A/N: A first time for everything! December-December Romance.
Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender. I never will. Title comes from Florence and The Machine's, "What The Water Gave Me." I own the album but not the music. Never will.
Natural, she was stirred from a restless slumber in the middle of the night, It's natural. Katara awoke some time pass midnight when the moon was at the highest point in the starlit sky. The moon was a molar filled deity, a whitish yellow, and was surrounded by the invisible forms of thinned out clouds. Moonlight guided into her bedroom where she slept, and it nudged and rested on her form until she felt its presence, calling out to her senses. The light, it was the light, who had awoken her in the middle of the night, and what thoughts ran past inside her mind were scrubbed and etched out from memory.
Natural, she rose up in her bed and stared at the opposite wall, It's natural. A dream it was, she considered silently, a dream that she could not remember. She sat upright in her bed with her nails digging into the fine wool blankets, and she swung her head to the right where the door was found. She could not think as to why the thoughts haunted her as they did, and for months she wished not to know what the words meant. Somehow they seemed to be trouble, a daunting trouble that indicated darkness ahead, but she could keep them out her head. A nagging line it was, It's natural, and she accepted it but could not stand it.
In time she grew restless. The bones underneath her thick nightclothes and muscled skin grew impatient with immobility, and she sighed, a quiet one that bounced in the air, and lifted herself onto the floor. Instantly, it was cold and her feet curled inwards at the texture; she had long ago grown accustomed to the low temperatures the night could offer in the South Pole. Years and years ago when she was a small child and her mother still living, a family in tact, it was her brother who had given her his wool knitted gloves to use for her feet. She could not use her own, a special case because supplies were running low, and his were more dependable than he led some to believe.
Those nights when the frost grew too cruel and too merciless she remembered that he would snuggle up to her, and in turn her mother and father, a couple who she admired greatly, snuggled up to them. In a small huddle the family of four were wrapped up in the simmering orange and red glow of the fire in the middle of their ice block home. As she stood on the floor with a slumped position, she walked to an old chest that was several meters from the door; each step was unkind, and yet, each step was polite. She walked slowly, and she crept to the old wooden chest. She knelt down and ignore the sharp crack in her back, and she ignored the sharp pain, the bristle of skin beneath the night pants, when her skin made contact with the floor that was not made of ice.
A click and an open, the top of the chest flung to the wall. She hissed when it slammed loudly into the wall behind it, and the sound echoed in her room, through the door and down the halls of her home. It sounded that no one had hear, as no one should hear, and she smiled in comfort. Inside the chest there were numerous artifacts and bundles of things that she could not separate herself from. An old boomerang that was still in good shape, a blade that was too old to be used but was magnificent to look at, old knitted coats and clothing that were meant for newborn babes, and down below, beneath the other items that she could not identify in the night, there was the small mittens, the gloves once worn by her brother. She smiled. A weather and old smile that glimmered with shades of the past, and she pressed them against her face, rubbed them like a platypus bear doll, and inhaled the scent that was, remarkably, her brother's.
It smelled like him, and to her madness, it felt like him. Rough but gentle. The fabric had aged considerably, but it was firm and dependable. She walked back to the bed, but stopped when she came to a small vanity like dresser. She opened with one hand while she used the other to hold the mittens, and she pulled out a pair of slippers. Similar to what she wore on a normal morning day, the snow boots that was required that all tribe members to wear to prevent frost bite, she sat on the bed without making a sound, slipped them on. She looked down at her feet with an amused grin on her lips. It was hard to imagine that her feet that had once been young and fruitful, able to run great feats in dirt and water, had become elastic and veiny as time carried on. She was not surprised, would not allow that sentiment to enter her mind, and she kept the old mittens close.
Natural. The bed she sat on, had slept in, was not the one she knew. It was the one she knew best. Firm and less warm than the one she remembered, it was hard to believe that at some point in time in the past, she had hated the predecessor to the bed. The surface was bumpy and uncomfortable; it had taken her a decade and added years to adjust to the bed. As she sat on the new one, the former had grown with her and less reliable with age. She had to come miss it, sitting on the new smooth surfaced one with little to no problems; it was an odd thing to think. To miss an object that she had not cared much for in the slightest, and she laughed, a humorless and careless laugh. Not loud to bounce in the air, not loud to hover about around in her head.
