they say before you start a war,
you better know what you're fighting for.
—angel with a shot gun, the cab
He grows up with his heart on his sleeve and his head in the clouds.
It leaves him vulnerable.
-/-
"You're to marry the girl," Fire Lord Ozai commands, his tone indicating no room for discussion.
Some part of him wonders why Azula can't be the one married off to a water tribe prince, why he has to be the one married off to a water tribe princess; sent with a duty, to tie an alliance that binds two important nations, but sold like a slave, to a foreign place he knows nothing of and has no wish to go to. The scar that sears its way across his face may tear the mask he wears, but the resemblance is still there, and his father will never forgive him for it. Sins of the mother, they whisper, sins of the son.
Zuko bows his head. The crown is heavy on his brow, a metal ring of burden slanted around his ears.
He ignores his sister's cruel jape, a smirk teasing at the corner of her blood red lips. He ignores the sudden dryness in his throat, swallowing hard, ringing in his ears. He ignores the compliments, the congratulations, the well-wishing and the prayers that swirl together in a hurricane that might as well swallow him altogether and fling him into another universe.
But there is one thing he cannot ignore.
He chases her around the roots of the apple tree, her robes as blue as the southern sky. She falls on her back, and he sprawls on top of her, tracing the twines of her hair, the contours of her skin. Her lashes shield eyes the color of Azula's lightning.
He weaves her a crown out of flowers and promises that he'll make her his queen.
(She laughs and shakes her head and it almost looks like tears are filling her eyes to the brim and he realizes that she already knew a long time ago – it's a promise that he can't keep.)
-/-
He has this really bad habit of not keeping his promises.
-/-
It takes them about a year to get to the North.
Once their ship passes the border, it starts snowing like hell, every second of every minute of every day and he doesn't know how much longer he's going to be able to possibly stand this.
He lets loose a stream of fire and the flakes of snow melt instantly, running down the sides of his arms, salty tears of rain. He whips around and lets loose another stream, and another, and another, until he's surrounded by water pooling at his feet, his face streaked with wetness, the water mingled with his tears.
The snow keeps falling anyways, and the tears freeze on his face.
He ignores his uncle, who asks him to come back inside. The outer layers of the Northern kingdom are notoriously cold, their exteriors frosty and void of warmth. Something tells him the people there won't be any different. Maybe you'll learn something from them, Zuzu, his sister singsongs, the sound of her mockery ringing in his ears. Then you wouldn't be so useless. The memory of her dances lithely just out of his reach.
He is a bender of fire and he must be strong; his own source of light.
His fur pelted across his shoulders, he remains on deck at the bow of the ship, heart in his throat, sweaty fingers in leather gloves, clutching at the railing. The benders on the wall part the water at the entrance way, and the ship sails through, into a palace of ice and snow. The silvery sheen of the reflected sunlight blinds him, and he steps backwards, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
Zuko shivers.
Hell was never this cold.
-/-
"I don't want to marry you."
The three hour long welcoming ceremony and initiation of acceptance has left him restless, and in the wrong mood for an evening stroll with his newly betrothed, forced enough as it is.
He turns away from her in the courtyard, choosing to face the bridge instead. His fury is misdirected, he knows, when it should be directed instead towards his father and his sister and the entire fire tribe for exiling their beloved prince, and his flamed temper gets the better of him. He instantly worries that he's gone too far and if this engagement ends badly he knows his father'll have his head. Silence settles over them uncomfortably, the gentle lapping waves of the tide the only sound in the air.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" he yells, feeling inflamed yet again. The least she could do would be to dignify him with a response.
She stares at him, doe eyes wide and gray and impassable, and when she opens her mouth to say, "I know," he's hit with a sudden revelation.
It's then that he realizes - she doesn't want to marry him either.
-/-
They spend most of their time apart from each other.
(As far as it goes, he's not complaining.)
She approaches him one day, her steps light and airy and her frilly dress impeccably clean. He is nothing in comparison, slick with sweat and dirt and his training armor as he battles with his guards, who quickly bow and exit as soon as she appears, the cowards, leaving her alone with him. He sits down on a icy bench and wipes his forehead with a cloth, eyes cast to the ground.
