your mother's grandfather was Avatar Roku," Iroh repeats.  "Roku and Sozin were friends, once.  For the beginning of their lives, they trained together, and remained good friends until Roku was called by the Fire Sages to train as Avatar.  In the time that he was gone, Sozin changed.  The lust for power that had been building up inside of him was allowed to grow unchecked, and he looked for ways that he could overtake the world.  He began the war with a campaign against the Air Nomads—you've heard the propaganda in your history lessons, I'm sure, about how the Air Nomad race was less worthy than that of Fire, because of their 'weaker' element and their detachment from family and earthly possessions.  Once that notion was firmly in place and he had wrought havoc on the Air Nomad people, he expanded it to the other nations.  None were as good as the Fire Nation, and they deserved to either die or serve our people."  Iroh looks at his nephew seriously.  "Just because people are different, Nephew, does not make them bad."

Katara's not sure if Zuko realizes that he glances her way or not, but it’s only a split second before his eyes are back on Iroh, anyway.

"By the time Avatar Roku returned from his training, Fire Lord Sozin had changed and their friendship was only a shell of what it had been in years past.  It was too late for Roku to change his friend's mind, and by the time Sozin and Roku had their final meeting, everything had changed.  Volcanoes were erupting in a great explosion and Roku was trying to defeat the torrent of lava, to keep it from flooding the nearby islands.  The governors of those islands were not firebenders—the law dictating that all rulers and government officials must bend fire came later, partially as a result of this tragedy—and Roku was trying to give the people of those island towns more time to escape.  His own family lived nearby.  Sozin came, but not to aid, although his expert firebending would have helped immensely.  Instead, he confronted Roku, and told him that without his presence, all of his plans were possible."

Iroh sighs.  "You see, Prince Zuko, the Avatar has always stood in the way of the Fire Lord's ambitions.  Sozin left Roku to die in the volcanic tumult, because without Roku, Sozin had more power to do as he pleased.  He spent the rest of his life building his ambitions and working toward taking over the world."  Iroh shakes his head ruefully.  "He also took several trips in search of the same man you are searching for now.  Sozin never found the Air Nomad Avatar, although he tried to kill all his people to ensure his death.  Next came the Water Tribes and the systematic raids on them for the past several decades, once the Air Nomads were destroyed.  Your father and I both had our time searching for the Avatar when we were younger and in training, but nothing serious was expected to come of it.  The Avatar has been as elusive as peace these past hundred years.  But Avatar Roku left behind a widow and a daughter who had married in the village of Hira’a, as well as a granddaughter.  Your mother, the Fire Lady Ursa."

For just a moment, Iroh’s revelation lingers with the smell of tea in the air.

"I have to go," Zuko says suddenly.  He stands up abruptly from the tea table and disappears.

Katara and Iroh sit in silence for some time after Zuko leaves.  Katara is trying to process what she's just learned, and Iroh seems to be studying her.  She imagines that he's patiently biding his time to go search for Zuko—he's good at doing that, she's noticed.  Iroh's age and experience have given him a lot of wisdom in dealing with Zuko and the men on board the ship, although even Iroh still makes mistakes sometimes.  After a few moments, she asks quietly, "Is that why Ozai married Ursa?  Because she was related to the Avatar?"

Iroh nods.  "Yes, Miss Katara," he says in return.  "My brother was not yet in line to be Fire Lord—that was my place, back then.  But he was always ambitious, and he saw an opportunity to centralize power between the Fire Lord's line and the Avatar's descendants.  If he couldn't find the current Avatar, he could marry the granddaughter of the former one, another card he could play when he was making ploys for power."  Iroh's expression is so sad that Katara can barely stand it.  "It worked," he continues, "and it was part of what made our father willing to give him his place on the throne.  There were other parts, too..."  He shakes his head and changes the subject.  "I know what you want for Prince Zuko, Miss Katara," he says.  "I, too, would wish to see him work with the Avatar rather than against him to end this war.  He is a strong young man, although he doesn't see it, and he could do it.  The people are weary, and many would follow him, especially with the Avatar at his side."

.

.

.

The storm that afternoon comes on quickly, as sea-storms sometimes do, and Katara wants to fight it, to help the ship against the waves that are pummeling it.  She's sure she could do something against these elements, but she can't reveal her waterbending.  So she stands on the deck, near the center, and has just been told by Lieutenant Jee to go below deck when Zuko suddenly appears from that very place.  He's sweaty and looks angry, and she realizes now where he'd gone to when he disappeared from Iroh's teatime:  he'd gone down to the training room to practice firebending.

He goes quickly to the few men who are directing on deck, and an officer offers plans for what to do to avoid the storm.  The safest way out of the storm veers them off course.  The angry light in Zuko's eyes doesn't change, but there is only a little hesitation when he commands the ship to turn in the direction that will take them most safely out of the storm's way.

A cry cuts through the storm’s confusion and the helmsman captures everyone’s attention when he falls from his lightning-stricken post.  He dangles by one hand, and Zuko doesn’t hesitate at all when he begins to climb the ladder to reach him.  The man falls, and Zuko catches him before he crashes to the deck below.

Soon, everyone is safely on deck, and the storm overwhelms everyone’s attention again, but those few perilous minutes change the air on board.

Katara notices it quickly, and she hears the word spread.  The spoiled brat of a prince chose to try to save the crew's lives over following his course, and he risked his own life to save the helmsman's.  The men regard him with a little more respect, after that.

.

.

.

A few days later, Katara and Zuko spar again under Iroh's direction.  Katara wins more and more often.  Zuko is good, and improving, but so is she, even when working with moves that are largely borrowed from an element that is not her own.  She beats Zuko about half the time now, and she has begun to think about what this means.  She can leave soon.  She's good enough to defend herself against many things, and to conquer others.

The only problem is that, while she’d love to leave her imprisonment, she really doesn’t want to leave Zuko behind.

.

.

.

Katara tries to think about how to tell Zuko about her impending departure, and sometimes she wonders if she should just disappear into the night.  But she can't do that—she saw how hurt he was over his mother's disappearance, and while she doesn't pretend she has nearly that kind of sway in his life, she can't leave without saying goodbye.  She needs to be honest with him, and show him that she's on his side, even if she's leaving him.

But he is surprisingly scarce, after Iroh’s revelation at their teatime.  She wants to hear Zuko’s thoughts on the matter.  She finds herself thinking that he used to tell her things before his injury, but now, he keeps secrets.  But she doesn’t think he’s keeping them specifically from her.  He always looks troubled when she sees him, in a different way from before, and he keeps to himself.

When she goes looking for him these days, she often either finds him with some of the crewmen, poring over maps and discussing possible courses, or in the training room, pummeling fireballs against the walls.

A few times, she asks to join in, and he lets her, but unless Iroh is directing them, Zuko is distracted and she wins easily.  It doesn’t seem to upset him, which worries her even more.

The other times, she stands there for a moment and watches as flames fly.  In the end, she decides that it’s best to leave him to his fire and his thoughts.

.

.

.

About a week has passed since the revelation of Zuko's parentage when Zuko approaches Katara on one of her walks around the decks.  She has spent much of her time on board walking the in the open, with Zuko or Iroh or on her own—she loves the feel of the sea near her, of being near her element.  It helps with the homesickness, sometimes, and gives her courage at the thought of the fight, at others.

Zuko approaches her with hesitation, and she regrets again everything that has changed between them.  Perhaps their circumstances have only twisted them into what they were meant to be—she, a prisoner with goals of escape, and he, a prince with kingly ambitions.

Perhaps in troubled times, all kings’ faces wear such confused expressions.

"Can I join you?" he asks, and she nods.  She misses him—this whole trip, despite their close proximity, she's been missing him.

They walk for a time in silence, and the waves beat at the sides of the ship below them.  It is calm now, a far cry from the recent heavy storm, and the ship chugs its way through low waves in the vast expanse of water.

"You haven't mentioned it lately," Zuko begins, once they're out of earshot of any crewmen, "but I assume you're still planning your trip to the Water Tribe."

Katara glances up at him, startled.  She hadn't expected him to be so direct, but then, isn't this the openness she's been missing?  "Yes," she says, also quietly.  "I think you'd agree that our terms are met now, don't you?"