Katara could not sleep. She could and would not return to sleep. Instead, she chose to rise from her bed once again, and she walked to the door, opened it, and looked down the empty halls. No one was in sight, no one could be seen, and wrapped in a fur coat and pants legs that kept her bones protected, she trotted out into the night. Light footed steps were the best; she had learned to be a master at stealth. Her pace was brisk but calm; there was no flight in her movements. The coats she wore were bundled close to her chest, and she placed the mittens in a side pocket on the coat, close to the breast area. Though it was cold on the inside, there was warmth as well somewhere in the home, and with all the coats she carried on her back the heat grew stronger and more capturing.
She made it to the back door, and as she stumbled somewhat to wrap her hand around the handle, she caught the sight of a side-glance light. It was not the light of the moon. The light of the moon was white and unruffled; the light of the moon was a bed of water that had reached a startling resting point. Straightened out and precise, it moved elegantly about on the world, and that was not meant to denounce the red light at the side-glance. No, the light of the side-glance was a moving, excited spectrum of light. It was smooth but rigid at the lines, and it exploded with the expanding heat of the morning sun. Katara stopped with her hand at the door handle, ready to pull and go out into the night, but she could not go, not yet, because the side-glance light had distracted her.
The heat was there. It was present, and in her thick, winter clothes it was beginning to smother her. She quickly removed the sheds of fur and cupped the mittens in her hands again. The slippers remained on her feet, and she cautiously walked towards the light that was no longer side-glance. It was located somewhere to the left of the room where she had been in, and she stepped with her light feet to it. Hidden in the shadows, she patted on the wall, and the room was registered in her brain. She could and did identify each chair and bookcase before she the possibility of smashing into it came to fruition, and the reddish orange light grew stronger, more present, but contained in the room. There would be no flood, and there would be no sinking of the house.
It was decided among the family members that there would be no door built in the hollow way. Meant to be a living room space for guests and sorts, it turned out to be an anything room that lapsed into a new form whenever a different person happened to dwell in it. It was a dining room at times, a bedroom, and a game room for the children as they grew up. Scrolls, cooking supplies, and other objects that were either useful or useless were stashed in the room that had no proper use. She forced her body to remain still, unmoving, and a eye gazed out to the edge of the archway that was the opening to the room. The light was large now, much larger than it was several seconds ago, and if she approached any closer her shadow would dance on the walls, the shelves, and the floor. It would make her presence known when she wanted it to be the opposite.
"I didn't wake you," he asked within in the room.
His voice sounded grave, but she knew that was not his intention. As he had grown and matured, so did his voice, and his voice held the uncanny ability to sound most displeasing in the lightest of situations. It was a remarkable talent, she had told him repeatedly throughout the years, but he complained about not being able to joke around due to his gravely scathing voice. The unamused silence, the flat whats, and the forced laughter that crawled up into the air when he spent his time at court was what usually transpired when he attempted to be humorous. However, there was fortune to the ability as well. He had no means to frighten his people, and during his long reign he had never done so without just cause. But he did, as all good rulers wanted, want his people to respect him. The voice provided a great pedestal that no Fire Lord before him could match; a tender but gravelly voice that intermingled together simultaneously. It was a blessing and a curse, but he was proud, at times, that he had mastered the levels a long time ago in his middle aged youth.
He asked the question again, and she moved out from the darkness. Not angered that she had been spotted but a little disappointed, she folded her withered hands behind her back, "No, you didn't wake me, Zuko."
In the room there was a fine circle that kept the fire from engulfing the lingering objects. It was contained and a good sized, medium, fire that roared in the home. That explained why it was both cold and hot when Katara was familiar with the constant cold, but she did not complain. The Fire Lord sat on the far right of the fire, his hands thrust out to the warmth and legs folded. He was dressed in his royal robes, but in them he did not look comfortable. They were elegant and made of silk, not suited for the below zero temperatures in the South Pole, and Katara predicted that his arrival was not necessarily planned.
Even in his old age, Zuko had retained a good portion of his handsomeness. His face was more angled and defined, and she would admit to herself that he did appear to be an older, more wrinkled, and benevolent version of his father. The scar inflicted on his eye did not change over time and it was persistent slab to his face. His skin was pale, and his hair had abandoned the ebony luster of his youth, transforming into a silver coat of falling strands. Normally, he would have worn his old crown or some pin, but at night it was released to the elements. Clean and extending strands of silver hair fell past his shoulders to the middle section of his back.
