A/N: It's been a looong time - and I am way out of practice. I wrote this during class, and it's a bit rushed and hasn't really been edited, so don't be too hard on me haha. I sort of wanted to write something with a not-really-happy (i.e. sad-ish) ending. Because even though I am a hardcore fan of Zuko/Katara, I thought maybe real life would get in their way, and they'd probably have duties to their nations and to their families maybe ...
Anyways. I've always had a bit of a problem with their ages (I definitely was not that mature when I was 14) so you can imagine all of this happening in the years after the war ends. (I left their ages ambiguous on purpose, so you can imagine whatever you want into it :) ).
Oh, and the timeline skips around a bit, but it shouldn't be too difficult to understand. Thank you for reading, and hope you enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing :(
Clambering for the scraps
in the shatter of us collapsed.
It cuts me with every could-have-been
Pain on pain on play, repeating
With the backup makeshift life in waiting
Fluorescent lighting sets the scene
for all we could and should be being
in the one life that we've got.
~Imogen Heap, "Wait It Out"
Parallel
She would live lifetimes for him.
xx
In the aftermath, Katara stares into the face of Fire Lord Ozai and wonders how such a pitiful human being was able to create such despair in all their lives. Even with the knowledge that Aang has given the strictest orders to keep him alive, she fights hard against the urge to plunge an ice dagger into this man's heart.
In the aftermath, Katara spends her days healing the wounded in the Fire Palace halls. Outside in the city square, the piles of the dead grow higher by the day, and all she feels a strange numbness laced with uncertainty. She sees little of her friends, and maybe this is part of the reason she can't find it in her heart to celebrate their triumph.
In the aftermath, Sokka and Suki act with countless others make arrangements for the thousands of refugees left homeless as a result of the war; Aang drifts from one camp to another, meeting the people of the nations, giving hope as only the Avatar can; and Zuko spends his days in meetings and political liaisons, learning how to be Fire Lord of the new era.
In the aftermath, their days are filled with work – rebuilding, relearning, recreating. But even as the rest of the world learns to celebrate their newfound peace, Katara feels unrest in her heart.
xx
Most nights during the war, Katara stays up to take first watch – not out of self-sacrifice, but because only after everyone sleeps can she finish the group's washing uninterrupted. So every night she sits alone by the fire, a solitary figure bent over a small wooden bucket of water. And only when she is alone does she allow herself to dwell on the impossibility of their task; only when she is alone does she ever pause to wonder how on earth she will ever be able to keep every member of the family alive to the end of the war. It is only when she is alone that she allows herself despair.
After they make their trip to avenge her mother, something changes between her and Zuko. It's small, intangible – and almost unperceivable – but she can sense it in the way his eyes linger on her just a fraction longer; in the way she finds herself unable to meet his steady gaze.
And then, almost as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Zuko begins to sit with her each night as she swirls blue, green, red cloth in warm soapy water, soaking out stains of dirt and dust and blood.
He sits beside her in silent vigil, his body still, eyes solemn. She's learnt he is tacit by nature, and rarely do they speak to each other; but always, always, there is something between them that lets her know he'll be there whenever she needs him to be.
xx
On the day of his coronation Zuko decides it's time for him to move into the palace – into the Fire Lord's chamber. It has been years since he last set foot in his father's room, and even after the war he'd slept in an adjourning complex, but with his people requiring solidarity in the form of a reliable king, General Iroh's suggestion that he move back is heeded.
The tapestries of the corridors sing of blood and war and loss, and the walk to the East wing is filled with memories of a stolen childhood and isolation. As he turns the last corner he hears hurried footsteps and a small voice calling his name. He turns to see her standing opposite him, dressed back in her Fire Nation gear, hair tied back loosely. She steps forward to take his hand and he leads her quietly to his new home.
Within the chamber the air is musty and damp, and a fine layer of dust has settled over the regal, mahogany furniture of the room. Zuko steps in, and in that moment, the reality of everything that has happened over the past few days hits him like a sudden revelation burning behind his eyes. He is home; but this is no home to return to.
He turns to face Katara and when she reaches up to touch his face he realizes that he is crying – crying for everything that he has lost, everything that she has lost, everything that everyone in his sorry, pitiful nation has lost.
They stand together in the room, and like he's wanted for so long, he's holding Katara in his arms, clutching her desperately, her fingers curled tightly into his deep burgundy coronation robes.
xx
He never touches her. When they train together he can send bursts of flame in her direction, when they argue he can shut her down with fancy words and political phrases he's learned in the past, when they talk he can ask her about anything and everything – past, present, future – but he never touches her.
And she doesn't need him to, not with everyone else's eyes scrutinizing them at every moment, and especially not so close to the end – she'd never do anything to hurt Aang and potentially distract him from his ultimate goal. But the night before the final battle, when the moon has risen and she can hear the soft breathing of her sleeping family, she wipes her hands on her tunic and turns to Zuko, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Taking a shuddering breath she moves towards him; but as she leans in he stops her, placing slender fingers against her lips.
"What's wrong?" Her voice is tinged with hurt.
He pauses a beat before answering.
"If … If we do this now, it's like goodbye. If we do this now, we'll have nothing to come back for."
And she knows what he means. If she kisses him now, they can die with no regrets, they will know what it feels to be in each other's arms. But if they wait – they will have something to live for.