Zuko clears his throat.  "Yes," he says roughly.  "You've gotten very good under Iroh's tutelage."

Katara looks up at him again and places a light hand on his arm.  Just for a few seconds, and he doesn't flinch away.  "So have you," she says.  "You've learned a lot of new techniques on this trip, and you've assimilated them well into your arsenal of moves."

"Uncle’s a good teacher," Zuko deflects.

"He is," Katara allows, "but you're also a good firebender."

Zuko stares at the waves before them.

He clears his throat again.  "Look, Katara," he says as they continue their walk, "I've been thinking about—about what Uncle said, about the history of the Avatar and the Fire Lord.  And I've been thinking about my father and about...my mother...and about the Fire Nation."  He takes a deep breath.  "And I think, I think my mother was right.  About the Fire Lord not always being right.  And maybe...maybe there are other things to fight for."  He shakes his head.  "Look what fighting for my father, trying to be his good son, got me."  He scoffs.  "It turned me into a monster, and I've been sent out here to lick my wounds."

"Zuko..."  He still won't look at her, and Katara settles for saying, "It's possible to be loyal to the Fire Nation without being loyal to your father."

Zuko swallows hard.  "I know," he says.  "I think I finally know that.  But it would mean...it would mean giving everything up.  Leaving everything to chance.  Making my banishment permanent."

He's stopped walking now, and is gripping the railing of the upper deck where they were walking.  The skin on his knuckles is taut and white where his fingers wrap around the metal rail, and he gazes fixedly out at the horizon.

Katara takes a position next to him, and waits.

“So your trip to the South Pole,” he continues finally.  “How would you feel about me joining you?”

.

.

.

“There is a strong possibility that the Southern Water Tribe will not accept you,” Iroh says, in the middle of the lecture he’s giving to both Zuko and Katara as they meet in his room, drinking tea together for what will be the last time in a long time, but hopefully not the last time ever.  “You are an enemy prince, the son of an enemy who has done them much damage.  They may make you a prisoner, as your family did with Katara.  Or they may kill you.  You can’t be sure, Nephew.”

“I know,” Zuko says, looking pale but determined.  “But…I don’t know what else I can do.  This—this ship, this mission, it doesn’t mean anything.  It’s…everyone know I was sent here to keep me away from my father and the throne, not because anyone thinks there’s a real chance I could regain it.”  He swallows thickly.  “I can’t just abandon ship without a plan.  If Katara and I just left the ship with nowhere to go, we’d be lost.  We can’t do anything on our own.  But if we…if I…could join already-established forces, I might be able to do something.  I might be able to help end the war, and at least make up a little bit for what the Fire Nation has done to the other nations, for whatever happened to my…”

He blinks rapidly and falls into silence.

Iroh does not hide his tears, but rather gives both Zuko and Katara long hugs.  He’s lectured them on the dangers of the trip and given them provisions and a map to guide them into the cold waters of the South Pole to find Katara’s tribe.

They’ve made a plan together, all three of them, at least for this first step.  Zuko and Katara will leave the ship during the night, and Iroh will lead the ship back to the Fire Nation, taking responsibility for Zuko’s defection.  They all refuse to discuss the possibility that he might die, as well as Zuko.  He plans on prison, he’s said, or some sort of exile, and he says he’s prepared to face that.  He has friends all over the world, he’d added with a small smile, although neither Katara nor Zuko knows quite what that means.

When night falls, they wait until the change of watch on deck and sneak out with their small packs.

Iroh stands guard on the star-dark deck while they climb down a rope ladder to one of the dinghies strapped to the side of the vessel.

The sea is calm, which both eases and hinders their journey:  calm seas offer Katara less resistance as she maneuvers their boat, but the still, wide stretch of water increases their chances of being spotted in their escape.

The moon is waning toward new, which Katara has explained decreases her powers but also gives them a better cover of darkness when they travel at night.

Iroh helps them launch the boat from the side of the ship at the time they've planned, at the change of the watch when there is the least chance of getting caught, and he offers advice through his tears, last words on sailing and good luck, rather than being overly sentimental.  But Zuko does hear the last words he offers on the wind, words of love that make his heart ache.

It’s only gradually that Zuko realizes they are moving away from the ship with greater speed than the waves could possibly grant them, and he looks up from where his gaze had fixed on his own fingers, knuckle-skin stretched thin as he grips the side of the boat, to see Katara moving her arms to reach out to the water, to work with the current and the waves.

When she sees him looking at her, she offers a small smile, a flash of dim white teeth against the dark.  “When you’re ready,” she says, “you can row.  We’ll work together tonight and then start taking shifts.”

Zuko moves mechanically, moves the oars into position, and starts rowing.  He throws himself into the motion and loses himself in the repetitive thwack of wood on water.  It’s only hours later, after they’ve exhausted themselves and there is nothing but open ocean to be seen around them as the sun crests the watery horizon, that Zuko allows himself to realize what he’s done.

Now that he’s irrevocably become a traitor to the Fire Nation, a sort of clarity lurks around the edges of his decision, and maybe someday he’ll see how the last year or years have been leading up to this, but it still feels surreal and he still feels like he’s going to vomit.

He passes out instead, and wakes up to midday sunshine and Katara still working, although with less absolute concentration than during the previous night.  She's harbored him along the bottom of the boat, covered with one of the blankets Iroh gave them.

She looks at him when he wakes up and smiles.  "You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, frowning.  "I think so."

"You passed out," she explains further, leaving off the motion of her waterbending for a moment to come and kneel next to him.  "Here, drink some of this."  She hands him a waterskin and he drinks, although he remembers to cut himself off before he drinks too much.  They don't know how long they'll be out here, and they need to preserve well what water they have.

"Thanks," he says.  His voice sounds harsh and ragged, even to his own ears.

Katara smiles at him again, says, "You're welcome," and gets back to work.  After a few minutes, when he feels well enough to rise and has assured himself that it's only the motion of the ship, not the roiling of his insides, that is moving him at the moment, he goes to stand next to her.

"You've been working all night," he says.  "You should get some rest."

“Thanks,” she says, moving to claim the blanket he’d abandoned.  She pulls it over herself as he settles down to row.  “Wake me up at sunset if I don’t wake before then.”

.

.

.

Hours turn into days, and their course continues, as nearly as they can tell, directly toward the Southern Water Tribe.  The weather quickly turns bitter.

"Thank goodness it's not full winter," Katara mutters early one morning, pulling a blanket more tightly around her shoulders as she accepts the warmed porridge that Zuko offers her in their usual tradeoff of duties before he takes the day shift.  "I don't think we could make it then."

Even so, the tinge of cold in the air increases as they approach the Tribe's antarctic waters.  Zuko is thankful for every ounce of sunshine he gets, and he tries to balance his daily work of moving the boat forward with reserving his energy and maintaining his chi.

The boat is small, and meditation is difficult sometimes, both with the discomfort of their circumstances and with the looming prospect of the unknown ahead of him, but he manages to do it.  He thinks Uncle would be proud, and then he tries not to think about uncle because of the lump that wells up in his throat when he does.

This is the first time that he's ever been alone, on his own, and he and Katara settle into a rhythm of sorts.  She rests during parts of the day; he rests during parts of the night.  She uses her waterbending to propel them toward her home while the moon hangs high in the sky; he uses what energy he can eke from the sun to move them with the oars or sails in the daytime.

When they're both awake, they talk sometimes, but often they just sit in quiet.  They've already talked about the possibilities of the future with Iroh; it doesn't always make sense to rehash the unknown.

Still, one evening when the progressively-paler sun casts its light toward the distance from the horizon, Katara pulls a blanket around her shoulders and comes to sit next to him.  The wind is brisk today, so they are using the dinghy's sails.  It's less work, at the moment, than rowing, and while the wind holds steady, they have a moment of quiet together.

"Zuko," Katara says carefully, pushing her breeze-blown hair loops out of her face and looking out into the distance, toward her Tribe, "Have you ever wanted something you couldn't have?"