Yes, he was an old man. To note, he was an older person than Katara, but he sat with an upright stance. She could see, however; she saw the slight hunch at the crook of his neck. It had taken years of practice and perfection, and perhaps, at the throne room it caused him to automatically sit upright as he did. Age was not an unknown, and it had taken its righteous toll on the man's body.
No tension hid inside the flesh and veins in her body. She stepped into the room at last and walked to him. Taking a seat to his right, she managed to kneel down, drop her bottom, and cross her legs together. She made sure not to bump into a stray scroll or step on an old toy that one of the grandchildren had accidentally left behind. It was reasonable to expect that the grandchildren who had forgotten the toys quite some time ago would not return to retrieve their formerly beloved playthings. No, the grandchildren who had laughed and played about, rambunctious and uncaring, would not returning to retrieve the hand me down, the tired and worn, playthings they had loved dearly in the years forgotten.
"You couldn't sleep," he said as he watched the swirls of flame.
"Neither could you," she replied smoothly, "it seems that sleep is evading us tonight."
"Personally, I blame the cold." He fidgeted on his bottom, "No matter how many times I visit the South or North Pole, I can't seem to intake the change of weather."
She laughed at his agitated expression, "And so, you expect to fall asleep beside a burning fire?"
"That was the plan," he eyed her suspiciously, "until I was rudely interrupted."
There was no blushing in her eyes, and she nodded, looking into the flames. "The moon woke me up," she laughed at the absurdity, "it seemed that she didn't want me to sleep." She cuddled the mittens in her hand, and she noticed that Zuko's eyes began to waver on the mittens. He said nothing at all regarding them, keeping his face to the front, unmoving.
"These are Sokka's," she reacted to his silence easily, "he let me borrow as a little girl when the nights would be too cold. He outgrew them eventually, and I decided to keep them." She thumbed them and hopped into the memories of her childhood before her mother's death, before finding the boy in the iceberg.
"He didn't know that I kept them," she said whimsically, "he gave them to the younger children, and it was the right thing to do. But as I watched one little boy snatch them up, I knew that I couldn't let him keep it. So I told him, 'I'll trade you these new mittens for your old ones.' And he said to me, 'Why should I give you my mittens?' It was easy to bargain with a child when something is new and shiny; I showed him the designs on the mittens, told him that I made them, and that they were free. People always want free, good in shape things, and so we traded." Her eyes turned to Zuko, part bashful at her salesman tactic and part humored, and she laughed at the distant memory. Then, he too began to curl up his lips in a smile; his laughter was gentle but scratching.
"His must have not been in the best condition." He pointed out, "For a child to get rid of them so easily."
"They weren't!" She waved her hand at him, slapping him playfully on the arm, "He used them for everything when we were kids. Patches on patches of material to keep the cold at bay, but he loved them, for a time he loved them." Slowly her laughter died down, and her eyes that were momentarily filled with vigor and youth were compressed into a reminiscent glow. Not sad, she was not, but she was not entirely happy either. From his perch, he watched her with a side glance, and tried to keep his focus on the fire. It did not matter, he occupied his thoughts over well written speeches and dining etiquette, but he could not disregard the deep lining on her face. Her lips pulled downwards, not into a frown but a thin line that was identified with sadness and loneliness.
"Sudden." He said quietly, "It was sudden."
Confused, she looked at him quizzically, "Excuse me?"
"I didn't know that Mai was ill." He spoke plainly, "One night she was preparing the decorations and food for our daughter's wedding, and the next, I couldn't get her to wake up. It was a stroke, the physicians' diagnosis, I would never anticipate that."
It was the wedding that would forever tie the Fire Nation and the Southern Water Tribe for future generations to come. And yet, a sober cloud was about on the celebration as no one had suspected that the Fire Lady had been weakening. Good health, the physicians had uttered to them as the blanket was spread across her corpse, But too much stress. No one had foreseen the night when she closed her golden ash eyes for the last time. She had not known that her son, first son, had communicated with the oldest princess, and she had not expected, such different temperaments, that she would be the one to propose a wedding. But it had happened, and she, the supportive mother that she was, blessed the union. She should have noticed something; the guilt had weighed on her heart for many months. Someone should have detected the slightest thing; a limp, a hunch, an out of breath moment that was unknown to the normally passive appearing Mai.