"Your grace," he inclines his head, leaning forward.
"Yue," she corrects. "It's Yue." She sweeps her skirts from underneath her and takes a seat next to him, smoothing out the wrinkles from her dress.
"What do you want?" He grunts. Yue, his mind repeats. Like the moon. Yue, Yue, Yue. The name tastes unfamiliar on his tongue.
"What is she like?" She asks, after a slight pause of hesitation. He freezes, fists clenching, twisting in the fabric of his pants, as if he can wring the answer from them instead of having to come up with an answer for himself.
She is brave, he wants to say, fierce and strong and beautiful and so many things. She is the reason I hate this place, and she is the reason I cannot love you. She is the string that tethers me to the ground, the spitfire that brings light to my life.He has never been poetic, yet she makes him want to be.
But he cannot. It would be folly to mention that the fire lord's son had eyes for someone else rather than Yue, and it would be folly even further if they found out she was a commoner, a hostage brought back from the raid of the Southern water tribe, the ward of his uncle.
"She was like you," he settles on saying, mouth dry, and his voice hollow. He glances at her sideways, and then continues polishing his sword with the washcloth. Up and down, up and down, side to side, side to side. The pressure of his hand on the cloth, against the sharp metal, rips the cloth into two pieces.
"No," Yue responds. "She wasn't."
He doesn't correct her, because it's true, anyways, and what's left of his fragmented courtesies shatter entirely. She gets up, the shards biting into the soles of her feet, and he watches her bleed. Yue curtsies and excuses herself from his presence, her fast walk quickening into a run.
He lets her go and looks away, pretending he doesn't see her cry.
-/-
"What is he like?" He asks her, feeling obscenely awkward in yet another one of their daily evening strolls. She doesn't answer him right away; instead, she leans down to the fountain and lets the water run over her fingers, her silver hair a curtain that shields the expression on her face.
The water drips onto her dress, leaving wet splotches across the fabric as she rises, and she looks at the sky. "He's brave, he's funny, and he makes me laugh." Yue bites her lip. "And now he's married." That part comes out in a rush, in a half-choked whisper. "And I'm going to be too. I'm going to be too."
"Hey," Zuko interrupts awkwardly, face burning. "I'm sorry." She shakes her head rapidly, as if saying he has no need to be, but he feels like he owes her that much, at least. He averts his eyes once he notices that she's crying again, her tears like glistening pearls that bead in the corner of her eyes. They stream down her face silently.
"Don't cry." He mumbles, feeling bewildered and suddenly overwhelmed. His hand goes up to wipe the tears from her face and rests against her cheek, smooth and cool, and damp. Right there, right then, he wishes things were different more than anything. He wishes their marriage wasn't the political treaty it was; that he could go home, and make his father proud, and he could marry Katara, and that Yue could marry who she wanted, and that both of them would be happy. But they're both just pieces in this larger game, and when she looks up at him with her shiny eyes, bathed in the contours of the moonlight, he hates himself for not being able to be more than that.
He grinds his teeth, frustrated, and looks away, his hand falling back to his side in a fist. But Yue takes it, and wraps her fingers around his own. Startled, Zuko looks at her, and she smiles slightly at him, the tears drying in her face. And he realizes, when she smiles, and when she's in the moonlight, this is where she truly shines.
"Thank you, Zuko," Yue says, and before he knows it, he's replying just as quickly, with a "You're welcome, Yue," and the way they say each other's names, it's like they could have known each other since the beginning of eternity.
So when he kisses her, the feel of her lips, crashing against his own, soft and pliant under his will, it feels more right than anything. (It tastes of salt, and sweetness, and Yue, and he doesn't know it yet, but it tastes of tragedy.)
-/-
We're coming.
The messenger hawk's shriek rips through the air like a battle cry.
Yue, he thinks. Home, the voices echo. He swallows his guilt and starts to write a reply.
The ink spills onto his parchment and he curses, scrambling to find a new one.
It stains his hands like blood.