[A/N]:
Draws heavily from Persian, Indian, basically Asian/Middle Eastern sources and is based off of no one culture or history. Basically insanity.
~I don't know whether this will turn into something or not, but I'll decide based upon it's reception.
~Darya is supposedly the word for ocean in Persian. Very subtle, I know.
He's reached the end of his rope by the time he reaches Darya. There is a slow, painful burn in his arm; like warming your hand over a fire and slipping a few inches too close to the flames. Infection. If he's not careful he'll be returning to the capitol one an arm short. Zuko doesn't want to find out whether his fiancee likes her men one-armed or not (he might lose the second if Mai doesn't). This is the thought that keeps him on his horse, clutching the reins tightly and praying he'll find help before he passes out.
The wind blows softly as he enters the village, strong with the smell of sea and sand and fish. There is not a single soul in sight; the village has been abandoned for some time. A wind chime dances in the distance and he shivers. There is no sign of struggle or violence, distress or disease. He could easily imagine this place as it must have been a few short months or perhaps even weeks, ago. Mothers and daughters cooking fish stews, gossiping and arranging marriages for their children as they folded laundry with sharp, efficient movements between jokes and playful banter. Children, girls and boys running about with sticks and dogs, dodging chicken and mud patches as they waged imaginary wars and played pretend. He can almost see fishing boats in the distance, men dragging in the haul of the day. He wonders what could have possibly destroyed such a peace. This village looks as though everything had been dropped as it was, in the middle of cooking and chasing children and chickens, and simply left to rot.
He considers turning his horse around and searching for another remote village to collapse in. Forget his hideously injured arm and mission; only spirits inhabited a place like this. And he didn't want to find out if they were vengeful or not. A tiny doll, discarded in the middle of the dirt road, makes his decision for him. A thud and a sharp curse quickly changes him mind. There is someone left.
He follows the curses and the voice, distinctly feminine he decides. Only a fish wife would, could, curse like that. He rounds a corner and finds a house in the center of the village; most certainly the headman's home. There is a girl in faded blue skirts standing in front. There is a broken ax in one small, thin arm, and a pile of misshapen and scattered firewood several feet away. Her veil is discarded on a fence post, where an old goat steadily chews at it. Zuko greets her formally.
The girl shrieks and whirls about as if she's seen a ghost. He's never seen someone like her and it is suddenly very hard to breath.
"Stay back!" she screeches, leveling the remnants of her ax at him, "I am not afraid to use this!"
Her skin is dark, not quite dark oak and heavier than the color of the chai tea Uncle sometimes drinks. It's her eyes, however, that catch him. They're the color the ocean and the sky and the brightest lapis lazuli.
"I—uh…" he stammers, then catches himself, "I have no wish to harm you, young maiden."
"Bollocks," she tells him, "You continue on your way or I'll have you crawling out of this village! Go try that maiden rubbish on some other twit; you'll not have your way with me, no matter how pitiful you look. "
Teeth barred, fingers white around the thick ax handle, eyes practically firebending him to a crisp. Sweet Agni, she's beautiful. Very beautiful. His stomach twists and spots are dancing before his eyes. She's the one and Zuko knows it and suddenly that foolish old fortunetelling woman was not wrong.
'Like it or not, young Prince, you will find the woman,' his memory whispers (he must be going really crazy if his ears are ringing and he's hearing voices of old strange women), 'Her eyes will be blue and it shall be love the moment she lays them upon you. Take care not to forget naming your first daughter after me, Prince Zuko.'
He finds this sort of irony almost hilarious. Of course he would find a foul-mouthed rabid fish-girl beautiful. The smartest thing to do would be turn the horse around and continue of his injured and very urgent way. Forget he ever saw her; forget her blue eyes and lovely skin and dark braid. Pray that the next village girl he comes across is demure and proper and blue eyed. Zuko has no such luck.
One moment he clutches his reins, the next he is sliding off the saddle and landing in a heap in the mud. He blinks and the girl is staring down at him, rough-callused fingers touching his cheek. She looks frightened, younger than he originally thought. He wants to kiss her and suddenly finds his lips colliding with hers, feverish hands cupping her small, heart-shaped face. She's the one. Zuko hears the dull thud of her punch before he feels it, hits the ground again with a burst of stars that do not rival the brightness in her eyes. He slips into unconsciousness, listening to her sharp, lovely voice calling him a whoreson.