Zuko looks at her curiously.  She continues to stare toward the horizon, and her hands are twisted in the blanket around her shoulders.  He feels like that's the story of his life, to want what he can't have.  He couldn't have peace, or his family's love, or friends, or his mother’s presence…  "Yeah," he says after a moment of silence.  "Yeah, I've done that."

Katara lets quietness lie between them for a moment, and when she speaks again, her own voice is so quiet and thoughtful that Zuko can barely hear her over the sound of the waves and the wind.  "So would you be mad at me if I kissed you?"

The words fall into the background noise between them, and Zuko blinks, feels as if the air has been punched out of him.

"Uh.  No," he manages to stutter out when he can find his voice.  "No, I wouldn't be mad at you if you...did that."  He can't quite make himself say it.  (He's still not sure if he's dreaming.  He's heard that too much time at sea can cause quite vivid hallucinations.)

Katara has turned to look at him now, her wide blue eyes serious in the evening light.  “Okay,” she says, nodding slightly.  “Okay.”  She lets the blanket fall away from her shoulders, despite the air’s chill, when she shifts her position and reaches out and places her hands, very carefully, on Zuko’s upper arms.  She leans in, and after a quick half-breath of a moment, he leans in and meets her lips with his.

The kiss is not at all practiced or skilled or long, but after it’s over, Katara blinks, looks a little surprised herself, and manages a somewhat rueful smile.  “I like you, and I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” she says, her hands still resting on his arms.  “But I couldn’t, not while…not while I was under your power in any way.  Not when I was your concubine, or your family’s prisoner.  But we’re out at sea now, both of us escaped from what was holding us.  We’re on more equal footing.”  She smiles more fully and adds, “And now I can kick your behind if I need to.”

Zuko's throat feels too dry, but somehow he manages to make his voice make words.  "We're on a boat surrounded by water and we're traveling away from the equator.  I'm pretty sure you could do whatever you wanted to."

He stumbles to add, "With waterbending, I mean."

Katara giggles, a lighter sound than he feels like he's heard for days.  "Yeah," she agrees.  "Yeah."

Then she leans in and kisses him again, and it's all careful and awkward until it's not, until Katara finally leans back and slides her hands down Zuko’s arms to grasp his hands in hers.  "It's getting late," she says, tipping her head up toward the rising moon.  "I should move us forward."

Zuko swallows hard.  "Yeah," he says reluctantly.  "Yeah, you're right."

He settles under the blankets opposite her like every other night, but it's a long time before he falls asleep.

.

.

.

The pattern of their days changes little, but a new hope spreads between them in the last days of their journey, in held hands and kisses that close the gaps in their shared loneliness.  The closeness might only last as long as they’re at sea, as long as they have no claims of country or family pulling at them, but for now they allow themselves half-spoken sentiments they can’t quite express with the weight of the journey upon them.

Still, there's a small comfort in pretending, in allowing themselves the indulgent thought that they might have a future together, even if it’s as renegades, just for this time.

Iroh had helped them prepare well, and they ration their supplies tightly, so they're hungry but still have food left when the Southern Water Tribe comes into sight on the horizon.

It feels like a dream, and Zuko continues his course of directing the ship toward the outpost until Katara pulls at his shoulders and kisses him with determination.  When she pulls back, he can see the fear in her eyes.  "I care about you," she says quietly, "and I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe."

"You don't have to," he says just as quietly.  "I knew the risks when I came here."

"But you came here for me," she insists, "because you wanted to take me home.  You could have gone elsewhere to join the Avatar’s allies, but you came here because I was with you."

Zuko can't deny it, so he just nods against the lump in his throat.  "Yeah," he says.  "I guess I did."

"You took care of me when I was in your home," Katara says.  "I'm going to do my best to take care of you, too."

"Thank you," Zuko says humbly, bowing his head for a moment.  He feels the fleeting touch of Katara's fingers on his unscarred cheek, and then the moment passes and Katara joins him in his work as they wend the vessel through the water toward the icy shores of the Southern Water Tribe.

Chapter Text

maelstrom :: (noun) :: turbulence; violent turmoil.

.

.

.

At first glance, the land at the South Pole appears to be less land and more ice.  When Zuko makes this observation aloud, Katara pauses her waterbending and the boat drifts for a moment while she looks at the shore, then laughs.

“You’re right,” she says.  “This time of year, it definitely does.  But there’s land under there.  We see some of it in the warmer months.”  Her arms move again, as does the water beneath the dinghy, and they pull closer to the land mass.

The wind whips along with the waves at the shoreline, and, after some discussion, they decide to make their way through the shallows until they reach a docking point.

“It will be better if I can find something familiar, and we can look for the Tribe from there.  We move around,” Katara explains, “and pitch our tents in different places at different times of the year, sometimes different places from year to year.”  She shakes her head.  “With all the snow, we don’t have many chances for farming, and if we move, it makes it harder for enemy soldiers to find us.  A little harder, at least.  There’s a boat, too—an old Fire Nation vessel that was left behind years ago, when my grandmother was young.”  She sighs, the laughter at seeing her homeland again gone now from her chapped lips.

Zuko reaches for her, rests a hand on her arm, and she gives him a small smile, grateful.  She changes the subject.  “And the men hunt.  So they have small docking points at different places on the Pole.  If we can find even one of them, I’ll have a better idea of where we are.”

After two more days of water travel and the coldest weather Zuko has ever known, they reach not just a mooring post but a dock, and Katara brings them close to it before Zuko ties the rope to moor it.

"Here," Katara says. "We're near the village now, or at least, where the settlement used to be.  See this sign on the post?"  She points to a carved squiggle near the top.  “It stands for the arctic hippo because this is where the men leave for their summer hunts.”

The remainder of their meager food supply they pack into their pockets, and they each wrap a blanket around their shoulders to fight the cold as best they can.  The rest of the blankets and the oars stay in the boat.

Katara climbs ashore and reaches out to Zuko, clasping his mittened hand in her own.  They clamber over the dock to a more secure place on the ice-slick rocks and, looking around him, Zuko feels another wave of lightheadedness hit him.  He’s made his decision and now he’s about to see the beginning of its outcome.

Beside him, Katara closes her eyes and breathes deeply, in and out several times.  When she opens her eyes again, Zuko asks, “Does the air here hurt your lungs, too?”  It doesn’t seem like the right thing to say, but maybe the tightness in his chest is just his own nerves.  He doesn’t know what he should say at this point.

“Yes,” she answers.  “It always does when it’s this cold.”  She smiles kindly again and reaches out to take his hand.  “Come on.  I think I know where to find the Tribe.”

.

.

.

Zuko isn’t sure how much longer they walk before they see smoke in the distance.  His sense of the sun and of time are distorted here at the bottom of the world, surrounded above and below by white-grey blustering clouds and spreading snow.

His face is sore where the air hits it, and he almost thinks he can feel the stretch of skin his scar covers again, a phantom of bodily warmth where the cold doesn’t bite.

He sees the smoke just when Katara does, because she jumps in place and points with the mittened hand not holding his.  “Look!  To the right!”

“Your village?” he asks, although he doesn’t want to think about what else it could be—an attack he didn’t know about from his own people, if Iroh returned to the capital and Ozai sent a ship…  But Zuko doesn’t think he’s that important, in the grand scheme of things, at least not from his father’s perspective.

Katara stands on her tiptoes like that will help her and squints.  “Yes, I think it is.”

Even the wind can’t muffle the excitement in her voice.

They walk more quickly, and the wisps of smoke widen to become large columns rising from holes in the roof of a long tent, itself surrounded by smaller tents and snow structures.

Life, here on the ice.  The realization strikes Zuko of how small this settlement is, compared to what it could be, to what it used to be, if he remembers anything from his history tutelage.

As they get closer, Zuko can see buildings through the falling snow, but no people.

“Where is everybody?” he asks, a sense of dread settling more firmly in his stomach.  He might not come out of today alive, and perhaps that’s what will happen if there is any justice in the world.

“In the main lodge, probably,” Katara answers.  “It’s almost time for dinner, and we spend most of our days there, anyway, in the cooler months.  Everyone can work together around the fires.”

“What sort of work?” Zuko asks.  He has only ever viewed any type of work for subsistence from a distance.

