It would be over quickly. Zuko knew that. He wasn't worried about the pain, not at all. What could be worse than the mental anguish he was already feeling? Just one quick slit to the side of my neck, he thought, as he turned the pearl dagger over and over in his hands. That's all it would take.

He lowered his gaze to his weapon of choice, eyes instinctively scanning it for the poignant inscription: "Never give up without a fight." Like always, he wasn't surprised that it was nowhere in sight. This wasn't the same long-ago gift from the uncle he'd snubbed. Zuko had given up his prized possession months ago, for the sake of comforting a scared and lonely Earth Kingdom boy. A lot of good that did him. He'd exposed himself and never received so much as a nod of thanks in return for everything he'd done."I hate you" could never be a substitute for gratitude in his eyes.

Maybe it was just as well that knife wasn't going to be the one to end his life now. Zuko almost laughed at the irony that situation would create.

Or… would it be ironic?

Sure, he was giving up now, but oh, he'd fought. He'd fought hard; fought to become Ozai's perfect heir. Fought to capture the Avatar. Fought against himself in a psychological battle to figure out why it was that, even after managing to slip back into the Fire Nation's good graces, happiness seemed to elude him. Fought his father in person to finally win his freedom…

His freedom. The one thing that Zuko felt would never truly be his. Yes, superficially, he was free. He could make his own way, come and go as he pleased, love who he wanted. He was free of the shackles that bound him to the throne

"But I'll never be free of my mark," he spoke aloud, addressing no one in particular. Zuko brought his hand reflexively up to the unfairly large scar around his eye. His own father had branded him with it, convinced that suffering would somehow teach him respect. It felt like the ultimate promise mark of eternal damnation. The whole world would forever know him as the insolent prince who'd spoken out of turn in the Fire Lord's war chamber, nothing more. No matter where he went, the shrieks of condemnation never fell on deaf ears. The glares never left him.

This scar was what drove his decision now. It forced him into an existence he didn't want, and it would haunt him until the end of his days. He was tired of fighting something that couldn't be beaten. He had to end it.

Slowly, resolutely, he moved the blade into position, giving himself enough time for one last breath…

"Zuko?"

He dropped the dagger as his body gave a startled jolt. Turning shakily in the direction of the voice that spoke his name, Zuko knew that he wouldn't be the least bit surprised by the identity of the unwelcome intruder. He'd know her voice anywhere.

Katara was standing in the open doorway.

Open. Doorway. Shit, he thought. How the hell did I forget to shut the damn door? Idiot!

Katara's face was absolutely devoid of its usual russet tone. Her whole body shook as her attention flicked from the knife to Zuko and back to the knife again.

"Oh, my…" she gasped. "You didn't… you're not—" She broke off and bit her lip, tears now streaming down her pale face. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

It came out as a strangled cry, and Zuko had to resist with everything in him the urge to run over to her and hold her for all eternity, muttering reassurances that he only half-believed about how everything was going to be okay.

But he couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't lie. Not to Katara. Nothing was okay, and tonight, he was leaving this cruel, cruel world behind.

"Not you, Kit-Kat," was all he could bring himself to say. "Not you."

With an upward glance and a decisive sigh, she walked determinedly up to him. They were so close, their noses were nearly touching. She raised her right hand and gently brushed her fingers over that accursed scar. Zuko's breath caught.

"This is what's getting to you, isn't it?" she asked. Not knowing what to say to that, Zuko simply nodded.

Katara shook her head. "This doesn't define you, Zuko."

He smirked slightly, showing that cynical, snarky side that Katara loved so much. "Doesn't it?"

"No." Her voice was steadier this time. "It doesn't." After a moment's pause, she pressed both hands over his heart. "This does."

Zuko never expected his own tears to threaten. This was all too much.

"It's… broken."

Her ice-blue eyes met his. "Then let me heal it," she begged, voice barely audible. "Don't do this. Let me fix you."

Zuko didn't believe in angels, nor did he believe in mercy. He just wasn't raised that way. Now, that illusion shattered. How could neither concept exist when an angel of mercy stood before him, promising to make everything right in the world once again?

He took Katara's outstretched hand, leaving all thoughts of suicide behind. They would never plague him again.