Water and fire were never meant to spark a blaze. One extinguished the other, water put out flames. In the beginning, they overcame this, like fire and fire, butting heads to ignite a powerful and sizzling spark, but now it kindled, a wet, dying, withering ember, burning out. They were exhausted. It was tedious. They were hurt. They were burnt out, now smoldering in a murky, smoking sadness.

"It's gone, Zuko."

He didn't speak. Nothing was mandatory to say.

"We don't have it anymore."

The fire lord needed not inquire what.

"The spark— our spark; it's gone."

He knew. It hurt. He still wanted her. He didn't need the spark. But Katara— she was feistier, and brash— she needed a spark, not just callousness and weariness, not just tender love and sweet kisses. He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes tight shut, bracing for the impact.

"It's been replaced, cashed out for nothing but my sadness."