“Mending.”  Katara laughs a little.  “Spinning, weaving, carving, repairing weapons or anything else that needs it…”  She shrugs.  “Life things.”

Zuko nods.  “Life things,” he repeats.  “Okay.”

They walk the rest of the way in the quiet companionship of, out of breath from fighting the snow around their ankles and from tingling flares of nerves.

The village that had seemed serene under the early spring snow’s thrall from a distance is still largely quiet, but Zuko notices a young man running toward them, spear in hand.

Katara notices him, too, and stops walking for a moment, watching.  Then the expression on her face transforms to something like joy and she starts running, too, shouting.  “Sokka!  Sokka!  It’s me!”

Her brother’s name, Zuko remembers, and follows Katara’s eager footfalls at a slower pace.

Sokka pauses for a moment just before he reaches her, looking at her as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.  Zuko is close enough to hear:  “Katara?”  Sokka’s voice cracks a little as he forms his sister’s name.  “Katara, is that really you?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Katara says, and hurls herself at Sokka.

By the time Zuko reaches them, Katara is wrapped tightly in her brother’s arms and both siblings are crying.

They release each other from the embrace, but Sokka keeps a hand on his sister’s shoulder, like he still can’t believe she’s here.

“We thought we’d never see you again,” he says in a broken half-whisper.  “We thought you were gone for good.  People don’t come back from…from there.”

“But I’m back,” Katara replies, squeezing his arm near her shoulder.  “I’m here now, and I’m safe.”  She wipes her eyes with her free hand.  “What about you?  Is everyone okay?  What’s happened while I’ve been gone?  Has the Fire Nation come again?  Is everyone okay?”

"Everyone's okay," Sokka says, pulling her in for another hug as he talks.  "No Fire Nation, only snowstorms.  But you, are you really okay?"

"Yeah," Katara says with a sniffle, squeezing him tight.  "Yeah, I'm really okay.  I mean, they put me in prison and I never want to go to prison ever again, but...yeah, I'm fine and I'm glad to be home again.  I wouldn’t be here without Zuko,” she says, pulling back and angling herself to include Zuko in their conversation for the first time.  “He helped me escape.”

Sokka tilts his head toward Zuko, looking at him closely for the first time.  It stretches long and Zuko can feel Sokka’s emanating disapproval.  “Zuko, huh?” Sokka says finally.  “So, Katara, is it any coincidence that the man who brought you home has the same name as the prince of the Fire Nation?”

“Not a coincidence,” Katara says, “because he is the prince of the Fire Nation.”  Before Sokka can respond, she rushes on.  “Banished prince.  The Fire Lord sent him on a mission to find the Avatar as punishment and he can’t return home until he does, but…he really ruined it all by leaving his ship.  He’s here to fight against the Fire Lord.  He wants to help us.  He knows things that can help us, how the Fire Nation works.”

"Right," Sokka says, his tone ringing false as he metes out his words with careful measure.  "So we're just supposed to believe that the Fire Nation prince turned his back on his family and his homeland because...what?  He had a sudden change of heart after being raised by bloodthirsty barbarians?"

The words sting Zuko more than they should; after all, it’s what he was taught to think of the Water Tribes.

Katara shakes her head.   "That's not it, Sokka.  He's...  It's his story to tell, but I trust him.  He’s not like his father.  He wants to find the Avatar and help us win the war.”

Sokka lets out a put-upon sigh, picks up the spear he dropped to hug Katara, and stalks toward Zuko.  "You," Sokka says, pointing at the other boy with the spear, "come with me and you'd better have a good explanation as to why you're here.  Because the last time the Fire Nation came, they took my sister away.  You'd better have a very good reason why you're bringing her back and why you're here, too."

"I can give answers to any questions you want to ask me," Zuko says, surprised his voice sounds as sure as it does.  "Take me to the chief; I know I’ll have to answer to him and to the Tribe."

"Darn right," Sokka mutters, and turns on his heel and begins stalking through the snow toward the clutch of huts and igloos in the distance.  Katara follows him closely.

“Where were you today, anyway?” she asks Sokka.  “How did you see us?”

“I was in my lookout tower!”  Sokka nods vaguely in the direction from which he had come running, and Zuko assumes he’s talking about the tall snow structure set off to one side of the village.  “I wasn’t even supposed to be there today, but one of the boys broke a spear when we were practicing yesterday and so I fixed it today and I went there to put it back and I saw you and…and…  I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I was,” he finishes, seemingly unable to find more words.  It hangs in the air between them for an instant:  you aren’t supposed to be here, but you are.

“We’ve got to find Mom and Dad,” Sokka says finally.  “They’ll be so happy to see you.”

Zuko follows at a slight distance, but then Sokka stops and turns around.  "Come on, Fire Boy, or your feet will freeze.  Those shoes are terrible for the snow and Tui only knows how long you two have been walking already."

Zuko nods and follows the siblings into their village.

.

.

.

They reach the central structure of the village quickly and Zuko watches as Sokka pushes open the wood-framed door to the large tent and walks inside.  Sokka’s hand is still tight around Katara’s, and the spear is slung through the leather loops of a small pack so that his other hand is free.  He has it wrapped around Zuko’s wrist, where it’s been ever since they passed the first humble dwelling, but Zuko doesn’t fight the indignity.  He follows and is glad of the sudden rush of warmer air as they enter, the fires that burn, the lack of wind inside the tent.

In the din of crackling wood, clicking tools, and shouting children—it looks like everything Katara had described and still nothing like Zuko had pictured—no one looks up at their entrance, so Sokka shouts, “Hey, look who I found!” and keeps walking with Katara toward an older woman.

When she looks up, Zuko sees the family resemblance and his eyes catch on beads that match Katara’s braided into her dark hair.

Sokka stops, releases his sister, and watches with Zuko as she runs to her mother.

.

.

.

The blur of recognition and hugs and tears passes in loud minutes, and Zuko stands beside Sokka, watching as Katara is welcomed back to her people.

Where she belongs.

Attention turns to him slowly, starting with Katara’s mother after Katara points him out, but before he fully realizes what’s happening, all eyes in the tent are on him.

He stands still and waits, the knot in his stomach growing tighter and his pulse beating faster, as a man approaches him.

“That’s my dad,” Sokka supplies, loudly and somewhat cheerfully, letting go of Zuko’s wrist to push him forward.  “He’s the chief.”

Zuko drops into a low bow.

.

.

.

“Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation,” Hakoda says, and his voice holds the promise of all the sharpness of Sokka’s spear.

Zuko breathes in the smell of dirt beneath his nose and tries to focus.

“Rise.”

Zuko does, and a quick command from the chief has him surrounded by a handful of warriors with spears trained on him.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m here to find the Avatar.”  Zuko manages to keep his voice mostly steady, but he glances over at Katara after he speaks.

“Don’t look at her.  Look at me.”  Hakoda remains with his arms crossed, gaze steely.  “I assume my daughter already knows why you’re here.  I don’t.  And it is something I am very, very interested in finding out.”

“Dad, he’s—” Katara starts, but Hakoda holds up a hand to stop her.  She worries her lip and takes a step back, narrowing her eyes.

“I want him to tell me first, Katara,” Hakoda says.  “Enemy’s defense first.  Then I’ll hear what you have to say and see if your stories match.”

Silence stretches, so Zuko clears his throat and continues.  “I’m here to find the Avatar and help him bring peace to the world.”

“Why come here?  You could have gone anywhere.”

“I did.  Well, not everywhere, but a lot of places.  I searched parts of the Earth Kingdom and some of the old Air Temples and we were headed for this part of the world.  And…”  Zuko stumbles over his words, trying to find the right ones.  Years of practicing oration with tutors have done nothing for his ease or skill here.  “And I wanted to bring Katara home,” he says finally, which is close enough to the truth.  If she can’t be with him, he wants to know she’s with other people who love her.

“Is she still a prisoner of the Fire Nation?”

“No.”  Zuko shakes his head and tries to choose his next words carefully.  “She was released into my custody by Fire Lord Ozai some months ago, when we left the Fire Nation, and…she was never my prisoner.  I never would have stopped her if she wanted to leave.  I helped her,” he adds, hoping that fact helps him, “when the time was right.”