"Zuko," she hesitates, struggling to find the right words. "There will always be something to come back for. We have our friends – our family – and you have a nation waiting for someone worthy to lead them; waiting for you. And," she glances down; cheeks flushed faintly pink, "you have me." Her voice is so quiet he has to lean in to hear. "This isn't the only moment we can share – we have the rest of our lives."
She doesn't say it, but he knows her well enough to read between her lines. We have the rest of our lives together. So he reaches across the distance and, holding her cheeks against his palms, he places his lips gently against hers.
When he closes his eyes, the image of her honey skin glowing pearlescent in the pastel hues of moonlight burns behind his eyelids, and later, when he leaps into the path of Azula's crackling, cobalt lightning, this is the last thing he sees.
xx
When the last of the post-war festivals and celebrations are over, when the waters are once again safe, Katara returns to the South Pole with her family. Promising Zuko to write often, she leaves with plans to return after her village is rebuilt, Sokka and Suki are married, and Sokka made Chief.
At first Zuko writes of palace protocol, of political intrigue, of everything he learns from General Iroh. When Katara writes back, she tells him of the rebuilding process, of celebrating the return of the men to their families, of the loss of so many of their people to the war. But slowly they begin to write of the future, their future, and as each day passes, Katara lives secure in the knowledge that the moment she is of age, Zuko will be stepping off his ship onto her land, to ask for her hand.
xx
The night before Katara leaves they steal away to his mother's garden and lie forehead to forehead in the grass. The night air is cool and Zuko holds her hands between his. He hears Katara's whisper cut through their silence.
"What would you do with the rest of your life if you weren't the Fire Lord?"
He looks around the garden, pondering. "I would put my name down for block of land near the sea, and I'd build a cottage with my bride –"
"And where would you find this bride"? She interrupts.
"A pretty girl from the Northern Water Tribes would be perfectly suitable," he answers in a pompous voice. "Obedient, demure. Not like those Southern Water Tribe girls."
She raises a doubtful eyebrow. "One who can't waterbend except to heal? You'd be bored out of your mind without a sparring partner."
He laughs at her expression, answering solemnly, "Healing is a highly prized skill. We have enough fighters already in this kingdom."
She gives a snort and he laughs at her again. The world of politics and daily war reports – the world where he is Fire Lord – feels very far away and he wants to lie here forever.
"Let me tell you more about your bride," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "You would have a small garden at the back of your cottage and in your garden you'd grow orchids and bluebells."
"And marigolds," he adds. "I'd pick them when they bloomed; and when she calls me home for supper I'd place them in her hair, and it would take my breath away."
He presses a kiss into her temple, and she tries very, very hard not to cry.
x
The next day when she leaves there are no tears, no declarations of love; just a boy and girl, and a future stretching out before them.
"Tell me more about him," she whispers. "About Zuko the peasant, and the cottage he builds with his bride."
He reaches for her hands and kisses her fingertips.
"Her name was Katara."
xx
Katara has travelled the Four Nations and bent her will to no one; she has trained with the greatest warriors and benders of their era; she has fought the most ruthless opponents with a heart of stone – but when her father asks one simple favour of her, she cannot find it in her heart to say no.
When Suki's health begins to suffer from the relentless cold of the South Pole, Sokka does the only thing he can think of – he renounces his precious position as chief, and takes her back to Kyoshi. Leaving Katara to lead the Southern Water Tribe. And in the instant her father asks her to take his place, she knows she can never say no, realises her life is no longer her own. For the rest of her existence she will be tied to her tribe, living for them, leading for them, marrying for them. No choice will be solely hers; everything will be for the benefit of her tribe.
And her heart breaks at the thought of Zuko, far away, waiting for her.
x
Katara is invited to his wedding. It is an elaborate affair with leaders and aristocracy from all nations attending. She is placed beside her betrothed, the second son of the Northern Water Tribe's new chief. Their marriage will mark the official union of the two Water Tribes.
She sits quietly through speeches and toasts, her fingers curled tightly against her blue silk robe, her knuckles white. There's a strange emptiness in her chest, and she feels like lightning is caught in her throat. Later when the dancing starts, she stands to leave and finds herself facing him.
It feels like an eternity of silence between them, eyes of sky locked against molten gold, but then he takes her hand asking, "may I have this dance?" and leads her away from her seat, away from reality.
The music is slow, and almost mournful – a strange choice for a wedding – but he leads them around the room with a steadiness in his tread. His hands are warm and clammy against her skin, and she holds him tight, like he is her only anchor to reality. The air around them is heavy, and she can barely breathe. There is only a song's worth of time left between them, and she tries to memorise everything about this moment, tries to ingrain it in her memory; his breath warm and soft against her cheek, the feel of his skin against hers, the anguish, the desperation in his voice as he whispers, 'I'm sorry Katara, I'm sorry', over and over in her ear, a hopeless, wretched mantra.
And when Katara closes her eyes and leans her head against him, she can almost imagine this is their celebration; can almost imagine that other life, where he isn't Fire Lord, and she isn't leader of the Southern Water Tribe. Because in another life he'd have no duty to his kingdom, she'd have no duty to her family. In another life, they'd have the rest of their lives.
In another life he'd be hers.
A/N: Thanks again for reading. Reviews are love :)