AN: This has been sitting idle on my drive for a while. A little introspection exercise. More chapters, each concerning a different character and their view on the fragility of life, will come eventually. Why do I do these things to myself.

Also, that summary is subject to change.


As someone who'd been practically the world's universal enemy at one point, with a confrontational persona to match, it'd be simple to assume that the Firelord had sent a number of souls to their graves, from every side of the war. Though the thought wasn't pleasant, even those closest to him thought so. It was in the way he held his head, stiffened his jaw, it's in the coldness he battled with; it's a tangible aura, and it screamed anything but innocent.

And of course, there's the scar. It speaks of a battle, even if Zuko himself never chooses to acknowledge it. His silence leads to the assumption as well. A duel, two parties enter, one leaves. And Zuko was alive.

All in all, if you were to tell Aang or Katara or whoever that Zuko hadn't killed anyone, in self-defense or otherwise, ever, in his lifetime, they'd believe you, but with an eyebrow raised. It'd be the truth, though, up till tonight, anyway.

Sure, there'd been a few instances you could argue for. He'd burned a few villages, sunk a ship or two, but nothing came of it, last he'd heard. Then of course, there was the Blue Spirit fiasco where he'd knocked out some guards and sent some soldiers plummeting down those towers, but that was still a stretch; a painful fall, yes, but fatal though? Not likely. Zhao might've actually been the closest he'd gotten.

Anyway, it didn't matter. He knew how to kill someone, by fire, force, or steel; what difference did it make?

Except there's blood drying on his hands and a man dying on his floor and he can't help but think this matters.

The guards throw the doors ajar and, spirits, the light washes another layer of reality into the scene before him.

What else could he have done? He'd woken up with the assassin one strike from his heart; it had been a miracle that he'd managed to grab the dagger from his bedside. The wrangle had been quick, silent, and, as the guards make no attempt to preserve life in the man, deathly accurate.

Zuko notices the open window and the pearl dagger, which had never seen battle in its life, still gripped in his hand.

Zuko has seen death before. He's stood in its shadow, full of glassy eyes and stiff limbs, while the weight of the dead hangs from your shoulders and the cries of the living ring in the air. But he's never had death stand besides him, a body sprawled in front of him with the drooping muscles of the fresh dead while blood-red gloves around his hands.

He brushes off a guard's words and slips out the door… away. He needs to get away.

What did he matter? The hallway echoes. He's always known how to kill, he's expected to, and he's never been short of willing. Yet, his heart drums as if he were the criminal escaping the scene. When he finds himself in the bathroom, he scours his hands until not a trace of blood is left. He still can't catch his breath.

The moment flashes past his eyes. The struggle had been intense, the other man fueled to madness by hate. Or was it desperation? By that time the two had been in equal standing, the assailant in as much risk of death as he was. Was he only fighting in defense then? Had the pause Zuko had used to drive the dagger into into the man's chest an attempt to surrender?

Zuko felt bile rise to his throat.

If it were, Zuko could not remember. To think; the man's last moments were nothing but a blur in his mind. He took the life of a man whose passion had driven him to take matters into his own hands, a man no doubt with a family who already wonders where he is, a man led astray, and he couldn't even recall if he'd killed him in cold blood.

What would the others think? He doesn't want them to hear of it, that in itself speaks volumes, but he knows it's futile. Word spreads like wildfire.

He imagines that Aang won't meet his eyes for months. Katara would not speak of it, no, she would focus on the fact that he was alive and push away the consequence of the fact. Toph and Sokka though, if they were in his position, he was fairly sure that they would not have had second thoughts. For all he knew, they may have already done the same. If you are willing to take a life, you must be prepared to lose your own. Yes. Surely that's true.

The events of Yu Dao though, still haunt him. How easily he'd slipped into his father's hands is what had kept him awake that night. It might have saved his life.

As he passes through the hall of portraits, his forefathers' eyes boring at his back, he knows exactly why he's still restless.

But, it doesn't matter. He heads to the guest room to make use of the rest of the night. There would be an uproar by morning. He might as well catch as much sleep as he can.

He doesn't bother changing clothes. Blood doesn't stain on red robes.