“So it took her all this time to want to leave.”

“No, sir.  She always wanted to leave.  But she never had feasible opportunity before she improved her bending and before my ship approached the South Pole.”

When he mentions Katara’s bending, hushed whispers run through the crowd, and Katara draws some of the attention away from him.

“I see,” is all Hakoda says, and he stands pondering Zuko for a long moment more.

“Dad,” Katara begins again, and Hakoda turns to her, nodding for her to speak.  “He’s telling the truth,” she says.  “He wants to help end the war.”

“We’ll talk in private,” Hakoda says.  “Bato!” he calls, and one of the warriors that surround Zuko steps forward.  “Take Prince Zuko to your tent for the evening.  Keep a close eye on him.  We’ll hold a trial tomorrow morning.”  He turns back to Zuko.  “Your fate will be decided by what my daughter says tonight and by what you say tomorrow.  Eat some stew now.  I’m sure you’re both hungry.  Get some sleep tonight, if you can.”

Zuko eats silently beside Bato in one corner of the tent, away from where the families eat their dinner.  The stew tastes strange and bland, but he’s too hungry to fully notice or care.  After he eats, Bato nods and says, “Come with me.”

Katara’s worried expression follows Zuko as he follows Bato out into the new-fallen darkness.  The snow has stopped, but the cold still cuts into his skin.  When they reach Bato’s own small tent, Zuko shuffles under the pile of furs Bato points out to him and tries to go to sleep.  It doesn't work, with the feeling of tension that fills him.  He knows he’s being watched and he's afraid of making any wrong move.

And with the looks Bato shoots his way, Zuko is also a little worried he might be murdered in his sleep.

Not that he wouldn't deserve it, not with what his country's done, what his family’s done.

But Bato doesn’t move, either to to harm him or to sleep.  He only whittles near the fire, and eventually the rhythmic scritch of knife against wood and overwhelming exhaustion combine and Zuko sleeps.

.

.

.

The next morning, Zuko awakens with confusion.  It takes him a long moment before he realizes where he is, and when he does, all of his tension from the night before returns.  He sits up and blinks at his surroundings.  Eventually he sees Bato, who doesn’t appear to have moved from his fireside position the night before, and says, “Good morning.”

He can at least try to be polite.

Bato nods, then stands and says, “Follow me.”

They walk back to the lodge together.  The morning is still dark, but Zuko wants to think that he can feel the sun just beyond the edge of the horizon.  His breath tastes stale as it puffs into the cold air around him.

He can hear the noise of the people this time as they approach the main tent.  Maybe it’s because he was there yesterday and knows what noises to listen for, what sounds the Water Tribe makes in community.  Maybe it’s because the wind is less strong than it was yesterday.  He doesn’t know for sure.

When he steps through the doorway, Katara is there, waiting for him.  She squeezes his hand and ignores Bato’s impatient look.  “Good luck,” she says.  Then she lets go of his hand slowly and he watches as she walks back to her family.

He follows Bato over to the corner where they’d eaten the night before, and it is Katara who brings them food this time—bowls of warm soup, thinner than the stew the night before.

She eats with her family, her mother and father and brother, and although she occasionally shoots worried looks in Zuko’s direction, he can’t help but notice that she looks alive here in her home, more alive than he has seen her yet, even during their most intense bending training.  Her face is alight with a joy he hasn’t seen in her before, a sort of ease that must come with being home, and it strikes him again how guilty he feels in all of this.  He doesn’t have the right to covet any of her affections.

But then she looks at him and tries to cover the worry in her face with a warm smile.  For her efforts, the clenched fist around Zuko’s heart relaxes a little bit.  He sips his soup and waits for his trial.

.

.

.

The trial before the Southern Water Tribe stretches on through the day and Zuko wonders if it’s ever going to end.  He goes with Chief Hakoda and the warriors to a smaller tent and spends hours answering questions.

Not that he doesn't deserve it.  He's pretty sure he does.  After all, he's Fire Nation.  The prince of the Fire Nation, albeit a banished one.  And he's on enemy ground, with people his nation has worked to eradicate.

Not only is he an enemy, but he's an enemy who has no real reason to be here.  His search for the Avatar didn’t need to take him to lodge here, but here he sits, among people whose wives and daughters and sisters were taken by the Fire Nation.  The men here, they are the husbands and sons and brothers, and some of their ranks were taken as prisoners or lost in battles against his homeland, too.

Zuko’s head hurts.  And the men around him are watching him with such careful scrutiny that he’s almost sure he’ll be lucky to be imprisoned.

Sitting here now, under trial, Zuko knows more than ever that he doesn't deserve Katara, that he doesn't deserve to be allowed to like her as much as he does, to have thoughts of a future with her, even if it never comes to pass.  And somehow, even though they've scarcely looked at each other since they landed on the Southern Water Tribe's shores, Zuko is sure that everyone must know, that Chief Hakoda and his wife Kya—Katara's dear, beloved mother, the one she holds in such high esteem—must know what he's done.  He’d kissed a girl from the Southern Water Tribe, and he's Fire Nation.

That alone seems like reason enough for them to imprison him.

As questions come, he answers.  Painstakingly, full of shame, Zuko tells them of his years growing up, how Azula was always favored.  He tells them about the war room, and how he spoke when he shouldn't have, when it displeased his father to have him speak.  He tells about the Agni Kai, and can only hope they believe he's telling the truth when he gives them the explanation of the still-too-fresh scar on his face.  He tells of his banishment and of Iroh’s revelation of his history.  He tells how he feels like the timing is right, and how he thinks, if he finds the Avatar, he could help to bring peace in an official capacity.  And if not, then at least he's seen the error of his country's ways and he wants to help the rebels fight against his father.

"It's not that I don't love the Fire Nation," he says with bitter resignation.  "I do love the Fire Nation.  But I don't love this war, and I think—I think my father is wrong to wage it against the world as he does.  The Fire Nation isn't better than any other nation, and we shouldn't try to crush anyone under our power.  I want to help," he says, and he hopes it's true.  He hopes they believe it's true:  although he knows they very well might not believe him, he really doesn't want to have traveled all this way to be sent away again.  Rejected again.

When the questions have stopped, Chief Hakoda watches Zuko for another long moment, but some of the suspicion that had been in his expression before the trial is gone.  His manner is still sober and serious, but his face is kind when he tells Zuko that he may stay in the Tribe.  "On probation," he says, firmly.  "You will be watched, and if we suspect your intentions, you will become our prisoner or we will send you out onto the ice."

Zuko hasn’t been so sheltered that he doesn’t know that's a death sentence.

After the trial, he feels a strange mixture of relief and continuing tension.  He needs to prove himself to these people and he has no idea where to begin.

He is glad to find allies in Katara and Sokka, who are waiting outside the tent where Hakoda held the trial.  They both run up to him as he walks out.

"I'm glad they've accepted you," Katara says sincerely, intently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping, and Sokka watches from behind her with a little lingering suspicion.

"We've got our eyes on you, Fire Boy," he says firmly, but then his stance loosens a little and he says, with curiosity, "Katara tells me you know how to fight?"

"I firebend," Zuko says carefully, still heady with the fact that he walks free, but Sokka shakes his head in dismissal.

"Swords, dude.  I'm a pretty good swordsman myself."  He puffs his chest out in pride.

"Katara told me that," Zuko says.  "She says you're quite skilled."

"You got it!" Sokka says, slipping an arm around his sister's shoulders.  He continues speaking to Zuko.  "So after the womenfolk get you rested and fed and all of that," he shakes his free hand dismissively, "I want to fight you.  Always looking for a new challenge."

"Always looking for new bragging rights," Katara snorts, and smiles at Zuko, slipping out from under Sokka’s arm to take Zuko’s hand.  "Come on, let's get you some food."

"Me, too!" Sokka says, tagging along with them as they walk over to the part of the central tent and its cook-fire.  "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry, Sokka," Katara says, but her voice is full of affection.

.

.

.

After they’ve gathered bowls of stew, Katara says, “You can sit with us this time.  Finally.”  She smiles at Zuko and he lets himself smile back as they walk to join her family.

