The hawk arrives, and Sokka is gone.
Meanwhile, in the dark recesses of the city, a bar is filled with the stench of gambling and alcohol. A cluster of men, amidst the raucous noise of the night, find themselves brought together. There is loud, dirty laughter and the distinct flash of teeth bared in a challenge; old grudges simmer below the surface. But the lights are low and the bartender has a sharp eye—this is no place for violence. And so a wager is made, and the coin is tossed.
Heads.
There is nothing to accompany him but the frantic pounding of his footsteps and the panicked stutter of his heartbeat. The floors are slick and Sokka slides around corners, too fast.
Tails.
They are darkness, and they are death. They creep silently through the halls, lost in the shadows, a wisp, a breath, a spirit. They search, and they find.
They are invisible but for the glint of a blade in the firelight.
Heads.
The Avatar sleeps, unawares, in his bed. A candle flickers next to him, and it ebbs and flows with his breathing, like the tides that he dreams of in eyes of blue.
Even if he knew, there is nothing he could do to stop it. Even the Avatar is powerless tonight.
Tails.
A river rustles, insects cry, and the moon shines bright and eerie upon the leaves.
There is no birdsong at this time of day.
Heads.
Fire Lord Zuko sits upon his throne, engulfed by silence, eyes closed in meditation. It's where he comes to think, and be alone. As he breathes, the flames around him shift and flicker to match his every exhale, and grow with every breath he takes in.
Something shifts, and his eyes fly open.
Tails.
In the city below, a child wails. Unseen animals skitter through alleys, passing through shadows and darkness. Lovers sleep entwined in each other's arms, peaceful and calm and safe. Down here, life is simple and still.
Heads.
The Fire Lord is wary, but he is oblivious, and their smile is almost as sharp as their blade. There is nothing stopping them now.
Tails.
The doors to the throne room stand stoic and unguarded, and Sokka throws himself against them with a fervour, driven by panic, his heart in his throat. They open with a bang, and there is Zuko, so far, far away…
Heads.
It is almost too easy to drive the dagger into his back, past fabric and flesh and bone—
Thud.
.
.
.
Zuko's name is wrenched from his throat, raw and coloured by desperation and something like terror. It echoes around the throne room and bounces off the walls, louder than his thundering pulse, louder than his heaving breaths, louder than fear itself. But it falls on deaf—dead—ears.
Sokka is across the room before Zuko's body can crumple to the ground, and he catches him in his arms, but the weight makes him stumble and drop to his knees. He looks up, but there is no sign of the brief flash of metal he'd seen as he burst into the room.
He meets Zuko's eyes, bright with life, still, but dimming, dimming and dulling.
Zuko, Zuko, look at me. His voice is frantic. He brushes his thumb over Zuko's scar, and tries to ignore the feeling of blood seeping into his sleeve. It is rough under his fingers, but Zuko doesn't react—doesn't even blink.
Zuko. He hears his voice break, shatter like ice.
Zuko's lips move then, fragile and weak, as if to say something. Sokka… But there is no sound; only blood, blood spilling dark and red from his mouth and cascading down his chin, onto Sokka's fingers.
Zuko, please. No.
Zuko's eyes are terrified and pleading, and as he stares up at Sokka, the gold of his irises begins to dim and recede. The black spreads like ink, and there is nothing left but a thin band of colour. Dull, faded gold…
Sokka shudders once, twice. There is wetness on his cheeks. Gently, reverently, he pulls Zuko's eyes shut with the tips of his fingers. He leaves a bright smear of red upon his eyelid.
Something snaps. Sokka lurches forward with a broken moan and presses his forehead to Zuko's. He shakes with the force of his sobs, his tears dripping hot and wet onto Zuko's still, still face. The fabric clenched between his fingers is wet and warm with blood.
He cradles Zuko's face and presses his lips against Zuko's, hard. He pulls away with a gasp. He can feel blood on his mouth, slick and hot.
I love you. His words are garbled with tears, his chest heaving with sobs. I love you. I love you. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.
There is nobody to hear him.
.
.
.
And in the same dirty bar, tucked into the most obscure crevices of the city, one side walks away with grimy smiles and pockets full of cash, while the other slinks away with nothing but the bitter taste of resentment on their tongues. The bartender pours a drink and watches with a wary eye, but he has nothing to worry about. They spill out onto the streets and disappear into the night, weaving their way through the darkened streets. The music in the bar continues, loud and discordant. Someone waves the bartender over, and he pours another drink.
The Fire Lord is dead, and life goes on.