The proceeding months Zuko spent in mourning, and the mourning had not officially ended until the birth of his first grandchild.
"At least she didn't suffer," Katara lowered her head in respect, "you didn't have to watch the fire inside their bodies shrivel up, flatten, and die."
"But we all knew it was coming." He stated without defense, "Did it help? No, but you knew. I didn't. You got an extra twenty years with him."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your fault, but I assume that you get lonely here without your children, your brother and Aang. Like I, who gets lonely on the long trails from village to city to village again."
"I knew that she would leave." It came as common knowledge when the Kyoshi warrior packed up her belongings and sailed off to her place of birth, "My nieces and nephews grew up and traveled the world. I don't see them as often as I would like. My brother too died young, and that was the straw that broke the camelelephant's back." Her hands hurried at an immediate pace. The woman she had known for more than two decades had packed her things in cluttered chests and boxes; a mournful, regretful smile tugged on her lips as she crushed her body against hers in an embrace that lasted longer than it should have. She boarded the ship, looking back at the tribe she had grown to love and call her own, but even then, with all the memories traced on the ice, was it not enough to make her stay.
"The letters you sent increased in their sadness," he thought back to the cautiously written documents scrawled on the surface of his tabletop, "I understand that you wanted to appear at pace, but there was no hiding it from me."
Burnt wood popped and crackled out the pit and hopped onto the floor where it curled up and rolled, died, into a black ash spot. About six to seven times the process was repeated, and Katara squinted as the rolling smoke evaporated into the crisp air. Strange, it was. No interest to be held, the smoke captivated her attention for more than thirty seconds. Her hands tightened around her knees and loosened. The muscle that was her heart thumped shakily, a quiver hidden beneath a slimming layer of flesh and vessels.
"I doubt anyone would imagine how difficult it was to be married to the Avatar." She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, "I have no doubt in my heart and mind that Aang loved me, devoted, but I knew that some thoughts had to climb up the highest mountain, cold and foreign, to complete the task assigned to him by the Spirits."
The nights were stretched out during the time when he did not come to bed. His mind was at a different place, a different location in thoughts, and she watched him from the bed they shared, her eyes glistening in the faint candlelight. Sometimes he went to places that she could not reach, to stare as the bison who carried her husband from her grasp, and she did not, not once, raise her hand to stop him. Should she have done so? Should she have said, in a tight light but tender voice, "No. Not this time. You will not go. We need you here. The world does needs its Avatar, but we need you more." Would it have made her a selfish woman if she had spoken the words that her heart kept caged in?
"Usually, I accompanied him to conferences, speeches, and other political and environment summit, but the children were born. It was agreed that they would not be introduced to the trials and influence of the world, not so early; we wanted to prevent that. Because it did not occur to me that I could leave them alone or that I could leave them with another family, there were those who were willing, I often stayed home."
He could not relate. Though he had not ventured from the palace and his nation as frequently as Aang, he knew that his wife had grown immensely annoyed that he was normally too occupied to focus on his growing family. Treaties to be signed, documents to be evaluated, and there was much rebuilding and remodeling to do within the Fire Nation. It was up to him to do it, and he was not as present as he would have liked to be. "Goodbye, Father," his oldest daughter would say to him on the days when he could not make it to a lesson, "We will see you soon."
Jaded golden eyes, the color of her ancestors, dug into his mind while he rode in his carriage, "We will be here when you return, Father." The title was not one he wanted his children, his precious daughters, to use on him, and it hurt him, more than he believed at the time, that his youngest daughter, little one, did not label him as "Daddy."
"I understand." He had not meant to speak, but the words came out on their own accord, "What Aang must have felt. With the Fire Nation the way it was, I found it best not to leave it so eagerly, but there wasn't a moment when I didn't think about my family. Ironically, it was Mai who was regularly out of the nation to visit various friends and acquaintances, securing political alliances and such. She made a splendid ambassador."
"An ambassador, Mai?" She was skeptical to the idea, not quite remembering the news of the Fire Lady taking an active role in government, "Impressive."
"Her adventures were more frequent as the girls were older," he treaded carefully, "when they were younger, she was obsessed with their upbringing and making sure nannies and wet nurses were banned in her presence."
Katara laughed, "I always thought it odd that Fire Nation royalty had wet nurses. Even the Earth Kingdom were skeptical on the topic, and it was completely unfounded in the Water Tribes."