Her mother, whose name he learns is Kya, is the only one who presents him with a kind smile.  Hakoda's gaze is even, not quite a glower, and Sokka just looks...friendly but suspicious.  Zuko isn’t sure how that’s possible, but somehow the other boy manages it.

Zuko sits down and begins to eat when Katara does, enjoying real food that is so much warmer against the cold than old jerky.

"So, prince Zuko," Sokka begins, his mouth full, "Tell me about your sword-fighting."

There are worse topics to start on.

"I, um, I fight with swords?" Zuko begins, and it sounds too much like a question.  "I mean, I use two at once—dao swords.  I am a trained firebender—I’ve trained ever since I was little—but I have also trained in swordsmanship with Master Piandao of Shu Jing, a renowned swordmaster.  I spent every autumn at his estate, training.  That was my uncle’s idea and my mother’s arrangement—my father never wanted me to learn the art of the sword."

"Why not?" Sokka interrupts, his mouth still full of food and his expression full of interest.  "Isn't it, like, your country's goal to take over the whole world?”  He swallows and waves his not-quite-empty bowl, nearly spilling his stew.  “Wouldn't knowing how to firebend and use swords be a big advantage?"

Zuko swallows hard.  "It's not perceived that way," he says, trying to be objective in his presentation.  "In the Fire Nation, all weapons are seen as lesser tools for lesser men—for those who can't firebend.  A firebender is expected to rely on his firebending alone."

“That’s really dumb,” Sokka says.

"But your mother pressed for you to train in the sword, as well?" Hakoda breaks in.  He looks at Zuko seriously.  "Why would she do that if it's so unusual?"

"Um..."  Zuko tries to think of an answer that doesn't shame him in the process.  "My mother thought it would be good to get a break from the capital sometimes," he says finally.  "And she thought it would be a good idea for me to have a skill that was my own in the family.  My father and my sister are both excellent firebenders.  I've never been quite as good as they are."

Katara reaches out from where she sits beside him and lays her hand across his for a long instant, squeezing his fingers in hers.  Zuko sees Hakoda's eyes track the movement like a raven eagle.

"Zuko's mother, Fire Lady Ursa, disappeared while I was imprisoned there," Katara says, settling in with her stew again.  "I don't know if you've heard the news."

"We hadn't," Kya says, glancing at Hakoda, at the same time that Sokka says, raising one eyebrow suspiciously, "What do you mean, disappeared?"

"We don't know," Katara says.  "One day she just…wasn’t in her room any more.  She left a note, though, that Zuko and I found, so we think she might still be alive somewhere.  But it was really strange."

"Yeah," Zuko agrees around the growing lump in his throat.  "It was.”

Katara breaks the increasing solemnity by adding, "And then Zuko did exactly what Sokka does when he's mad—he threw something and it got him in trouble.  Except instead of throwing a boomerang, he threw fire at a wall and burnt himself and then I healed him!"

"You can heal?" Kya asks, looking at her daughter with interest.  "I know that the older waterbenders were trained in the art, but I didn't know you could do it!"

"I didn't know I could, either," Katara admits, "but Zuko was hurt and I was just trying to put some water on the burn to soothe it and then the water started glowing and...healed.  I've tried it more since then—on bending injuries—and I'm starting to be able to control it more, to feel what I'm supposed to be healing in someone's body, to feel what's broken and what it's like to fix it."

"That's wonderful, Katara," her mother says.  "Your grandmother will be so pleased to hear it when you join her to help in the healing huts again."

"Katara is a very talented waterbender," Zuko says.  Katara’s family is so different from his own, and they soak up the praise for her with pride of their own.  “She’s learned her bending very quickly, even without a waterbending master.  I'm sure that if she found one, she would quickly become a master in her own right under the proper tutelage."

"And what sort of 'tutelage' has she had so far?" Hakoda asks.

Zuko stammers.  "I—I taught her at first," he says nervously.  "When we lived in the capital.  And then my uncle trained both her and me when we were onboard ship.  Uncle is a true firebending master.  He’s an excellent teacher, but he's not a waterbender, so he couldn't teach her as fully as she would like to learn."

"Waterbending is dangerous in this world," Kya says sadly, leaning over to hug Katara, "but you are blessed in your skills, sweetie."

"Your uncle," Hakoda says thoughtfully, his attention still on Zuko.  "You mentioned him this morning, as well.  Who is this uncle, Prince Zuko?"

"Retired General Iroh, sir," Zuko replies respectfully.

And for the first time, Zuko sees Hakoda's calculated control fumble for an instant.  "The Dragon of the West?" he asks incredulously.  He turns to Katara.  "Katara, you were trained in waterbending by the Dragon of the West?"

Katara nods.  "Yeah, Dad," she says.  "General Iroh is...well, he's not at all like I would expect a Fire Nation general to be.  He's stern, but he's kind, too.  He cares about people."

"Age must have tempered him," Hakoda says solemnly, "because all the reports I have heard about General Iroh in battle are not nearly that generous with their descriptions."

"My uncle changed after his son was killed in the battle of Ba Sing Se," Zuko supplies quietly.  "He went to travel the world for a while, and he came back different.  I didn't interact with him much when I was very young, when he was still an active general, but he was harsher then, more...more like my father, I guess.  But after he came back from the war, he...was more interested in us.  In our family, the only family that he had left.  My father struck a deal with my grandfather to become Fire Lord and no one will tell me what it was, but Uncle Iroh abdicated his role willingly."

Hakoda's face is tense, as is his posture.  He speaks to Zuko, but his eyes are on Katara.  "It is no little thing, to lose a child.  Or any member of your family."

"The Fire Nation does that," Zuko says, reading between the lines of what's not being said.  "I'm sorry."

"Yes, they do," Hakoda says gruffly.  "It's not your doing, boy," Hakoda says—if not gently, then with somewhat less harshness.  "At least, not directly."  He puts his hand on Zuko's shoulder and squeezes a little before retracting his hand.  "And you helped Katara in her escape from imprisonment.  That is no little thing for you."

"No," Zuko agrees, a near-giddy wave of simultaneous relief and panic flooding him.  "It's not.  I can't—  No matter what happens, I can't go home again, ever."

"The world is changing," Hakoda says slowly.  "We see signs of it from time to time, and one can hope that these changes will be for the better, and that they will stay.  It is the reason we hope—the reason we fight."  He looks at Zuko calculatingly.  "And you are here to fight," he says, but it's not really a question.

"Yes, sir," Zuko says again.  He’ll says it as many times as it takes to convince them.

"We'll see," is all Hakoda says.  "We'll see what that becomes."

Then the conversation turns abruptly to the upcoming fishing trip.

.

.

.

It's the next day, when Zuko has been assigned, along with Sokka and some of the younger boys, to sharpen the weapons and knives, that Sokka pulls him aside and confronts him about Katara.

They've been working for the past several hours, and Sokka acts like it's a huge burden that he needs to teach the little boys as well as this Fire Nationer how to make the weapons sharp and ready for use all by himself.

One of the annual fish migrations is coming up and they will need all of their weapons ready for the hunt.

After the basics have been taught and the rasp of blades against bone and stone fills the quiet around the fire, Sokka plops down next to Zuko and pulls out his own whetstone and sets to work.

“My sister likes you,” Sokka says without preamble, running the blade against the stone.

Zuko’s hands pause in their work.  “Why do you say that?” he asks carefully.

He doesn’t look at Sokka, but he hears a sigh and he’s pretty sure the boy beside him just rolled his eyes.  “Because I’m not an idiot.  And she’s a terrible liar.”  He pokes Zuko with the blunt end of the knife in his hand.  “And so are you.  You look at her with googly eyes whenever she’s in the same general area as you.  You like her, too.”

"I...do," Zuko says.  He doesn't know what point there is in denying it.  He's thought about marrying Katara for some time now, and even though it seems impossible, he thinks about it a lot.  And Sokka is the closest thing he’s ever had to a friend and he doesn’t want to ruin that.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" Sokka challenges, pitching his voice quieter so that the younger boys sitting nearby don’t hear.  "Fire Nation men taking Water Tribe women has a really harsh history here.  Your countrymen have been taking my tribe's women to torture for decades.  How do you think this is going to work out for you?  Do you think the Tribe is going to accept you?  Let you marry her and live with us and fight with us?  What do you have to offer her?"

