CW: Assault

Part One - The Water Cycle

"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." —F. Scott Fitzgerald

Water - Five years, three months, one week, five days

The Fire Nation had it's own kind of sun. It was dull and potent; it crept, slithering into every crack and corner. Its rays poured down from the sky like a waterfall, washing over the city in tsunami waves. Nothing like the Poles, where sunlight cut through the shadows like a dagger through meat, leaving hard lines between light and darkness. In the never-ending desert it was always hot, always bright. What fingers of light stretched out to touch, they illuminated. And burned.

She was standing outside of herself, watching her fuzzy shadow shift in the Fire Nation light. Ugly, she thought, taking in the strident aroma of singed hair and sweat, the blood weeping from jagged cuts, running rivulets over her skin. The soles of her shoes were soaked in putrid water, mud and spit and blood all swirling together. Her robes were tattered and scorched.

Ugly, she thought, watching the Fire Nation soldier push himself onto his hands and knees. His head hung low so that his forehead almost touched the puddle of watery blood underneath him. His ebony hair was too long, tangled, crusted with dirt and sweat. He panted harshly and Katara imagined she could smell his rancid breath filling the air between them.

Ugly, she thought as the blood dripped from the tip of his nose. Ugly poured from every inch of her flesh, pooling in the center of her chest. It was a hum, a vibration on the tips of her fingers. She wanted to pull this man open and lay him out on the baking sand. She wanted to hold his heart in her hands, inspect his insides, to find that same ugliness in him splashed onto his organs. She wanted him dead and hurting.

She raised her arms, raised the water, forming long, thick shards of ice that hovered at her back, sharpened ends out like the quills of a porcupine hare. The soldier heaved another ragged breath.

"My duty, my lady," he wheezed. "I was only doing my duty. I was only following orders." The words were like wisps floating in the space between them. They couldn't reach her in this outside space, as she watched her life happen to her body.

The disaster started when the shaman asked, "Who gives this woman to wed this man?" and Hakoda said, "I do." When all of her closest friends gathered to watch her hand put in his— except for the one who mattered most. He sent a note in his place. She'd stared at the page for hours before the ceremony, thinking of the wasted paper. I'm sorry, Katara. I can't.

Suki had said the ceremony was beautiful. Toph said her gown was lovely. Sokka said their mother would be proud. Her father said their tribe would flourish because of her. Gran Gran didn't say anything, just presented her with a hand-made parka and kissed both of her cheeks. And through it all, she'd gazed down the aisle and felt her best friend's words looming so that she could hardly see past them. I can't. I can't.

I can't.

Now, Aang's gaze was like a boulder, shoving between her shoulder blades. She felt the weight of it as she waved her hand and sent daggers of ice shooting forward to tear at the soldier's flesh. He was seated at the Fire Lord's right hand, shaded from the sun by the crest of the Fire nation, given a privileged view of the blood spreading out over the dirt. Five years shouldn't have been enough to change Aang, but they did. Where he had once been clean and carefree, he was now heavy. And sad. He was broad and strong, but also weary and pale, and still he looked at her as if she were something lovely, blameless, and pure, as if his gaze could beat her back into the person she'd been back when she was beautiful, and fifteen and had somehow managed to save the world.

"I made a mistake, my lady," the soldier screamed, his voice rising over the sound of ice piercing hard-packed earth. "Have mercy, my lady!" And these were the words that broke through to her, that pricked her where she stood next to herself, drawing her back into her own mind. Mercy, she thought, staggering backwards. Mercy, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. Mercy, she thought, remembering his dirty hair and his porcelain hands prying her knees apart. "I am begging," he rasped. "I am begging for mercy." Everything inside her was roiling, overwhelming and she floundered for something that could release this pressure, that could drain this ugliness away and leave her finally, blissfully, empty.

"I hate you." Her next breath came more easily. "I hate you." She felt light and dizzy. She reeled forward, reached out and slashed with her water whip, opening a deep gash across the solder's chest. And he screamed and the crowd roared and Katara felt better.

The crowd was on their feet, screaming, waving, cheering. They were enthralled by her, hungry for her. These people understood power, domination, revenge and honor. They understood violence and loss. And now they knew that she did too.

Zuko didn't scream, didn't cheer, didn't move, even as Aang whispered furiously in his ear. He was an oasis in the never-ending desert, an armor around her heart when the eternal warring between joy and anguish made her want to pluck it out. When Aang had come to her with words, Zuko had simply kissed the crown of her head and helped her fix her hair into a top knot. Zuko was respect. Zuko was worth loving.

He understood more than anyone that dead families needed avenging.

Katara raised her arms and coils of water shot forward, twining around the soldier's arms and under his shoulders. She hoisted him high into the air and held him there, hung like a seal carcass. She rotated his body slowly, taking in the sallow yellow of his skin, trying to find the monster who'd destroyed the last tattered remains of her life.

Katara breathed, in and out. "You raped me," she said. The soldier whimpered and did not respond. Katara yanked. There was a snap and the soldier screamed. The crowd roared. "Say it," she snapped. "Say what you did!"

"I raped you," he cried. "I raped you, my lady, please!"

Katara breathed, blinking fresh tears from old, old wounds. "And you slit my husband's throat."

"I killed him, my lady. Please show mercy!"

"Mai!"

The soldier gagged he was sobbing so hard. "I killed the royal consort."

Her outsides were too big, her insides were too small, there was something deep in her core shaking, rattling around too loud in her ears, making her fingers tremble. "Say what you did!" she screamed, slamming his broken body down onto the ground. "Say what you did!" she screamed and something inside of her shrank away from the ugliness flooding out of her. "Say what you did!" The words tore through her like blades.

"I killed the baby!" the soldier wailed. "I killed the baby, my lady, I'm sorry!"

It would have been better if she hadn't been his to give away that day; if her father had had no right to place her hand in a stranger's and bind them together, 'til death did they part. She would have never broken Aang's heart, never betrayed a good man, never had to choose between her honor and her sanity.

"You killed my baby."

She would never have found love incarnate only to have it snatched away. She would never have seen her own heart broken, shattered, shredded in her chest.

"They were my orders, my lady!"

"You killed my son!"

She couldn't hear his words or hers or anything over the ugliness surging in her ears. There was no room left for seeing or hearing or touch. Drowning in her own mind, she floundered and found Aang's face in the crowd. I hate you, she thought and from the way he recoiled she was sure that the force of her hatred had burned a bridge from her heart to his. She hated Aang and his honor and his stupid sadness. He didn't understand loss the way she did, the way he should. His people had died quietly while he slept beneath the ice.

It was easy. There was a squelch and a gurgle and she was reminded of the first time she'd slaughtered a rabbit, the bright, scarlet that spurted up to sting her eyes. But the sun was different here and when she reached up to wipe the wetness sprayed over her face it was thick and brown and hot and sticking. And everyone who had died was still dead, but so was the soldier. And Katara felt better.

A/N: So I've literally been working on this fic on and off (and on and off and...) for years. It's out of control. No matter what I keep coming back to it (because I'm low key in love with it). So, here we go lol. Full disclosure, I'm a full time grad student who chronically overcommits herself, but I intend on biweekly updates. Sooner if I'm especially irresponsible. Drop a review, tell me what you think! Also, if there's anyone out there who likes to beta, I'm looking for someone with fresh eyes to help me ensure this mess makes sense to people other than me.

Happy reading!