"I wasn't against it, and never did understand what was so scandalous about it." He sighed heavily, "But nothing is safe in court. I was simply relieved that it fell beneath the tailcoats. No one was willing to speak out their misgivings when we were around. Thank Agni."
Her laughter was a sweet, melodic sound that crept to his aging ears and blossomed into a swarm of fire butterflies around his heart. So sweet and yet, so sad. As the laughter erupted from her mouth, she cupped her hands to her face and shook her head, fighting off the stinging tears in her eyes. Oh why. Why must be this way? She did not wished death on herself, had fought the vicious images and thoughts on occasion, but the tears would not stop. A breaking sob broke into the air, and she knew Zuko had heard. Wipe the tears away, she tried and failed.
"Katara," for the first time he turned to face her instead, and she felt his hands, like paper, grasp onto her face, concealing her hands with his own, "Katara."
"It's only natural," she said between cracked sobs, "that this happens to us. I knew it would come one day, but even then, I wasn't ready. I don't think I ever was."
"Yes, children grow up. People die, but we are still here." His voice was incredibly soft, and she felt the gap between them close up, "There must be a reason that we are still here, as there are reasons that many of our friends are not. We are to guide, not lead, the future generation, and we will do that. We owe it to our friends and to ourselves."
"Zuko," she understood what he was saying, but she did not get it, "I-I, what are you saying?"
"I would like for you to accompany me on the tour." He did not believe he was saying the words, word he had longed to speak out before the plans had been made for his retirement, "Your company and wisdom would be a great asset to our cause." His lips tugged on a grin that was filled with tenderness, hope, and a small amount, she marveled at it, nervousness. He chuckled as he wiped the tears from her face, "Would you like to?"
For seconds and minutes he waited for her response, but while he thought that she would decline, it was obvious that the question was dumbfounding, she did not deny. Steadily she moved her hands out of his grasp and placed them on the side of his face; cold, the touch of his pale, wrinkled skin. The right side of his face, the constant reminder of the failures of the previous Fire Lord, throbbed with heat, and she was amazed to feel it beneath her cool palm. Then her fingers began to line his pronounced jaw, around his lips, and his seceding hairline. Perhaps, she was not thinking. Perhaps, she had gotten too lonely and said. Perhaps, and this was most likely, the swollen feeling inside her was finally reaching its point that she no longer felt the need to deny it.
Quietly and with care she reached up, pushed her withered form up, to the point where her lips could touch his chin and kissed it. A chaste and affection kiss on his chin, and she decided to be bolder and raised her full form while still keeping her hands in place. She proceeded to kiss both sides of his face, the scar included, as tenderly and cool as the first. He remained motionless as she did this, and kept his hands around her waist, to make sure that she did not lose balance. Her lips hovered about on his forehead, inches from the crown, and she smiled in spite herself. A smile she had not known that she was concealing, and as if something told her, someone spoke to her, she pressed her lips onto his forehead. Warm! His forehead was as hot as the fire in front them, but it was warm too.
Reluctantly, confused that she felt that way but not completely, she pulled from him with a close to invisible smile gracing her lips.
"I take that as a yes?" It had taken him several moments to recover, and he was stunned that he felt a little lightheaded, breathless. Soon he came back to himself, and he stood with little difficult to his full height. No wonder it was that he was some feet taller than she was.
Sapphire blue eyes looked into his golden orbs. Silence fell in the room, and all that was heard was the crackling pops and sizzles of the fire pit.
"Would you like to come to bed with me, Zuko?" She said it in an above whisper, not too loud to be vibrated on the walls and echo down the hall, but it was loud enough that he heard. His heart, his old aged heart that still stung with the vicious electricity of the past, pumped madly inside his chest. He would not allow her to see it, not the faint blush crossing on the bridge of his nose and cheeks, but somehow, even in the darkness that was beginning to envelope them, he knew that she was aware of its presence.
"Let me take this out." He had prepared a bucket of water, which had fortunately gone unfrozen, and little effort it had taken her to reach into it with a swift move, dropped the bucket of water on the fire, killing it instantly. No more was the crackling. No more was the popping. A trail of smoke danced upward to the ceiling, but was caught in it. Slithering through the tiniest cracks, it smoked up to the eternal winter night, out of sight.