"Nothing," Zuko snaps, anxious and unnerved.  "I have nothing to offer her, don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know what you think, Fire Boy," Sokka answers evenly.  "That's what I'm trying to find out."

“Look, I know I probably can’t marry her.  The world just doesn’t work like that right now.  But I’d like to, if I could.  And if I can’t…”  He frowns and forces a shrug.  “I’ll let her go.”

“And you don’t, like, have to marry her?”  Sokka’s voice is sharp now and it takes Zuko a moment to grasp his insinuation before he splutters a response.

“No!  No.  I mean…no.”

“So…no.”  Sokka’s voice is back to teasing for a moment.  “Okay, so I’ll do my best to keep Mom and Dad off the scent, but if you do anything—and I mean anything—to hurt her, it’s over.  I’ll personally tear you limb from limb.”  He pulls a small knife from his pocket and tosses it into one of the tent-poles, where it sticks its target and shivers in place.

Zuko nods.  “Okay.  Uh, cool.  Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it,” Sokka says.  “But go get me my knife back, please.”

.

.

.

The morning after that, Sokka challenges Zuko to a swordfight, and Zuko ends up spending the better part of the day sparring with different warriors.  It’s the closest thing to fun he’s had in a long time.

After Sokka loses to Zuko, Katara fights her brother with her waterbending.  She wins, too, and Sokka sulks until he beats one of the other warriors in a spar soon after.

Hakoda praises Katara’s skill and Zuko’s, too.  Blindsided and unsure what else to do, Zuko bows and thanks him.

.

.

.

Weeks pass in a series of uncertain days, and while Zuko is never completely at ease in his new surroundings—the sense that he must look over his shoulder constantly lingers, although which danger he searches for, he’s unsure—each day lessens his trepidation to a small degree.

Katara sends him off with Sokka each morning after breakfast, because Sokka’s chores are the ones he can help with most ably and appropriately, but she spends most of the morning meals talking to him in the lulls of her family’s conversation, giving him whatever information she can about what he’s going to be doing that day and answering any questions he has about life on the ice.

He misses tea and his homeland and his mother, but his time in the Southern Water Tribe starts to be comfortable, and Zuko knows that can’t last.

.

.

.

Katara is almost as happy to be home as she thought she’d be.

The moment she’d been wrapped up in her mother’s hug on that first day, Katara had felt something inside her heart soften again, a part of her that she’d hardened during her time of captivity.  She has people here; she is known here and she knows others.

Being around her family again makes her happy, and even when Gran Gran reminds her to do her chores, she’s glad to help, because it feels so right to have her world make sense again.

But things are different now, in smaller ways that she couldn’t have predicted.  Even when she’s teasing Sokka or when one of the younger girls is showing her a sewing project she’s completed, Katara can’t quite shake the knowledge that the world is still at war.  It’s no longer theoretical, and she’s sitting here at the bottom of the world with someone who wants to help.  Her inaction rankles as much as it soothes.

The only thing she misses about her time on the dinghy with Zuko is solitude.  She had it in plenty there, and here, her whirling thoughts are constantly interrupted by the very noise and bustle of community she missed so much while she was away.

It had been one thing when she was in the Fire Nation, thinking of returning home at some point, imagining where she might fit back into life there, if she might fit back into life there, and into the war effort, too.

And then, as months away passed, she began to consider the added nuance of whether Zuko might fit into her life at the South Pole somehow.  Katara had never expected that hope to be anything more than a daydream, because even now that Zuko is here and taking part in the life of her Tribe, the joy that she has of seeing him every day is pierced with the knowledge that he can’t stay.  The two of them can’t just settle here at the South Pole, even if her family granted them permission to marry.

The world is still at war and now she has had a taste of the fight.  She’s still herself in the ways that matter most to those around her:  she’s still her parents’ daughter and her brother’s sister and the girl who plays with water.  She’s still terrified of the future, too, but she’s also someone else now.  She’s a warrior, with tools to back up the simmering rage that has boiled over into anger and a need for a sense of purpose.

She hopes her father and mother will see that, when the time comes for her to talk to them about whatever plans she hatches that will lead her away from her southern home.

Now, as in the Fire Nation, she waits, although this time she doesn’t know what to expect when her waiting ends.  The days carry on with no new word from the outside world, but she knows that her father talks with the warriors nearly daily about plans for another excursion to the warfront, probably sometime soon.

Her mother brushes her hair most mornings, working a bone comb through the tangles and talking to her in the quiet with only the fire-crackle for noise while the men tend the animals before breakfast.  This is one of Katara’s favorite parts of the day, an old habit that soothes her troubled mind.

After their talks have covered all manner of subjects and Katara has cried and laughed and told the angles of her story in more ways than she thought she ever could, that morning is the one when her mother brings up the elephant-koi in the igloo.

“Katara,” Kya says thoughtfully as she works the comb over small, snagged knots in the remnants of yesterday’s braid, “what are you planning to do about Zuko?”

“What do you mean?”  Katara tries to keep her words calm despite the sudden murmurs of panic in her gut.

“Sweetie, I know you,” Kya says, and even after all their time apart, Katara feels herself relax a little bit when she realizes that this is still true, even now.  “You like him.  You’re sixteen, and every bit as young and as old as that age holds.”

The comb keeps moving, steady and practiced, and Katara can feel her mother’s eyes on her, even though she can’t see the woman behind her.

Katara keeps her own eyes steady on the small fire.

“Does he talk of marrying you?”

Yes, around quiet kisses, under wide night skies that make possibilities seem endless, unlike the realities of the world.

“He can’t.”  Katara evades, but Kya hums softly in response and Katara knows she hasn’t fooled her mother.  Kya keeps working the comb through her hair while Katara searches for words.  “What life could we make together?  He’s a fugitive and I’m…”  Lost, but she doesn’t know how to tell her mother that.

“But you still speak of it together.”

Katara blinks, then realizes there’s no point in lying.  She’s exhausted the possibilities in her own mind herself, lying alone on her pile of furs and smelling the night-fire, eyes straining toward the dark thatched ceiling above her.  “Yes.  We do.”

“I married your father when I was sixteen,” Kya says, and Katara can hear the smile in her voice.  “He was…determined.  He’d been courting me for three years, and he started by throwing snowballs at me and my friends in order to catch my attention.”  She laughs.  “That didn’t.  It only made me mad.  But later, he found ways to make me notice him.  He’s a good man, Katara, and I think Zuko is, too.”

She sighs, and the comb pauses for a second.  “We were at war then, too, but somehow the world always seems simpler when you’re dealing with your own lives and not your children’s.”

Katara is ashamed of how small her voice sounds when she speaks.  “Would you disown me?  If I married him?”

“Never, sweetie.”  Her mother’s voice is sure, and relief floods Katara, sharp and sweet.

“Do you think it’s even possible that we could have a future together?”

Kya’s voice is less sure after the long pause during which she lays aside the comb and sections Katara’s hair for a braid.  “That, sweetheart, I don’t know.”

Then Katara turns to look at her mother, who smiles sadly.  “Keep still or I’ll have to start over, sweetie.”

It’s the same thing she’s heard every time her mother’s done her hair since she was little.  She hadn’t realized how much she missed it, doing her hair on her own while she was gone.  Katara fights the sudden tightness in her throat when she answers.  “Yeah, Mom.  I know.”

.

.

.

Answers remain elusive for all of the questions that plague Katara’s mind, so she clings to the one thing she can:  the routine of the life of the Tribe.  The fishing time comes and she hugs Zuko farewell, kissing his cheek and making him blush as he goes off to hunt with the men.  The wives kiss their husbands goodbye, and Katara pretends not to notice the disapproval on some of their faces when they see her with Zuko.

Things are a little different after the men return, a week later.  Zuko was a quick learner and has proven himself in the hunt.  He contributed to the Tribe’s welfare, and they don’t hate him as much as they could, given his history.

