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Katara climbs onto Appa’s back. She should be thinking about Yon Rha, about what she will do when they find him—but the thought that keeps echoing in her mind is about the other man. The one who didn’t kill her mother.
The one she bloodbended.
She still remembers the horrifying pain of being controlled against her will, the way Hama made her jerk and twist with a single flick of her hand. Katara knew what that felt like, and yet she still did that to someone else. What does that say about her?
“Go ahead and ask,” she says without turning to look Zuko in the eye.
“What was that, back there?” His voice betrays no signs of the disgust he must be feeling. He’s a better liar than she thought.
“It’s called bloodbending.” She lets the story dribble out, piece by piece, like raindrops falling from the sky.
“Oh,” he says. “That sounds…interesting.”
“You can tell me the truth. I know what you really think. It’s disgusting. I’m a…a monster.”
He doesn’t wait a second before replying. “I’ve seen monsters. You’re not one of them.”
And—what can she say to that? Katara can’t deny that he knows more about monsters than she does. He grew up in a family of them, after all. She wonders what that was like, if the Firelord is kinder to his children than he is to the world. It’s hard to believe. But if there’s anything she’s learned in the past year, it’s that things are invariably more complicated than they seem.
“Your father,” she says. “What was he…what was he like?”
“What do you think?” There’s a bite to his words, as though the very question brings up bad memories. Then, without giving her any time to answer, he abruptly changes the subject. “I don’t see what’s so terrible about bloodbending, anyway.”
“It’s controlling another person’s body. How is it not terrible?”
“I don’t know. You’re a healer, right? Couldn’t you use it for that somehow?”
“We don’t—” Katara stops. She’s never thought about it like that before, but it makes sense. The human body is almost entirely made of water. If she could harness all of that through her bending… “You might be right, actually.”
Zuko hesitates. “Do you know what you’ll do when you find him?” He doesn’t say Will you kill him? the way Aang and Sokka might have. She’s grateful for it.
“No,” she admits. “I guess I’ll figure it out once we get that far.”
Katara doesn’t kill Yon Rha. She wants to, she wants so badly to end it once and for all—but she looks at his sorry figure lying on the ground, and she knows that it would bring her no satisfaction. “There’s just nothing inside you,” she spits out. “Nothing at all. You’re pathetic and sad and empty.”
She turns and walks away, leaving behind both the killer and a weight that her shoulders have long been used to. Zuko follows her but remains silent until they are back in the sky, his hands on the reins.
“My father is like that,” he says, apropos of nothing.
She clutches her knees closer to her chest. It’s cold up here. “What?”
“You asked what my father was like, earlier. And then you said that to Yon Rha, and I realized…that’s exactly what he’s like. Pathetic and sad and empty. He thought that he was so powerful, that he was always right. But he wasn’t.” Zuko looks over his shoulder at her. “I used to be terrified of him. I still am, a little. But ever since the eclipse…I remember how weak, how powerless he was then. I told him straight to his face that I was joining the Avatar, and he was so angry, but he couldn’t do anything. Not until the eclipse was over.”
That phrasing makes Katara a little nervous. “Did he do something after it was over?”
Zuko shrugs. “He shot some lightning. But Uncle taught me how to redirect—”
“Your dad shot lightning at you?”
“Yes?” He gives her a weird look. “I mean, he burned half my face off when I was thirteen. He isn’t a very good parent.”
Katara feels as though she has just been slapped. She looks at Zuko’s face. At his scar, which she realizes only now is in the shape of a handprint. “He burned—oh, spirits.”
“Wait, you didn’t know? I thought you knew.”
“How would I?” she asks. “It’s not like you told me.”
“…I’m telling you now.”
She’s not sure what to say to that, what would be an appropriate response to a revelation of such enormity. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“I know,” he says. “Nobody does. It was cruel, and it was wrong. I’ve made my peace with it, okay? It happened. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”
There’s nothing she can say, so she just climbs down from the saddle and gives him a hug. Even soaked in rain water, his body radiates warmth.
Katara plunges her arms into the water as she scrubs the dirt from the plates they’ve been eating off of. It’s hard work, but her bending makes it a little easier.
The door creaks open behind her. “Hey,” Zuko says. “You need help drying those?”
She hands him a towel, but he doesn’t take it. Firebender. Right. “What’s up?”
It’s still a little weird, to be friends with a former enemy. Wasn’t it just last week that she wanted to kill him? He places a hot palm on the closest plate, searing the droplets of water into a cloud of steam. The image reminds her of their conversation on Appa. She stifles a shudder.
“You looked like you needed help. That’s…” he hesitates. “That’s what friends do, right? Help each other?”
How was Katara ever afraid of this dork? “Yes. That’s what friends do.”
They might be only a few finger lengths apart, but the silence feels like a gulf. She reaches out to squeeze his hand, to close the distance. He squeezes back.
“If we win this—”
“When.” It’s something she has to believe, a truth she will not compromise on. “We’re going to win, Zuko.”
“When we win,” he amends. “I promise Yon Rha will never see the light of day again.”
She doesn’t make any promises about Ozai. She has no idea what Zuko wants there—prison? death?—but if she learned anything on their trip, it’s that justice is intensely personal. Katara can’t decide it for him. She’ll support him, whatever he chooses. Just like he did for her.
Zuko looks different in his Firelord regalia. Older, maybe. More mature. A little handsome, though that’s neither here nor there. Katara was almost scared, the first time she saw him—those robes have never symbolized anything good. Then she recognized the scar and the goofy smile and all she could think was This is my friend. He needs me.
“What did you decide about your father?” she asks.
He rubs his eyes. “I think Aang was right. Death is too good for him. He deserves to sit with what he’s done for the rest of his life.” Zuko leans forward and winces in pain. She guides him down to the floor, gathers water from her skins and holds it to his chest. He relaxes under her touch. “What did you decide about bloodbending?”
It’s a question Katara has been wrestling with for a while. Bloodbending is terrifying, but…is that really all it is? Couldn’t it be useful in some other way, like what Zuko said? “I don’t know. But I’m willing to try.”
“Don’t give up until you’ve tried,” he says.
She returns the water to its container. “I’m done for now. But you have to come back tomorrow, got it?”
He smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She pulls him to his feet. “Now, you have a meeting in thirty minutes with the Minister of Education.”
“Ugh. I hate that guy.”
“Me, too.” She should probably let go of his hand, but she can’t make herself do it. “Do you want my help?”
(A lot of the nobles don’t like that the new Firelord often involves “peasants” in his decision making. A lot of nobles ought to be taken down a peg.)
“I thought you’d never ask,” Zuko says.