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It had been a quiet day.
Song didn’t mind having those; most of her days, recently, could be placed into that category. It was easy to have a quiet day when anyone who would make noise had been taken away.
She had just finished dinner – a quiet dinner, consisting only of the clatter of bowls against wood and her mother’s soft breathing. There was less and less conversation between them, these days; what was there left to say? – and was now stepping outside to take in the night sky above her.
Song had always liked watching the stars. It made her feel small, not with claustrophobia but instead with gained perspective. Wars did not mean anything to stars, after all.
But instead of being met with the calm embrace of the glittering lights above her, she was instead met with a sight that could decidedly not be classified as calm, nor anything close to quiet – no matter how much that sight seemed to wish it so.
“Shh! Shut up, shut up – what’s gotten into you? You were never like this before – hey! Shhh!”
Across the clearing from her was a loudly squawking ostrich horse. Next to the ostrich horse was a disgruntled and fuming –
“Lee?”
It had been a long time since she’d seen him. She had honestly never thought she would again. His hair had grown out a little, and he looked a bit more worn than when she’d first met him – but it was still undeniably Lee.
The moment the word left Song’s mouth, Lee froze firmly in place – one hand still raised to clutch onto her ostrich horse’s reins and the other lifted in an aborted motion to presumably secure his hold – before ever-so-slowly turning his head to look at her. She couldn’t read his expression.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“...Hey,” he finally said. “I brought your ostrich horse back.”
A beat of silence.
“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” he continued, words stilted.
They both knew that wasn’t what happened. They both didn’t correct him.
“Of course,” she said, stepping forward carefully and standing beside the ostrich horse. She reached a hand out, lightly brushing through its feathers – the softness of the sensation and the low keening coming from its beak provided a physical representation that he had come back. It was thinner than before, but still seemed well taken care of. It proved that there was hope for him. It proved that there was hope for her. “I hope she served you well.”
“It did.”
He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” she said desperately.
The day that Song had met him was the day she had also met herself: his scar like hers, his mind like hers, his shame like hers. His scar was different, though – it was somewhere obvious, somewhere clear, and somewhere that you couldn’t hide from with long skirts and strained smiles. After her village’s men had been taken away, what remained was those who hid and those who ignored; scars were always covered with fabric and words, people were always polite and damaged, days were always quiet, and faces were always pristinely simple aside from extra creases under eyes and notably absent from cheeks where smiles were meant to leave them. Their scars were different, that way – hers and his. His face was anything but simple: angry and red and creased with emotion and marred skin. When she had spoken with him, she had thought that perhaps – finally – there was a future for her if there was a future for him. She had thought that if he could be happy, then she could too.
Then he had left – and all she had seen was her own cruelty reflected towards her. With his retreating back came the promise that: no, she would never be happy. And no, she shouldn’t have tried.
And now he was back. And that promise wasn’t as engraved into her skin and her mind as it had been before.
In front of her, he stopped. He did not turn back – but still, he stopped.
“I just – don’t – you –” she said, desperate and hopeful and confused and terrified and trying to find anything to make him not leave quite yet. She didn’t want to see herself walk away again. Finally, she blurted out: “How is Mushi?”
He still did not turn back to face her, but there was a stiffness in his posture that she couldn’t decipher. “...Fine.”
He shifted a little – almost looking at her but not quite. “Thank you for your help back then.”
“Oh, of course,” she said quickly. “It was no problem, really.”
“Okay.”
He started to step forward. That promise dug deeper into her scarred flesh.
“Wait,” she said again.
He almost didn’t stop. Still, he did. Still, she did.
“You don’t have to leave,” she said.
He did not respond. She did not respond.
“We have food here,” she said. “You and your uncle can stay,” she said.
“We can make roast duck,” she said. “I know he liked that.”
He did not shift. She did not shift.
“Days are quiet here,” she said. They were too quiet. He was too quiet. She was too quiet.
“It could be peaceful.” It never was. He never was. She never was.
He started to walk away again.
“Please.” Her voice was desperate. His steps were final.
“The avatar will save us,” she said. Her words meant the avatar will save you and through you he will save me. Her words meant the avatar will save me and the scars inside me that you represent. Her words meant I can save you and then I can save me.
“There is hope,” she said. Her words meant you can be happy if you try to hope. Her words meant I can be happy if you try to hope.
He stopped one last time. Her breath hitched.
He turned slowly to face her, with the side of his face that was not scarred and was as simple and pristine and unhappy as the ones she saw every day.
“No,” he said simply. “There isn’t.”
He walked away into the dark of the forest. She saw herself leave her behind, quietly burning the scar of a promise deeper into her skin and carving it in such a manner that she could never remove it. She could hide it, yes, with smiles that never formed wrinkles but tears that left stains, with quiet dinners and careful words and kindness shielding apathy and with turning away so as to hide the scar on one side of his face – her face – but she could never remove it.
She watched him walk away. She watched her walk away.
She couldn’t see very many stars out that night. Perhaps the war affected them too.
***
“There’s a new Fire Lord.”
Song turned around, seeing her mother standing behind her holding a scroll of paper.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
“No,” Song said.
“Look,” her mother held out the paper to her. Song took it.
She unrolled it.
She–
“He’s familiar, isn’t he?” Her mother asked. “Have we seen him before, do you think?”
His face stared back at her, half of it scarred and burnt and there was a small smile on his face that Song had never seen before – it was small but it reached his eyes. Her face stared back at her, simple and pristine and with a small smile that never reached her eyes, not with burns and promises sculpted into her leg and into the very way she lived and breathed. She did not breathe now. It was her face – but then it wasn’t.
Because he was the Fire Lord.
And she was unhappy.
And if he was the Fire Lord, then he must be cruel. Like the boy who stole her ostrich horse. Not like the one who had brought it back.
And if she was unhappy, then she must be simple and pristine. Like the girl who made dinners and poultices and wore kindness like a veil. Not like the one who stood outside, begging him and begging her not to hurt. She didn’t know what kind of hurt – inflicted or self-prescribed – but she begged nonetheless.
And his face was scarred and uncovered, something to be obvious and real and overcome and settled.
And her scars were hidden under clothes, something that was not real and never would have the chance to be – not after she had seen herself step into the trees and out of sight.
And perhaps she had never been as similar to him as she thought she was.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe we have.”
His name was Zuko, the scroll said. She had known Lee. Well, she hadn't known Lee, really, but she certainly didn't know Zuko.
“Are you sure?” Her mother asked, frowning.
“I don’t recognize him,” she said. She didn’t recognize her. “But there are a lot of people out there. Maybe we’ve seen him once before.” She shrugged. “But not enough to matter.”
It hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t. She hadn’t.
Her mother nodded, accepting the answer. Song didn’t know if she did, herself.
“I’m going out to get some more supplies,” Song said. “I’ll be back in time to make dinner.” It would be the same dinner as always, with the clatter of bowls against wood and her mother’s soft breathing and no words shared. It would be the same the next day, and the one after that. Their small town did not care if a scarred Fire Lord took the throne. Their small town did not care if a scarred girl left to get supplies.
Her mother did not say anything. Song stepped out through the door.
It was a quiet day.