Hand in hand they walked down the hall to where her bedroom was waiting for them. Their hands were tight in the other, and when they made it at last, his heart jumped a little on the inside. It was not over-exaggerated; he had not expected it to be. Humble and decorated with artifacts and other objects related to her upbringing that he could not define; he followed her into the room with little hesitation. You do not belong, the voice inside his head reprimanded him, This is wrong. But it was not. He shot back defiantly. It was not, and he would not allow it to down his good mood. He shoved the dark and unappealing thoughts in a chest within his brain, and he mustered up the courage to step forward to the bed.
The invitation was open, and he knew that. Yet, he could not push his feet up, could not push his bottom down, onto the bed until she had slithered beneath the blankets and patted the right hand side that was meant for him. Gingerly, he walked around the bed, keeping his eyes on her eyes, and he moved the blankets from the side that obviously contained her body heat minutes earlier. Lower and lower he sunk into the mass of the bed, feeling the warmth, and he marveled at the heat absorbing texture of the sheets. But that was not as surprising when he remembered that he was in the South Pole and it was a practical method to contain heat; it was not needed in the Fire Nation where in the winter season the temperature did not drop as low as one would contemplate it would. He had to remove his robe, dropped it to the floor, and he rolled on his side where she was on hers.
They met again, and the rumbling in his chest would not stop. "Is this right," he said with forethought, "I don't want to intrude."
"I invited you," she chuckled at his anxious expression, "and now you tell me that you want to withdraw?"
"No," he sighed, "that's not it. It's just that you and-,"
"No." She said with finality, suddenly, and he was shocked by the insistent tone in her voice, "We did not."
Remarkably, she began to laugh at him, quiet but amused laughter, and she inched towards him. It was then that he noticed that her hair was unbraided and wavy pools, like the water not too far from them, of snow white hair cascaded on the pillows. He touched a strand, maybe two, and was captivated by the softness of it. Eventually, he returned his attention to her, and he inched closer to her. To be as warm as she was, and he suspected he was too, he let his arms wrap around her shorter frame. She leaned into his embraced, but he kept a small distance so that could let his lips travel over her hairline. He went lower, repeated the ritual she had performed on him but at a slower place.
To the point he made it to his destination, and his lips quivered tentatively on hers. He was unsure. He wished that he could be positive, but he swallowed the aching anxiety that had swollen inside him for over two decades. He pressed his lips against hers in a controlled but loving manner, and he was relieved, excited, to feel that she returned to the action. Fire lilies glowed heavenly in the night among them, even though they could not see them.
"I can give you some time to tell everyone that you are leaving," he whispered into her ear, "to prepare everyone for your departure."
"I don't want to ruin your schedule," she said quietly.
"And you won't." He caressed her face, "We weren't meant to leave until the week ends, and if that's not the case, we can always postpone it."
"Thank you," she would not cry, she would not, "thank you."
The benevolent moon passed onto them through the curtained windows. It's light danced and skirted on their entwined and sleeping bodies, and attempted to drift into their jointed dreams. In retaliation the clouds of night, thinned and near to transparency, appeared to make their presence known. They slowly clamored around the moon, top and bottom and all around, to conceal the revealing light. The clouds subdued the moon, and put to rest all doubt and uncertainty. In peaceful slumber they slept, the vivid colors and images of the past and future behold, and though she did not know, she sensed that it would be the last time she would lie in the bed, with someone she loved, in her home.
Natural, the word was a sprite above her sleeping head, It's natural, and she decided, inwardly proclaimed, that what she had was enough.
A/N: Problem. The line, "Would you like to come to bed with me, Zuko," was originally, "Would you like to sleep with me, Zuko." It's preferred not to imagine senior Katara and Zuko bumping uglies, but if that's what you want, go for it. It's not going to go in my head though. Nope. I've always wanted to write Zutara, but lacked the inspiration. Bryke kept saying that everyone was dead, and I was all, "Awww." Then the leak came out that Katara is alive, and later on it was revealed Zuko is alive. **Check out Welcome to Republic City at Nick dot com.* I had to write about senior Zutara because I can see them in it for the companionship and commitment, not necessarily passion. That's how I see it. Originally, I had this up in "The Legend of Korra," but probably works better here. It does place in the series, after Korra leaves, but it just snugs up here.
I do appreciate story alerts and favorites, but reviews make my heart flutter and cheeks red. I want my heart to flutter and cheeks red. It makes me very happy; everyone enjoy the new episode that will be premiering in less than two hours!