“Do you think they’d let me stay here with the Tribe?” he asks Katara one night, the two of them crowded just outside the entrance to her family’s hut, and the hesitation in his voice makes her heart ache.

If there weren’t a war ongoing, she’d fight them all until they did.

“Maybe,” she says, squeezing his hands where they’re twined with hers and savoring the fact that it’s warm enough that they don’t have to wear mittens constantly any longer.  “Give it a few more fishing trips and ask again.”

Her small attempt at levity earns her a smile.

“Maybe next time I’ll even find the Avatar,” he says, and the fact that he can even joke about that makes something in Katara melt a little.  Zuko is so strong, and he doesn’t deserve the life he’s been given.

But then, none of them does.

She leans up to kiss him, and stays close to him until Gran Gran’s voice calls her in from the cold and Zuko heads back to Bato’s tent.  It’s late and they have an outing planned with Sokka the next day, so they need their sleep.                                                                                                                                     

.

.

.

“Today,” Sokka says, his boomerang gripped tightly in his outstretched hand, “today, my friends, we go to harvest the firstfruits of spring, given to us by Tui and La and the turning of the seasons—”

Katara snorts and slings her basket onto her back.  “Today, my brother, we go to the far point to gather some early berries because we’re young, the climb is difficult, and everyone’s tired of seal jerky but there aren’t enough ripe berries yet to warrant a larger group going.”

“Yeah, or that.”  Sokka shrugs, sheathing his boomerang and picking up his own basket.  “The joys of being the only teenagers in the Tribe.  You coming, Fire Boy?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Zuko says, walking close to Katara as they start away from the village.

“Wouldn’t want to be stuck alone with my dad and be interrogated about your intentions regarding my sister, you mean,” Sokka corrects.

“Yeah, or that.”

Sokka whacks Zuko’s shoulder.  “You learn fast.”

.

.

.

The berries that grow on the far point are few, just scattered clusters of purple on mostly-bare bushes, but the number of greening buds promises a better harvest later in the spring.

Katara, Zuko, and Sokka gather the available berries in the better part of an hour, then settle onto a blanket for an early lunch.

“Here, for both of you,” Sokka says, tossing Katara a branch that had fallen from the berry bushes.  He bows dramatically and she laughs.

“Thanks, Sokka.”

“Anything for you, Sis,” he says, but then he looks over the rocky ridge and out to the sea.

“Because the berries on this bush are the first to grow in the spring, the branches are used to symbolize fertility,” Katara explains to Zuko.  “They’re given as gifts to new brides to ensure strong children.  But they’re also used as symbols of forgiveness, for a fresh start.”  She looks up from the branch and lets herself see the longing in Zuko’s gaze when he looks at her.  Then she smiles and whispers loudly, pointing the stick toward her brother, “I think it means Sokka approves of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sokka says, turning back to them.  “Oh, eww!”  He tosses one arm over his eyes and kicks some of the snow that still covers much of the ground in their general direction.  “Look, Katara—” he pulls his arm back to his side and glares at them “—these good vibes are great and all, but there’s a rule:  keep your googly eyes to yourself, please.”

“That’s not a rule,” Katara retorts, and leans up to kiss Zuko quickly before she bends snow onto Sokka’s wolf-tail.

Sokka lets out a yelp of protest.

“Just wait till you find a girl, Sokka,” she retorts.  “Then I’m sure you’ll find a way to get your revenge.”

“I’m never gonna find a girl here,” Sokka mumbles begrudgingly in return.  “Fate made sure you were the only girl even close to my age.”  He frowns, and Katara feels a little bad, because that is the truth.

So she says, “Awww, don’t worry, Sokka, I’m sure you’ll find a girl someday.”

“Sure,” Sokka says grumpily, standing up and shifting his basket onto his shoulder.  “End the war, travel the world, find a girl.  Easy plan, right?”

“The easiest,” Katara chimes in with a falsely stretched smile, shouldering her own basket.

They climb down the ridge in near silence, Sokka still moping and the others busy with their own thoughts, walk back to their canoe, and then all three of them climb in.  Sokka positions himself in the back and motions for Katara to take the middle as she had on the trip to the point.

“Let me use my bending, Sokka,” she says, depositing her basket in the canoe.  “Put the paddles down.  I want to practice.”

Sokka shakes his head, his expression still gloomy.  “And let you maneuver us right into an iceberg?  No, thanks.”

“She can do a lot,” Zuko protests from the front of the canoe.  “She helped us navigate on the way here.  She did most of the work.”

Katara shoots him a disapproving look and opens her mouth to disagree, but the expression on Sokka’s face softens.  “Okay, fine,” he concedes.  “Show me your magic water.”

“That ‘magic water’ kicked your butt in several spars,” Katara reminds him, her voice tight.  “And it’s waterbending.”

Sokka waves his hand.  “Same difference.”

“It’s not,” Katara insists, and she searches the horizon for the biggest iceberg she can see, then finds her grounding and pulls from two directions.  Their canoe hurtles suddenly toward it with surprising speed at the same time that the iceberg starts glowing and cracks in two.

“Back us up!  Back us up!” Sokka shouts, reaching hurriedly for a paddle as Katara reverses the flow of her bending.

They reach a safe distance from the iceberg and watch as it splits and the pieces shift away.  Once the surface appears to have calmed, Sokka hesitantly moves them closer, the paddle breaking the surface in succinct, silent strokes.

Katara leans out of the middle of the canoe, and they all startle when a large iceberg chunk surfaces near them, glowing.

She’s the one who sees him first.  “There’s a boy in there!”

Inside the iceberg, the boy’s eyes open and start to glow.

“He’s alive!” Katara exclaims, pulling on the water and moving them closer.  “We have to help!”

“Katara, stop that,” Sokka says, but she’s already feeling through the ice with her bending, slowly peeling open the layers that surround the boy.

When the iceberg chunk splits, it does so with a rush of air and light.  A beam of light shoots straight upward and the celestial lights start to glow.

Katara vaguely hears Zuko say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.  Finally,” from somewhere near her side, his voice nearly hidden in the hissing air that surrounds them.  She looks at him sharply.  It can’t be…  Can it?

When the air clears enough that they can see, the boy has climbed to the top of the icy crater and teeters there, eyes closed.  Katara pulls water to form a platform underneath him and catches him when he falls.  She maneuvers him near to the canoe, and Zuko’s the one who pulls him in, his yellow and orange robes wet but otherwise unharmed.

Katara dries the boy’s robes and dumps the water into the sea that surrounds them.  She moves the boy so he’s lying on his back between her and where Zuko kneels, staring at the child, dumbstruck.

Sokka leans forward over her shoulder and reaches to poke the boy’s head with the butt end of his spear.

“Stop it!” Katara hisses at her brother.  “He’s just a boy!”

“Yeah.  A boy who glows.  Not normal.  I’ll poke him if I want to.”

“Don’t,” Zuko says, finding his voice and for the first time in a long time sounding like a prince issuing a command.

Katara swallows hard and, for a moment, remembers the angry boy who shouted at her from a healing bed, remembers the smirks of his father and sister that had seemed so prevalent in him, too, at the time.  But she also remembers Zuko, the one who is with her now, who looks astounded but not confused.  They’ve found the Avatar, Zuko is going to help her fight for her people, and, if it ever comes to it, he’s going to be a great leader for the Fire Nation.

The boy in yellow shifts and moans and, behind her, Sokka lowers his spear.  “Spoilsports,” he mutters.

The boy blinks at them then, opening his wide grey eyes slowly and taking in his surroundings in surprise.  “Hi,” he says weakly, but after a few more slow blinks, his eyes regain some focus and then there’s a smile stretching across his young face, looking wide and pale against the still-bright rendition of the celestial lights that painted the sky at this appearance.  When he speaks again, his voice is stronger.  “Which Water Tribe is this?  It’s really snowy and cold here.  Will you three go penguin sledding with me?”

“Uh…sure, I guess,” Katara answers, glancing up at Zuko curiously over the boy’s head.

Zuko watches the boy warily, and it’s Sokka who finds his voice next.

“Hey, why aren’t you frozen?”

.

.

.

fin.